Azarus walked through the painted emerald door with gold trim and stepped onto a cliff peninsula. Five ridges ran along its length, leading down to five lesser cliffs. Azarus turned his attention up, toward a titanic pillar, the width of the peninsula at the base and expanding high overhead. Curtains of thunderclouds fell to the floor like waterfalls in the distance.

A quick look around made Azarus realize he was standing on Kuscal’s foot. The thunderstorms were his robes. Azarus pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Kuscal’s size was playing havoc on his senses.

Because of Azarus’s quick movement, or unexpected location, Kuscal’s domain had not caught up to him yet. Taking advantage of his head start, Azarus painted a golden door with emerald hinges and a matching door knob, set in a gray door frame. Exit secured, he considered what he could paint here that would speed up this confrontation. As much as he enjoyed fighting Kuscal — it was up there for the best life experience to-date — he felt responsible for Moka and Granon. He could not lose sight of why he was here to begin with.

Azarus decided his best bet would be to cause large amounts of damage to Kuscal’s domain, preferably allowing his own domain to devour it. Fire was the first thing that sprung to mind. He could whip up a golden inferno with a few brushstrokes. But where was the poetry in that?

Painting a wound or plain old fire felt too uninspired to Azarus. There was no real artistry there. However, painting a shackle or the like was implausible due to size constraints. He could replenish his paint stores as his domain fed on Kuscal’s, but that process had yet to increase the amount he could work with at a time.

Wracking his brain, Azarus studied his surroundings. He could not think of much. His ingrained instincts were little help with creativity. After a moment, he realized he should not be considering what he could do to affect something so massive. Instead, he thought about what something small could do to hurt him.

Thinking about his own foot and shin, Azarus pulled up his pant leg and inspected himself. He found about what he expected; lines of shifting muscle and hard bone, covered in skin and insulated by a thin layer of hair. The same as the legs of most creatures he had observed via Moka’s adventures. Divine, in comparison, of course, but muscle and bone in a familiar configuration.

After a second, a thought tickled the edge of his mind. He followed it, turning away from his shin to peer closer at Kuscal’s. The other god’s legs were hairless. Azarus had expected fine bits of clouds instead of leg hair, given the rest of the other god’s sense of representation. But no. His legs were bare and muscular, like a statue’s.

With a wicked grin on his face, Azarus ran through a quick line of reasoning. He flicked his sword like a brush, sending thousands of tiny paint droplets soaring toward Kuscal’s bare shin. As he did, he held his train of thought in mind with an iron grip.

Kuscal most likely lacked the domain to maintain leg hair. Azarus could easily offer him this service. He would provide the hair, but it would be Kuscal’s. It was only logical that Kuscal’s domain maintained them. In the unlikely coincidence that there were unintended side effects, it had nothing to do with Azarus. All Azarus asked for in return for this service was for Kuscal to not disturb him until the task was complete. It was a fair trade.

Azarus’s eyes burned gray as he willed his reasoning into reality. He gathered it in his divine will and funneled it into the droplets of paint. As his Divine Will, represented by a line of thought, touched the first droplet, it rippled, becoming a burning gray gemstone for the briefest of moments. Then, it rippled again, transforming into a gray seed. Azarus’s will caught each droplet, causing thousands of transformations in near unison. As the paint droplets morphed into thousands of seeds, they slammed against Kuscal’s shin. It was as if Azarus was a delusional farmer, forcefully planting his crop on a cliff side.

Azarus’s eyes sparked emerald as he admired the seeds of chaos he had sown.

Gray hairs sprouted along Kuscal’s shin wherever a painted seed landed. They shot out like stubby spikes, short and stout. Pausing for a moment, the spikes quivered, one after the other, spreading out like a wave. By the time the last droplets started to sprout and quiver, the first were bursting through their old shells. The new spikes were twice as long as before and slightly thinner. They glistened with emerald goo as they protruded from their former shells. Gold and emerald embers glowed between the lines where the new shell met the old. The second tier spikes hardened, the goo soaking into the gray surface, and quivered as the hairs continued to sprout in waves.

Beneath the hair, Kuscal’s stone-like skin began to flake and wither. When the hairs reached their third sprout, the embers in the lines pulsed, growing brighter in proportion to Kuscal’s crumbling skin. Despite the obvious damage, Kuscal had somehow still not noticed. Tri-color motes rose from the glowing lines, lifting off like drunken bumble bees returning home after too much nectar. From where Azarus stood, it looked like a colony of fireflies awakening from a patch of grass on the side of an ancient monument.

Azarus was pleased with himself. However, he felt an increasing pressure behind his eyes. Pain was not the word he would use, but the unshakable feeling of discomfort came close. Quickly considering the reason, he was almost positive it was the feeling of wrongness, gifted to him as a warning, showing its disapproval at how he was using his domain.

Azarus turned to his painted gold door, rubbing his temple with one hand. The discomfort was a clear sign he was short on time.

The ridges trembled, shifting position without warning. A thunderous roar sounded, what felt like miles away. The lesser peninsulas curled up like the birth of a mountain range, going from smallest to largest in ascending order. Beneath Azarus’s sturdy boots, the ground shook. A colossal shadow, shaped like a hand, appeared, wreathed in purple and white light. Azarus stepped through the gold door.

Azarus’s long coat fluttered, sending blotches of color dancing, as he walked in front of Kuscal, closing the golden door behind him. He stood on the floor of compressed clouds, right at the edge of Kuscal’s reach, watching the giant slap his shin where a forest of miniscule hairs was eating his domain. At least two miles separated them, but Azarus still had to crane his neck to look up at his foe. Taking a deep breath, he readied himself for what happened next. His mind raced as he considered his three color palette, what each represented, and how he could use them.

Each of the painted hairs had produced hundreds of tri-color motes in the brief span of their existence. Hundreds of thousands of motes hovered over the hairs, drifting among themselves as more and more rose to join them. The hairs continued to grow and produce motes without Azarus’s direct guidance, feeding on Kuscal’s domain to fuel their growth. Hair that acted like fire.

Trailing clouds lifted off from Kuscal’s fingers, leaving a crescent trail denoting the arc of his slap. Kuscal’s palm landed squarely on the cloud of motes, his hand glowing purple and white.

Under the pressure of Kuscal’s gigantic hand, with his shin as an anvil, he forged the cloud of motes from a gaseous mass to a solid in a single strike. The immense heat of the solidified motes caused the hairs to ignite, tri-color flame springing from them to catalyze the motes on impact. There was an explosion. Kuscal reeled back, two fingers and a thumb going flying. One landed near Azarus, the shockwave of its descent ripping at his clothes and hair. Azarus stood still, watching. The nearby finger smoldered, tri-color flame licking at its blackened edges.

In the distance, tri-color flame ate at Kuscal’s gaping shin and mauled hand. He stumbled as his shin shrunk, blackened bone peaking out beneath the smoldering crater of flesh, his domain no longer able to enlarge it. His face was a rictus of pain and disbelief, as if he was not sure if it was the truth or an illusion.

To Azarus’s displeasure, his domain refused to expand no matter how much of Kuscal’s he devoured. By his reckoning, he was only getting back what he used.

Azarus could feel the clouds watching him. They pressed in on him, trying to stifle his domain. The sky turned a purple that bordered black, white lines of lightning dancing between them. Darkness swallowed the hall, only illuminated by the violet pillars that housed swimming snakes of dark purple and bright white lightning. The floor, compressed slabs of clouds that almost looked like white marble, reflected the dim light a few feet off the ground, making the floor seem luminescent, but contained.

To Azarus’s side, Kuscal’s gigantic finger burst into flame, lighting up the oppressive atmosphere with a cheerful blaze. Azarus smiled as he pulled some flames toward himself, wrapping them around himself like a cloak.

In the dark purple shadows, Kuscal cradled his hand to his chest, slipping it beneath his thundercloud robes before Azarus could see how well he mangled it. Azarus’s earnest smile turned to a grim grin as he waited for Kuscal’s next move. Even a weak god would have a trump card or two.

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“Enough. I should have known you were a god of trickery!”

Kuscal had lost his arrogant demeanor. Purple and white clouds roiled beneath his skin, some rising to the surface and breaking off, drifting up and away. His eyes crackled with purple and white lightning. The hall shuddered, pulsing like a beating heart. The purple and white light grew more intense, washing away the rest of the color spectrum. Night like deep purple satin descended, the soft white of the floor providing more contrast than illumination. The merry patches of tri-flame scattered throughout the hall drew back under the increased pressure, struggling to breathe in blackened patches of Kuscal’s domain. A shadow cast Azarus into darkness as the clouds floating off Kuscal formed a thunderhead.

Without warning, night became day. The thundercloud transformed into a pillar of purple lightning, with white lightning shooting out from it in great branches. It struck Kuscal dead on, consuming him in his entirety. The world turned white.

When Azarus blinked, Kuscal had disappeared, and it was dark again. The finger to his side was gone, except for a tiny flame merrily burning away. Moving fast, Azarus painted a golden mask lined with emerald and gray flames. Without pause, he painted a golden shield, edged with bolted gray metal. It had a sharp cut, glittering emerald gemstone boss as the centerpiece. He pulled his domain back into his body, put on the mask, and grabbed the shield in his offhand. The flames he wore like a cloak wrapped around his body and sank beneath his skin.

Azarus could hear pounding thunder in the distance, each boom shaking the clouds beneath his feet. Straight ahead, frantic bursts of purple and white light were growing in size and intensity. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. Relaxing into his body, he felt the tingling tightness in his chest. His awareness drifted to the loose feeling in his extremities and acknowledged the drum of war in his chest. Sinking deeper, he touched his domain.

The first thing he felt was the mask and the shield, each radiating the ardent desire he had forged into that portion of his domain. A single yearning linked the two, the hunger to face the fury of the storm, and be the one left standing in the end. They resonated with the rest of his domain, spread through every inch of his being, synchronizing it into a great symphony. Kuscal charged into sight, his figure just discernible beneath the wreath of lightning. Azarus was waiting for him, his skin burning a steady gold like a lone bonfire in the night.

Kuscal had shrunk to a mere nine feet tall, barely taller than Azarus’s six-foot frame. An aura of purple and white lightning strikes emanated from him in all directions. His thundercloud robes had become white sheets of pure lightning. A crown of purple lighting, set with sparkling white jewels, adorned his head. His scepter had transformed into a pillar of purple and white lightning, a miniature version of the great pillar that had transformed him. Free of injuries, he carried himself with a singular purpose. Divine judgment. Thunder followed in his wake.

“Your games end now. I will show you the difference between us.”

Kuscal wielded the pillar of lightning like a staff, holding one end in both hands and using its reach to unleash a flurry of blows at Azarus. With each strike, the pillar sent grasping hands of white lightning ripping through the darkness toward Azarus.

Azarus fended off the initial flurry of strikes with his painted shield, angling it to deflect Kuscal’s strength. Kuscal’s pillar of lightning crashed against Azarus’s painting with terrible force, but the shield held. The shroud of gold flames rising from Azarus’s form lessened the white hands of lightning reaching from the pillar, till they were negligible. Dozens of scorch marks added their hue to Azarus’s coat of many colors.

Kuscal twisted his body, lightning flaring as he brought the staff around his head and down to deliver a crushing, overhand blow. Azarus stepped to the side, eyes flaring behind his mask. He raised his shield and took the blow at an angle. Contrary to his hopes, Kuscal had condensed his immense strength to fit his smaller form instead of shedding it. The glancing blow struck Azarus like a thunderclap. Undaunted, Azarus withstood the blow, his back straight and knees bent, accepting the attack to better understand what he was up against. His muscles protested, pulling his bones into the dispute, causing a creak chorus. He could feel his body rebel as his tendons and ligaments strained to keep it in alignment. Then, the pressure was gone.

The emerald on his shield caught the light. Azarus’s shield twisted in his hands, moving against his will. Switching his grip, Kuscal used the momentum of the parry to lash out with a vicious uppercut. White lightning hands erupted from the purple pillar, trying to tear away Azarus’s shield.

When the hands touched the gray metal binding the edges of the shield, they transformed into crackling bands of electricity running along the shield’s rim. The bands of electricity sank beneath the surface of the dark gray metal, consumed by Azarus’s gray paint. Azarus took note as the metal band around his shield morphed into a bladed, gray edge.

Azarus’s mask, a stylized replica of his true features, sported a smug smile as he jumped in the air, positioning his body above his shield. His shield’s unruly behavior had put it in the exact position Azarus needed. Both the emerald boss and gray metal rim were working as intended, without additional attention or fuel from his domain. Emerald for luck, gray for trade. He borrowed the force of Kuscal’s underhanded strike, taking it on the shield and allowing himself to be catapulted into the air.

As Azarus tumbled up toward a gathering thunderhead, he touched the tip of his sword to his mask, applying a tiny droplet of paint. The emerald and gray flames painted around the edges of the mask writhed, consuming the gold in an instant. After a moment, like rays of sun parting a cloudy day, the gold reemerged, stretching and morphing Azarus’s features on the face of the mask. Azarus blinked. When he opened his eyes, the mask portrayed a new representation of him. He had a hooked, gold beak with gray feathers and emerald eyes.

Azarus altered his representation of himself, and his domain responded. Feathery wings burst from his back, each feather a frozen tongue of tri-flame. The sudden drag sent Azarus into a spin, his momentum halting as his descent began. He threw one leg over the other, twisting his body to get it underneath him. A bolt of lightning passed between his split legs, tendrils of electricity brushing against his thighs but finding no purchase.

Now righted, Azarus beat his wings, zipping past another lightning bolt. He tucked his one wing beneath him and tumbled to the side as a bolt descended from the thundercloud overhead, scorching some of his feathers as it snapped into existence. His new wings were decisively lesser compared to when Azarus manifested his whole domain as wings. They lacked many things, speed being the most pertinent. However, Azarus yearned to test his new limitations and explore the opportunities they afforded him. He beat his wings, gaining altitude.

Azarus’s brows pulled in. He shook his head softly, as if trying to shake something out of his mind. A small voice in his head whispered that this was only his second run. On his hundredth, he may not even remember Granon or the skinwalker. He had no illusions that he had earned true freedom. Opportunities to become more familiar with his domain may be few and far in between.

Beneath him, Kuscal laughed, cold and brutal. He lifted his purple pillar of lightning over his head, looking down at Azarus despite the altitude difference. Overhead, the lightning leapt through the clouds like schools of fish.

“Fool.”

A shaft of lightning extended from Kuscal’s outstretched staff, connecting Kuscal to the thundercloud above Azarus. The cloud absorbed the bolt with a sound like divine armies clashing. Azarus raised his shield to the darkened sky. Purple and white lightning fell like rain.

Azarus felt a stiffness in his jaw and a throbbing vein on his forehead. This is exactly what he had wanted. To feel like he was facing the sky alone, to prove to himself that he could hold it up. But now that it was happening, all he felt was frustration. It felt wrong to enjoy it.

Lightning battered against Azarus’s shield in a rapid staccato. The bolts skittered across the gold surface, unable to find purchase, toward the gray metal rim. The emerald boss lit up with ethereal flame, remaining untouched. Azarus asserted his will on his shield. The gray metal flashed black and white as it fought to trade energy for adaptability as fast as possible. Azarus sought to contain it, keeping his shield in one piece and stopping it from transforming beyond a certain limit.

Azarus’s wings beat beneath him, straining to hold him aloft under the barrage. The portion of his domain not tied to the two paintings ran through his body, reforging him each time he pushed past his limit. Using paint instead of flames helped him stretch his domain further. It was a tenuous split.

Between the flashes of lightning raining down and the shield’s strobe effect, the world became a series of static images. Azarus’s will kept his body in place as his vision all but disappeared. He could only hear the crackle of lightning and the booming of Kuscal’s derisive laughter. His body strained as he sought to withstand the weight of the storm, but he could not see it through the static.

The noise, the constant strain, and the deprivation of sight put Azarus in an odd mental state. He felt disconnected from himself, separated from his body and his domain, like he was watching himself from the outside. The last time he had felt similar, the screens had introduced themselves as his tormentor. Kuscal was not bound by the Mirror of Eons. Why was he so weak?

In a fugue, Azarus realized the storm did not actually weigh that much. The strikes, falling in the thousands, were weak individually. It was difficult to brace himself under the torrent of so many, each new impact rocking him off balance a little more. His lesser wings, fueled by his mask, were not quite up to the task. However, he was flying with nothing to brace against. He was all but dancing in the rain for how effective this strategy was.

With that in mind, Azarus asked himself how this was helping him claim Granon and help Moka. It was not. He changed tact.

With a thought, Azarus allowed his shield to change shape. It sought to grow into a tower shield, capable of blocking far more lightning, useless to Azarus against Kuscal’s staff. The other god was too strong for Azarus to provide him with a large target. Azarus shaped the shield with his will, using the energy ‘traded’ from Kuscal’s lightning to mold it into a gray umbrella. It had a gold shaft and ribs, tipped in emerald with an emerald handle.

Hanging from his new umbrella, Azarus tucked his wings and glided down in a spiral. His descent was fast and jolting, made faster by the lightning strikes pushing him down toward the ground. He held his sword in his hand, a drop of paint glistening at the tip. Now that Kuscal was a more reasonable size, it was time to end things.