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Upon wings of smoke, Morrygna carries me over the great river of liquid fire. I thrill at the energy humming into my spirit. At the edge of the river is a monstrous staircase as high and steep as a cliff with a crest I can’t detect. Endless shades drape it like ever-moving netting. But the Goddess of Doom sets me at the base of the staircase and reveals, “This is as far as I may go.”
I take a deep breath and gaze up at the mountainous staircase, my mouth drying as if the river embers have coated my tongue.
“How much do you want him, spirit rose?”
I turn, angling my neck with a wry grin, and proclaim, “Enough.”
Morrygna nods, twisted smirk creasing one side of her face, phantom eye glowing. Her last farewell. Her blessing and encouragement.
Without another word, I pick up my gown skirts and start climbing the staircase. At first, I take the steps two at a time, jumping, my limbs light as petals on air. The river’s heat consumes the air. Ash kisses my strands. I don’t get to the halfway mark before I slow, heaving for breath, my throat sore. Sweat pools down my back and the sides of my face. I rip at Doom’s gown, tearing to my knees.
On each side of me, the shades approach, curling toward me, lascivious and wanting. He must know I’m here. That I’m coming...for him. For answers. For his promise.
Still, I press onward. One aching, painstaking step at a time. A kaleidoscope of butterflies flutters with burning wings in my chest as my breath heaves and cleaves. I set my jaw, steel my eyes, and climb. Stumble to my knees when I make it to the halfway mark, forcing myself to keep the end goal in sight. By now, hours have passed. My gown sticks to my sweat-ridden skin.
Not once does he show his face. Out of sheer spite, I crawl up the staircase, pushing and pulling myself up the steeper it gets. My mocking humor gets the better of me. “Look at me, big bad God of Death. I need a grand staircase the size of a damned cliff. Mwahahaha,” I cackle in a deep, deprecatory tone. I swear a dark snigger ripples from the shades.
Seething, I gaze at the crest where an enormous skull gapes at me from beyond the shaded shroud. “Fine, you want to play games. I have my own.” I stick out my tongue.
All my muscles harden like bone. More than ever, I grow. Black death roses and spirit roses unite to gift me a moving aisle on top of the staircase. An aisle of royalty. Of my divine right to enter his godly realm. I don’t stop growing. Not even when I’ve arrived at the summit and pass through the towering mouth of the skull, smirking at the thought of it devouring me.
The shades follow.
I roll my eyes when the skull mouth opens to a rocky black pathway coiling over lava pits. On each side are jagged rocks and statues as tall as towers—all in the likeness of the God of Death.
“No way is your cock that large,” I taunt one of the statues, crossing my arms.
The shades billow around me, nudging my back. My Nether-mark rears for the first time with a harsh slash of ice. Shaking my head in disbelief, I groan and break into a run. “I’m coming for you, Ary!”
The pathway rounds to a solid mass of obsidian-like stone with grandiose double doors of solid gold embedded inside the mass. My first thought is to use my vines, but when the shades bind my body in a chilled blanket, Déjà vu prompts the memory of my time in the library. I sigh because I’ve already done the hardest work to get here. All I must do now is...knock.
I rap a couple times, beaming when the doors thunder wide, opening to—
“More lava?” I shriek, lurching back. “Are you serious?”
I spin my head back and forth, marveling at the familiarity, recognizing this court: an eerie reflection of the Citadel of Bones Court. Except Aryahn Kryach’s subjects are all spirits drifting by the hundreds toward me. Thousands of bride spirits collected through the ages ever since the birth of the Curse. Death maidens. And stewards. All existing to serve the God of Death.
Before any can so much as whisper across my figure, all drop and bow to me. Kneeling low to the floor. Incredulous, I knead my brow, battling a headache. “Enough games, Ary,” I plead in a whisper.
At once, the shades hook me. I suck wind through my teeth as they launch me across the court within seconds, pillaging my air until my knees crash upon the dais.
The God of Death’s robe brushes my cheek. Hands fanned out before me, I take a few deep breaths, steadying myself before I rise to face him, to gaze up at him since he’s two heads taller.
I furrow my brows, lips pressed to a scowling seam because he wears a skull mask. So similar to Allysteir’s, but I understand the Corpse King, all Corpse Kings have ultimately modeled their mask after Aryahn Kryach’s...as well as the Underworld beneath Nathyan Ghyeal. Perhaps it was the God of Death all along who had formed such a place.
“Ary,” I speak his name like a prayer. My name.
No armor here. This is his domain. His court. The City of Death. My fingers strain to touch his lustrous skin of starless night. To unleash his robe while he frees me of this ruined dress. His starry eyes gleam as they survey me, their spirit fullness mirroring mine.
“Why have you come, Bandye?”
I sigh, dropping my arms to my side, irritated by the name, by his indifference. Balling my hands into fists, I stiffen and demand, “Remove the mask, Ary. I will have you without any secret.”
At first, the skull mask stares unblinking back at me. My heartbeat stammers inside my chest, and I lose all breath before he finally acquiesces and permits me to look upon his face. His full lips harden, strong jaw clenches, and deep-hooded eyes breed with shadows. Otherworldly, beautiful, deathly.
“You stopped calling me little wonder,” I address him, daring to step closer.
