Azarus’s hand passed through the screen as the chain binding his arm suddenly loosened. He felt a draining sensation deep within his domain. In a rush, the divine energy filling him fled. The flames leaping from his skin withered and extinguished. His eyes faded from brilliant rings of color to their usual appearance. All but a small connection to his domain left him as he spent his Divine Points on the [Minor Miracle].

His hand was alight with tri-color flame as it reached beyond the screen to touch the mirror. Azarus felt the Mirror of Eons give beneath his fingertips. He pushed harder, feeling a lightness in his chest that flooded his limbs and left a fulfilling tiredness in its wake as his fingers pressed through the resistance.

Displayed on the mirror, Moka and Granon stood side by side, facing the preening skinwalker. It had bits of flesh and blood in its matted fur, which it lazily licked with its sinuous, barbed tongue. It watched the two gather their courage with a smug look on its face. Zmei’s arm hung on its antlers, shaped like dozens of tortured hands, a scaled finger still occasionally twitching. The monstrous spirit nursed wounds, including the darkened crater of its eye. However, besides taking the occasional glance at Moka’s spear, it did not seem concerned.

As Azarus watched the skinwalker, its antlers twitching side-to-side rhythmically, he had a strong suspicion it was working on the next stanza of its poem. The god gritted his teeth at the insult. As much as this situation played to his favor, such disrespect in front of his champion was heinous. After brief consideration, Azarus decided it was heresy. To disregard his instrument was to disregard him.

Azarus reached through the mirror, his hand hesitating for a moment as he regarded the situation. He opened himself up to the smoldering embers of his domain, feeling for what would make this scene correct according to his concept; inspiration about how to right the wrongs before him. His eyes settled on Granon’s back. The giantkin stood too stiff, his chest puffed and shoulders back. Azarus would bet his sword Granon was overcompensating for the fear he felt. But that was not what mattered.

What mattered was that Granon was there and standing, not backing down. The hopeless seizing another chance. True poetry would be him overcoming the monster that took his father from him.

Decision made, Azarus reached through the mirror to touch Granon on the back. Tri-color flame, emerald and gold dominating the gray, spilled from his fingertips and into Granon as his hand approached. His fingers brushed against Granon’s sweat-stained shirt, his domain reaching out to make his vision a reality.

A purple and white aura, billowing like clouds, erupted from Granon’s skin, blocking Azarus. In an instant, it coalesced into a purple and white hand. The hand gripped Azarus’s wrist and pulled his consciousness into a swirling cloud of energy.

Azarus blinked, opening his eyes in another hall with clouds for floors. Clouds for everything this time, which was new. Clouds the color of sunrise, sunset, and everything in between formed great pillars, a rather gorgeous roof, and even the throne at the end of the hall. Not entirely unpleasant, Azarus decided. It had a warmer feeling than the hall he had previously occupied. The smaller size helped it feel cozy. Although, that was relative. Azarus was pretty sure the columns here were still a few thousand feet tall.

Perched upon a throne forged from purple sunsets was a giant with ever-flowing clouds of endless colors for hair. Eyebrows and all. Azarus would bet his coat that this was the God of Clouds the giantkin worshiped.

The God of Clouds raised his scepter, more a mace forged from a pillar of deep purple and red hued cumulonimbus clouds at sunset, and leveled it at Azarus. He wore a robe woven from an ominous black and gray thunderstorm lined with long, overlapping strands of sunrise-lit cirrus clouds. His voice carried the authority of nature.

“Kneel, interloper. You have trespassed on my territory.”

Azarus winced at the other god’s volume and unfriendly tone as he double checked his form. Sword, satchel, clothes - everything was accounted for, down to the last splattered drop of paint. He felt weaker here, disconnected from himself. But he also felt more free, like he could exercise his power how he saw fit, instead of being contained by those damned screens. Damned in the literal sense, if he had anything to do with it.

Azarus clenched and unclenched his hands, feeling his domain ebb and flow as he willed it. He was so enraptured by his new freedom that he was oblivious to the other god’s darkening expression. After making his tri-color flames dance from fingertip to fingertip, Azarus had the wild idea of separating the colors and turning them into paints. More and more taken with the thought, Azarus flexed his domain to separate the emerald from the other two colors. It would make his next portrait of Moka shine.

“Insolent fledgling! Do you not know your position?!”

Azarus glanced up to see his fellow god up on his feet, brow furrowed and nostrils flaring. Frowning, Azarus inspected his peer, reading the man’s expression and posture. He saw the hard line in his jaw, his bent knees, and the hidden smirk. The god of clouds seemed set on violence, domination, or some combination of the two. It was not an amiable energy to bring to a first meeting.

“Moderate your tone.” Azarus stopped what he was doing and gave the cloud giant his full attention. He rested his palm on the hilt of his sword, the pommel-dice tumbling in his grasp. “I am not someone to be spoken down to. You may approach me if you wish to discuss something.”

Shock was the best way Azarus would describe the cloud giant’s expression. Which, in its own way, caused Azarus to feel shocked as well. He felt he had been rather polite. It was well within his purview to put down a lesser, and he had not. This god of water vapor was certainly lesser. Even with his dangerous intentions, the other god should be grateful Azarus had addressed him as a near equal.

The God of Clouds did not seem to share his opinion.

“I am Kuscal, God of Majestic Clouds! Who might you be, to dare poach one of my followers?”

Azarus nodded to himself. Instinctually, he knew that in most pantheons, a god of clouds was a powerful being, often serving as the King of Gods. One glance at the lonesome spirit ravaging Kuscal’s followers was enough to call that instinct into doubt.

“Ah, so not the god of all clouds, then?” Azarus kept his tone conversational. This was his first time talking to someone. He did not see a reason to rush to the fighting part. “That explains it. I am Azarus.”

Kuscal seemed taken aback. He scratched at his beard, giving Azarus a long, meaningful look. Azarus did not care for it. It reminded him of the skinwalker’s expression as it watched Moka and Granon plan to defeat it.

“You must be a god of Courage not to tremble before me, puny one. Insolent Courage, I would wager.” Kuscal paused, as if considering something. He opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. A spark of greed shone in his eyes. “Enough. I feel the spark of divinity within you. Name your domain.”

Azarus suppressed a wince. It was a sore point. He had been considering how to deal with the inevitable question, but he had no suitable answers. All he could do was tell the truth.

“Even if I wished to oblige you, I could not.”

Kuscal’s eyes widened, his posture stiffened. Then he relaxed. A wide smile split his face, and his grip on his scepter loosened.

“Hah! Strange times indeed. The God of Restless Winds eats at my domain, a scavenger pillages my flock, and yet Fate has delivered me a boon; a defenseless spark of divinity, ripe for the taking and just in time to turn the tides.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Azarus nodded, with what he hoped was a pleasant expression. Kuscal had been very forthcoming about his situation and intentions, connecting a few pieces of the puzzle and satisfying a portion of Azarus’s curiosity. It was quite considerate, all things considered. However, it seemed Kuscal had misunderstood the situation. Azarus kept to his original plan of being polite and conversational, but he was also firm. He had one goal in mind, and he would accomplish it.

“Unfortunately, you are mistaken. I have come to claim your follower Granon as my own. He is mine now. Thank you for your understanding.”

Leaning back, one hand on his gut and the head of his scepter resting on the ground, Kuscal let out a bellowing peal of laughter. An echoing vibration magnified his booming laughter in his cloudy domain. The force of the laughter bent the air, warping it as if the surrounding clouds weighed down on it with their existence. Purple and white light bled from the various sunrises and sunsets adorning the clouds, muting all other colors. Azarus remained unmoved.

Wiping tears from his eyes, his shoulders shaking, Kuscal raised his scepter in a mock salute. The hunger in his eyes was so intense it seemed near tangible.

“Azarus, God of Insolent Courage, I hereby declare war against you and your flock. I claim your divinity and your domain as my own and intend to seize it from you by force.”

Kuscal paused, his eyes boring into Azarus’s even with the distance between them. Azarus suppressed a shiver as Kuscal’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. The god of clouds had an unconscious forward lean, as if he was holding himself back from dashing forward to snatch Azarus up and consume him. Kuscal opened his mouth to speak, a sly smile on his face.

“What say you?”

Seeing as Kuscal looked like he intended to wait for Azarus’s reply, Azarus took his time considering it. This was a prime moment. He wanted to assert himself through his response. This is how he could define himself. Actions made a god who they were as well as any mortal, and Azarus had so few opportunities to act.

After some thought, Azarus decided there were a few things he wanted to address. First, being called by the wrong title. He was who he was and there would be no confusion.

“That does not represent me. I am Azarus.”

With that out of the way, Azarus addressed his next concern. He felt that Kuscal was judging his own value a bit too high.

“I do not seek your domain, for I do not need nor want it.”

Truly. Clouds were far beneath him. Why would he desire to rule them? Let them roam free and affect the world how they will. That said, Kuscal had done him an immense favor and he would not overlook it.

“However, I am grateful for the opportunity to be challenged. Tested.”

Reviewing his words and finding himself content, Azarus drew his sword. He twirled it, feeling the way it moved in his hands. With a thought, his domain slipped into it as easily as it would his hands. The sword was a part of him, utterly and completely.

“Nonetheless, I will take your divinity, if you insist, and Granon as well.” Azarus pointed his sword at Kuscal, flicking the point up in a ‘come hither’ motion. “Come, god of big, pretty water vapor.”

Kuscal, the God of Majestic Clouds, stretched with one arm over his head, a ravenous smile on his lips.

“Your insolence became more charming once your frailty was made apparent.”

With one long stride, legs like trees flashing from beneath his stormy robes, Kuscal crossed a third of the hall, the floor of layered and compressed cirrocumulus clouds warping to aid his approach. His scepter glowed brightly with purple and white energy. The clouds that formed the hall seemed to press down on Azarus with metaphysical weight. Azarus would bet it was a function of Kuscal’s domain. Taken with the idea, he almost suggested a wager to the approaching cloud giant, but before he could, Kuscal’s scepter was crashing down on him.

They were already wagering their lives so it would be redundant anyway, Azarus told himself, stifling his disappointment.

Azarus flexed his domain, mere embers, sending the bulk of it to form emerald wings of flame, flecked with gray and gold. With a single down sweep, he launched himself a hundred meters into the air, twisting away from the scepter and coming face to face with the cloud god. With just the strength of his body, Azarus swept a line across Kuscal’s face with his sword. Flesh parted like water before him, only for his sword to glance off the giant’s cheekbone. Azarus frowned at that, surprised by his own limitations.

With another sweep of his wings, Azarus darted away, toward the empty throne. The smell of burnt ozone filled the air as Kuscal’s cloudy beard morphed into thunderheads. They sent bolts of lightning shooting at Azarus’s fleeing figure, but he was already gone.

Crossing the hall in a flash of emerald fire, Azarus reappeared, gently alighting on Kuscal’s vacated throne. Azarus almost looked like a doll in the royal seat. Kuscal did not find it amusing. Purple and white aura billowed out of him in vast clouds, hovering for a moment before surging into his body. He swelled at an unprecedented rate.

Azarus watched the other god use his domain with interest. When he had first entered the hall, he had judged Kuscal to be three hundred feet tall, give or take. A true giant compared to Granon and the lot, but still smaller than what he had envisioned a pure giant to be. Now, Kuscal was rapidly exceeding his expectations. The hall itself expanded to accommodate his bulk. The throne Azarus was standing in distorted space to grow from the size of a field to the size of a mountain range.

It was quite impressive. Azarus wondered if changing his size in the Mirror of Eons would have a qualitative impact on his physical ability, or if his power was his, regardless of the container. Could he use his domain to expand himself? Would he want to?

The sky became a stormy sunset, fiery reds and oranges warring against deep blue and grays, as Kuscal slammed his scepter down on the seat of the throne. Azarus shot out horizontally, leaving behind a trail of burning afterimages as he raced to the edge of the sky before it could descend. His wings surged with gold, pushing him faster.

With a blaze of emerald, Azarus’s wings disappeared and his worn, sturdy leather boots lit up in an inferno. He planted both feet, the solid throne buckling beneath the force, and launched himself diagonally toward the dwindling strip of sunset-free clouds. The force of his jump ripped a small hole in Kuscal’s domain, parting the clouds on the seat of the throne as they fled the flames of Azarus’s domain. Azarus flew up and out, his wings flaring emerald as he caught an updraft caused by the descending sky. Riding the winds of the scepter’s passage to slingshot himself as high as he could, the image of an irritated man chasing down an unruly fly came to Azarus’s mind.

Azarus smiled at the thought, his momentum petering out as he dispelled his wings and reached the apex of his arc. More than funny, he found the thought fitting. He asked Moka to overcome a similar challenge, facing something vastly larger than herself; it was only reasonable that he did it himself. His flames turned a shade more golden as Azarus infused his domain into his sword. Beneath his feet, Kuscal was looking around rather leisurely, trying to spot where he’d gone. Azarus fell, plunging toward the giant’s face, a wild laugh bubbling up from his chest. His thoughts scattered. All he could feel was an overwhelming sense of warmth radiating through his body, and the pounding drum of his heart.

They were fighting in Kuscal’s domain, surrounded by clouds cast in hues of purple and white on all sides, but in this moment, as Azaru’s domain flared to life inside him, he knew they were in his domain as well. He was a newborn god, robbed of his rightful power, fighting a god from an established world. By all rights, he should be losing.

Azarus plunged his sword into Kuscal’s eye, planting a foot on either side of his contracting pupil. Gold and gray rushed to the forefront of the flames wrapping Azarus’s sword, brilliant motes of emerald drifting inside them. With a wild laugh, Azarus flared his domain, his flames consuming the massive orb in an instant, consuming a piece of Kuscal’s domain and using it as fuel. Azarus suppressed a self-satisfied grin as he inflicted the same wound on Kuscal as Moka had used Kuscal’s holy power to inflict on the skinwalker. The symmetry tickled his fancy.

Manifesting emerald and gray wings flecked with gold, Azarus shot away.

Colossal pillars rose from below, large enough to masquerade as mountains, casting massive shadows over Azarus. Deep valleys, akin to canyons, appeared between the pillars. The pillars, clear to Azarus as fingers, moved together with incredible speed, crushing the valleys between them.

Azarus shot between two of the pillars, bolts of lightning from Kuscal’s beard snapping at his heels. He could not stop smiling. The danger did not matter to him. This was the situation he was in. Being afraid would not help. What called to him was the need to strive, to give his everything to the next twist. To commit his life to every dodge. The flames of his domain flickered, each color taking dominance according to the situation.

The clouds themselves turned their attention to Azarus as Kuscal clutched the crater of his eye, purple and white energy billowing beneath his fingers. Something in the air shifted. It felt like every inch of the hall was examining Azarus’s each indelicate twitch. Having found his adversary, Kuscal swung his scepter with all his might, lightning crackling along its length. To Azarus’s eyes, Kuscal looked angry, but not concerned. He held one eye closed, but otherwise looked no worse for wear.

Azarus stood still as the stormy sunset of the scepter consumed the horizon. Lightning shot past him as it drew closer, screaming by his face to explode in the distance. Unusual behavior for natural lightning, his instincts suggested. Still, Azarus waited as the scepter approached, rivers of air parting at its passage. He held himself aloft with flaming wings, burning with a core of gold and emerald flames laced with gray. His unenhanced sword held loose in his grasp, he greeted the stormy sky with a wild smile on his face.