“And we both know I cannot resist you, little dove,” Nyatrix says, the words dripping from her mouth like honey. With her hands steadying me, I lean my cane against my skirts and take her face into my hands. She pushes into the contact like a love-starved thing.
And when we kiss, when her arms wrap around me, when I think about saying I love her, something happens. Whatever prowls in my inner chamber breaks free. My vision goes white, and I am airborne, perhaps in the clutches of a High Ecclesian, or perhaps something else entirely.
I find myself in the center of a meadow. Beneath my feet, the bloodstained dust is gone, banished by a lush carpet of impossible green, crowned in dew. The air is heavy with the drone of bees. I turn, only to find Nyatrix beside me, looking just as bewildered.
“Children,” booms a voice.
I startle. Nyatrix grabs my hand, her long fingers pressing into mine. Before us stands . . . I am not sure, not exactly.
A woman, maybe. Two women, really, but in one body, my vision constantly unsure which one to focus on—the one with long, flowing blonde hair and soft silk draped over the curves of her body, or the one with umber skin and a sharp jaw, her black hair shorn to her skull.
“Avatars,” says a gentler voice, “you are awoken.”
The meadow trembles around us, as if such beauty can barely sustain itself in our world of horror and strife.
“We lend you our power,” says the deep, rich voice, “but you must use it to destroy our child. I fear we could not.”
“Couldn’t bear it,” adds the other voice, the blonde-haired figure flickering stronger for a moment.
“And now our weakness is your mantle,” the other says, a note of frustration—disappointment, perhaps—in her voice.
“Goddesses,” Nyatrix says, letting go of my hand to sweep low into a bow.
I do not follow her—I’ve spent too long on my knees—and if these Creatrixes take issue with it, I dare them to voice it. A strange new bravery surges in me, like all my crippling doubt has been burned away.
“Together,” the Creatrixes boom as one, the word vibrating in my bones. My heart races, and I feel as though my chest may burst, that sharp-toothed creature inside me growing too large for my skin. “Together, you can end what we could not. But you must go now. Much is unsure and much we have diminished ourselves. How long we can grant you our gifts is unclear.”
Nyatrix rises beside me, a column of shadow and death in this lovely meadow. Perhaps we could just stay here, I think. No more war. No more hunger. Just a meadow and the taste of her blackberry mouth.
“Why did you leave?” the Lupa Nox asks, her voice catching. I turn to look at her, watching a single tear—diamond-like in the clear sunlight—roll down her cheek.
“We saw no other choice, daughter,” the woman with the shorn hair replies. “It is regrettable that your mother was left behind, the great Petronyx. Here, at least, is your chance to make her proud.” She pauses, lifting her chin. “Do not forget that once you have destroyed the old world, you must then birth a new one.”
The meadow disappears as if it never existed, leaving the two of us standing on the edge of a battlefield. For a long moment, we stare at each other, the sounds of the fighting distant, as though it’s hundreds and hundreds of paces away instead of fifteen or twenty.
“Ophelia,” Nyatrix murmurs, taking my hand. Her eyes are wide, filled with awe. She reaches over my shoulder and brushes something—brushesme, I realize. I turn, nearly tripping, and find the arch of a snow-white wing burgeoning from my back.
Some forgotten instinct blooms, and I spread one wing, finding that the downy white fades into a rich gold that glints madly in the firelight. I flex the other wing, sending a wave of dust over the violets. Hesitantly, I reach down toward the soil, brushing my fingers across the pale petals.
The violets spread suddenly in a great wave, sweeping across the ground. Dust and blood disappear, and in their place an endless green rises, filling the air with the scent of spring. The growth—a Sundering in reverse—rushes toward the fray of battle, snaking beneath soldiers’ feet.
Freshly slain corpses rise in some grand awakening, hands clutching at wounds that are no longer there. Soldiers watch as their comrades stumble to their feet, as the enemy they just killed opens their eyes and pulls a deep, rattling gasp of air into revived lungs. I drag my gaze through the crowds, searching desperately for Agrippina, but cannot find her kind gaze or wavy mane of silver hair.
Some of the fighting halts. Sepulchyre and Host alike lower their weapons, looking at the suddenly lush and fertile ground, the resurrected people. Instead of shouts, murmurs fill the still air. Eventually, all eyes turn toward us. I wonder what they see: two women with wings, a dove and a diaboli.
The Sepulchyre soldiers drop to their knees, bringing fists to their chests. Host Knights look on in confusion, unsure if they should keep fighting or, perhaps, rebuke their god and take up a new one.
“You’ve all been lied to,” Nyatrix shouts, taking a step toward the now-silent horde. “All of us. Sepulchyre and Host alike.We all suffer for nothing. Our leaders command us to commit violence as they kneel to pray.”
I cannot tear my eyes away from her. No one can—not a single person beneath this war-torn night sky looks away from her.
“Fight, if you must,” Nyatrix says, spitting the words out, a challenge. “But know it’s for naught.” She turns to me, her gaze a heavy thing, filled with expectation and something else—something tender and sweet. “I love you,” she murmurs, her soot-stained fingers tracing my jaw.
My heart soars, and that inner chamber thrums, like perhaps it’s no longer empty. “I love you, too,” I tell her, gripping her hand, staring into her sharp, fierce features.
“How do you feel,” she begins, all of her attention settled on me, “about slaying a god tonight?”
Icannot walk without a cane, but with whatever Blessing two long-lost goddesses have bestowed upon me, I can fly. My shoulder muscles strain and the Godwinds actively fight against me, but when I tire, Nyatrix tucks me into her arms and continues across the Sundered Lands. It took us days to cross this barren earth on foot, but I think we only fly for a few bells. Perhaps the Creatrixes changed the curvature of the land, folded up the hills and sands just for us.
