Looking down at Pok’s temple was melancholic. Millik’s long braid knocked on his back like a windchime as he stared down the seven hundred and two stairs, the sea’s breeze washing over him. He knew each of these steps individually, as he climbed down and up them every day. Standing at the top, a part of him wanted to turn around. A part of him knew that he wasn’t needed down there. His time with Pok passed long ago, but he still remained devout; if Pok asked him to drown, he would.

  Climbing down the stairs was the easy part; the true test of his devotion came when he went back up. Millik flew down the stairs like a seabird over roiling waters with schools of fish underneath. He loved that moment when he stepped into the temple’s boundary. The pier may be rickety, the wood soft, but it was comfortingly familiar to have the rolling waves underfoot. He took a deep breath, letting the temple’s air cleanse him of every doubt he had.

  Up on the ridge– though he knew he deserved to be sent there, it was disgusting having to sleep in dirt and filth– the people nowadays stared at him with such disdain in their eyes. He recognized it because it was the same hatred he would glare into his own reflection. He used to be strong. He used to be a reaper. But now, he was nobody, a simple man devoted to the God he’s always known. His fall from grace was one to be studied.

  But down at the temple, all of that was different. Down at the temple, the sun shone brightly through the clouds, the sea air was crisp, yet tender, and the people were quiet and respectful. It was perfect; holy.

  Millik walked through the courtyard, admiring the countless fruit trees, each one a new gift from Lon and his people. Each stride he took, prideful and caring, brought a new smell to his mind. The Lonists were excellent (far exceeding excellence, but no better singular word comes to mind) at growing plants, and that couldn’t have been more clear from the sights. Bright green branches, each one splattered with plentiful fruits of all colors, reached high into the deep blue sky. Their specialists were able to craft a tree that bore countless types of fruits, each a different species, color, and taste.

  Millik smiled and waved to an old man on a stool who was reaching up to grab a mango from one of the trees. In his arms was a variety of fruits: a pair of apples, an orange, and even a bundle of grapes. He wore the same blue robes that Millik always did, each set made in the image of their God, signifying his existence as one of Pok’s many followers.

  “Millik,” the old man said, waving back to him, “Could you help me?”

  Millik diverted from the main path and came over to the old man. He was not someone he recognized, but the old man obviously recognized him. Most people did, of course. Millik reached up, stretching high above the old man, and picked the mango he was reaching for before placing in his arms.

  “Back again, are you?” the old man asked, climbing down from his stool and moving it to the next tree over.

  “Of course,” Millik said, “I promised myself I would visit each day.”

  “A reasonable act, although I can’t say I understand: why do you still follow Pok, even after all he’s done to you?”

  “There are no other options,” Millik said, his voice stern.

  “You don’t fancy following any of the others?” the old man said, growing a cheeky smile “I hear Vot is always recruiting.”

  “How dare you suggest such a thing?” Millik’s voice was rising to a light shout. “If you think the other Gods are worthy, then why not follow them yourself? Pok has always been my God, and I will not stray from that.”

  He laughed. “I figured you’d say something like that. Millik, don’t let your pride blind you.” He got on his stool and picked a low-hanging fig. “I’m really only here for the benefits, what little that might be. I’m too old to devote myself like you can.”

  “Quiet your blasphemy already, else he hears you, and I’ll send you to the ridge, or worse.”

  “It’s not like Pok to listen,” the old man said.

  Millik cut him off by stepping up and grabbing him by his collar. His collection of fruits spilled at their feet, rolling across the neat-fitted planks of the pier. Looking into his eyes, the old man was tired.

  “You’re not a reaper anymore, Millik,” he said.

  “You speak ill of Pok,” Millik said like a slow growl, “and I will find a way to punish you. If need be, I can always present you to him directly.”

  “Don’t waste his time like that,” the old man spat, “I’m too small for a God to care. Especially Pok; he never cares about his people, even someone as important as you, ex-reaper.”

  Millik lifted him up higher. “I warned you.”

  “Listen to me, Millik. Pok doesn’t care about you, not anymore.”

  “That’s enough,” Millik barked. “You’re fortunate I don’t have my power, otherwise I would have killed you myself for those comments.”

  “Would Pok want his reaper to kill for no reason?”

  “That was my job. It was my duty to kill those who betrayed him. That’s the duty of all the Gods’ reapers. As their representative, the reaper’s task is to make the choice most befitting of the God.”

  “So why did you fall out of grace? He threw you away like any other garbage, or so the story goes.”

  “And he was correct for that. It was my mistake, not his. He could never.”

  “Yet you’re back at his feet.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “It seems to me like Pok is playing you for a fool, Millik. If anything, I’m surprised he cares enough to even do that much for you.”

  “Shut up.” Millik lifted the man so that his feet were completely off the ground, pulling him away from his stool. The kicks of old, frail limbs were feeble.

  “Millik, look around: do you really think Pok thinks we matter?”

  “This place is the pinnacle of beauty,” Millik said as if it couldn’t have been more obvious.

  “These plants were a gift from the Lonists, and Lon teaches his people himself,” the old man continued, still dangling in Millik’s grip, although having stopped his fruitless efforts to escape. “The Temple is maintained by its keepers. Pok only sits on his throne; it’s the people that care.”

  “That’s enough,” Millik repeated a little louder, “This place wouldn’t exist without him. We wouldn’t exist without him.”

  The old man looked down at the ground, and simply shook his head.

  “How dare you ruin this beauty with such treasonous words?” Millik accused, “With what little power I still have, I will present you for judgement myself.”

  “I accept,” the old man said quietly. He coughed once, twice. “I don’t want to die, Millik. But, I’m lucky I got so many years to myself. I don’t have anyone left, so if I can give up my last few years so that someone, even someone as horrid as you, can learn something, I will.”

  Millik wordlessly put him down and nudged him towards the temple’s main set of doors, a grand archway at the end of the courtyard. Each jab, as they kept walking, grew progressively rougher, and the old man rubbed his back, complaining that he couldn’t go any faster. At the doors, Millik knocked to be let in. He had done this every day for the last few years, though this time he had lost his ritual touch because of his infuriation. The doors swung open slowly, letting light exchange between both sides. Where the light outside was bright, the light within was pure, and, by opening these doors, the two would mix, hence, the ritual was usually taken slowly, with everybody admiring the exchange that happens across the holy threshold. Millik took a deep breath; it wasn’t just the light that mixed.

  “Millik,” Atrode, Pok’s primary shrinekeeper, said once the doors were fully opened. “Is something the matter?” Shrinekeeper robes were standardly gilded around and near the shoulders, with an extra line of gold lacing down the centre, but the rest was identical to the same blue robes shared by all Pokians. This merfolk, with murky green skin and flaring gills, was famously respected among Pok’s citizens; he had been a warrior long ago, but he has served Pok for much longer, most of his life. Thus, he recognized Millik’s deviation from their normal routine.

  “Atrode,” Millik said, bowing his head to the keeper, “this man speaks ill of Pok while wearing his colors and harvesting his fruit. I wish to bring him forward for judgement.”

  The keeper looked both of them up and down, Millik bowing his head out of respect and the old man looking down because he was unable to meet the keeper’s gaze. It’s good that he was showing some remorse for his actions.

  “Very well,” Atrode stepped aside, “I will not stop you, my friend.”

  The secondary room was warm, and freshly swept. Atrode always did a wonderful job at caring for the entire temple, so Millik always felt at peace when he stepped into this space.

  Another door, these ones slightly smaller, blocked their way to Pok’s throne. These doors required the visitors to knock lightly, and instead of a keeper opening them, they would wait for a response from the God, allowing them to enter.

  “Come,” Pok’s voice echoed throughout the chambers. His room had a skylight, so it was easy for the sound to travel to those all around the Temple if he spoke loud enough.

  The doors creaked open slowly, respectfully, as Millik pushed them open. They were always heavy, but Millik had entered this room so much, and each time it got slightly easier. Once they were fully opened, a small weight always lifted from his shoulders. It was both relieving, but also remindfully mortifying to stand at the foot of the God who he had always worshipped. The being, humanoid in shape, but not in size, towered over everyone in the room– nay, everywhere. This may be his physical form, but he was an appendage of Bitrect itself, manifested for the plane’s people. His large blue robes draped over his throne as he sat leaning back. The rays from the skylight landed just short on his chest, so his face was entirely covered in shadows. Right in front of the new arrivals, the God’s feet were impossibly gigantic, with a set of sandals under them, and everything about the figure had a slight blue hue over it all.

  “Millik,” Pok was friendly with him, although his voice boomed around the room like a massive echo chamber. “Welcome. What do you have to say today?”

  “I bring a transgressor.” Millik bowed his head. His long braid rolled over his shoulder and touched the floor. “I understand I am no longer your reaper, however I cannot stand by as someone– someone wearing your color– dismisses everything you are. So instead of taking the matter into my own hands, I bring him to you for judgement.”

  “How thoughtful of you.” Pok shifted in his seat. “This is actually wonderful timing, Millik. Thank you for this chance, as this is the perfect opportunity for you to learn your abilities.” It took a moment for Millik to realize this previous sentence was not geared towards him. “Millik, I would like you to meet my new reaper, Tyril. He can make this judgement himself, wouldn’t you agree?”

  A new figure, one which Millik hadn’t even realized had been in the room this entire time, emerged from the shadows beside Pok. He was slightly taller than Millik was, and his hair had been cut short recently, compared to Millik’s long braid down his back. Like every Pokian, their blue robes shone brightly, but his had a special ornament: a special button made of pure gold engraved with Pok’s image was pinned to his shoulder. It reflected the small ray of light around the room as he came closer. Millik recognised this pin perfectly, as it had been the same type he wore just a few years ago, perhaps even the exact same one. A unique type of magic radiated from the broach: the type of the God it came from. Though it was just a small portion of the God’s limitless power, this accessory held all the magic a person could ever need to overpower any other person. A man given the power of a God brought death wherever they went, thus, they could only be called one thing: a reaper. That fact alone gave the button, and the man wearing it, an overwhelming presence Millik had never felt when he was the one wearing his own. So much so that he hesitated to even approach Tyril, though they were both devout followers of Pok.

  “Speak,” the newly crowned reaper said to them. His voice was higher than expected, but still manly. He seemed young for such a role. “What circumstances led to this transgression?”

  “We began talking casually as he was picking fruit off the new trees from Lon’s people,” Millik explained dutifully. “My ex-reaperhood was brought up and this man said things about Pok that I dare not repeat.”

  “Speak them,” Pok demanded, “this is a safe place.”

  “If I may, he called you uncaring and he accused you of being mistaken for stripping me of my previous title.”

  “I see,” Pok said. There was a hint of annoyance in his voice.

  “Do you have any extra thoughts?” Tyril asked the God. “Or shall I pass judgement?”

  “You may do as you see best, Tyril,” Pok answered, “however, take it out of this room. Millik, speak with me for a moment.”

  “Understood,” Tyril said as he brushed past Millik to the old man. The old man looked like he wished to object, but Tyril dragged him out of the room just the same.

  “Millik,” Pok said. His words were quiet now, spoken only to him. “You have done a bad thing today. I appreciate how much you wish to ensure our peace, but know that I have no problems with people saying what they must. The opinions of my people are important to me, and I value every one of them, even if they are wrong such as he was. If you wish to represent my will, do not bring your own emotions into such a cause.”

  “I didn’t–”

  “But you did. You were outraged by that man because he spoke negatively of you alongside me. He is correct about one thing: you are no longer my reaper, so please remember that. You have no right to take judgement into your own hands anymore. And, since you are no longer my reaper, I ask that you stop visiting me. These daily visits are pestering at best.”

  “What?”

  “If you wish to follow me, then obey my previous orders. You live on the ridge now, so I ask that you stay there and stop tainting this place. Stop talking to me as an equal. Those times are over now, and the only reason I did not execute you for what you did was because of the favor you held. The same is true now. Stay on the ridge.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “...I understand.” He had thought he had done such a good thing for his God. He had always acted with Pok’s best interests at heart, so how could he have ever been wrong? He made a mistake once, and he promised himself he would never do that again. Everything Millik did was for him. He climbed seven hundred steps each day to be of service to Pok. He ignored all of the people on the ridge who told him to give up. He would never have given up on his God, but his God had given up on him long ago, and he never knew. He had failed as a devotee, if he couldn’t even see something so obvious, yet so simple. Millik turned to leave. If his God wished to not see him, he would do everything in his power to fulfill that wish.

  “Millik.” Pok stopped him. “Speak to Tyril. He has been wanting to meet you. Maybe you can teach him something he should know if he wishes to be my reaper.”

  Millik nodded dogmatically, “I will.” He raised his hands to the door again, but this time pushing them open was so much more difficult. He felt Pok’s eyes on him as he pushed, only adding more weight to his shoulders.

  The sight of the pool of blood in the secondary chamber wasn’t as shocking as it would have been to most. Millik had been a reaper for a long time, and he had killed lots of people in a similar manner.

  Atrode moved to clean up the new mess quickly, squeezing between Millik and the new reaper, Tyril, who was looking at Millik with wide eyes like a child looking to their parent.

  “Impressive,” Millik commended, “but you should know: Pok did not want that man to die.”

  The look of dejection completely shifted Tyril’s face, and his posture slumped.

  “That’s okay, though,” Millik said, “you’re still learning. Your job as a reaper is to make the decision that you think would be most appropriate to Pok’s wishes. Sometimes… sometimes you don’t make the decision that he would have, and that’s okay, because his decision was to trust you with his power. If you ask me, that old man deserved this.”

  “Will you teach me what I should be doing?” Tyril asked as delicately as he could.

  Millik thought long and hard. Pok’s words echoed, spiralling throughout his mind.

  “No,” he said finally, “There’s nothing I can teach you. A part of being a reaper is being able to make those judgements yourself. I recommend you get used to his power before you claim any morals.”

  “Can you teach me that part atleast?” This man had the power to kill him in an instant, yet he was practically begging at Millik’s feet.

  “No.” Millik said again, sternly. “I was taught to learn by myself. I recommend you do the same.”

  “Then what are you going to do?” Tyril’s questions were so innocent, yet every word he said ate at a small part of Millik.

  “I’m going back to the ridge.” He spoke solemnly, but strictly. This was what Pok wished, and he would follow every letter of those instructions.

  Ameri didn’t think she would ever get used to wearing a button full of so much power. How many years has it been now? She remembered accepting the role. She remembered the surge of magic power that flowed into her that day; it was exhilarating. Of course it was. No human deserved such abilities, yet Sor gave it to her happily. She always dreamed of being a reaper, but she never thought she could ever be worthy. Yet here she was, years later, carrying out her God’s will:

  Her axe cut through the betrayer’s body like a knife sliding through bread, or a blade through flesh. Blood splattered her face and the floor around them, pooling underneath the now-dead body in the same scarlet red as both their robes. She wanted to smile. The blood on her face was so warm, it reminded her of the fireplace back home, her father telling her stories of his travels. That was always the vision that came when she felt the heartbeat of her victims (really, this isn’t the right word. Rather: they were transgressors, deserving to die.) fade as she sliced through them.

  This particular transgressor had sold out Sor’s intent to create so many new, bloodthirsty weapons for whatever war seemed to be brewing between her and Vot. The previously-not-a-corpse was on their way to the God of Death to warn them of such. Of course Sor couldn’t allow that, so Ameri was sent to stop them. Now, standing over this body, she found herself in the middle of Pokian territory; in order to get to Vot, they would have to go through Pok’s region first. It was a long chase, but a simple one. They definitely didn’t put up an exciting fight like Ameri was hoping for.

  She flicked off the blood still on her weapon, then sheathed it on her hip before leaving the corpse in place. It was her job to kill. The cleaning was somebody else’s. She didn’t really care how they would find it. And find it they would, as it wasn’t necessarily hidden.

  Ameri emerged from the Pokian alleyway into a not-so-busy street full of open-stall markets and merchants. Every person who walked past the stalls was called to come buy their “crucially important” and “never-before-seen” goods. The Pokians were always stingy when it came to their prices. That’s why no one ever shopped there, and their slums were only growing because everybody was too proud to give up just that little bit of profit that would be the difference between not selling anything and being able to put food on the table. How disgusting.

  Though her face was still covered in a splatter of colorful blood, it was Ameri’s clothes that drew so much attention. The bright red robes, identical in all but their color to the blue ones worn by everyone here, stood out as she walked down the center of the street, shooting an annoyed look at any merchant who dared to beg her to look at their products. As tempting as a well-built, ornamental piece of jewelry would be, Ameri would never be caught dead wearing Pokian artifacts. She was a Sor, and she was Sor’s reaper. She was proud.

  Climbing up seven hundred and two stairs was how Pok tested Millik’s devotion. Even after everything that’s happened, Millik rose up those stairs one step at a time, the far-reaching ocean flaying out behind him. He hated the ridge, but if that’s where Pok wants him, that’s where he’d stay.

  He had gotten used to all of the begging merchants in the mid-level stalls, having walked past them twice a day for years on his way to the temple; he needed to go through the mid-level to get to the high-level ridge.

  A preacher speaking a sermon to a small gathering in a clearing just off the main street drew Millik’s attention. He stopped to listen for just a moment. Pok deserved such words, and Millik was bound to listen. But he couldn’t stay for long; Pok wanted him up on the ridge, not here. He turned to go before the preacher could continue to ensnare him further. He had to ignore anything else to comply with Pok’s wishes.

  One more figure did stand out as he went, though: he nodded respectfully to the red-robed reaper with blood on her face walking head held high down the street. There was no question she was here on business, but it was customary for reapers to not get involved in each others’ jobs, so Millik just kept walking. Although, it did leave a little lump in his chest that she didn’t recognize him without Pok’s power attached to him. He really wasn’t Pok’s reaper anymore. Enough of that; Millik thought about what it might be that caused Ameri to be in Pokian territory, but he stopped himself quickly. It didn’t matter who she just killed, whether Sor or Pokian. They betrayed a God, and that deserved punishment, even if Sor was a worse God than Pok.

  A scream rang out down the street. Of course Millik ran up to it; he was used to dealing with commotions. A crowd had gathered around the entrance to an alleyway, and it was difficult for Millik to push through the people to get a good look at the red-robed Sor hacked in two, as he could no longer leverage his reaper status to control the crowds. Again he had to remind himself he was not a reaper anymore. This fresh corpse was not his problem. Somebody would report it to Pok, and it wouldn’t be him. He grunted in frustration as he turned back and kept walking towards the ridge.

  …

  The high-level was a lot darker than the mid-level, and especially more-so than the low-level, which funneled most sunlight into the temple. It was also much more crowded; Pokians were sprawled across either edge of the streets: sitting, eating, chatting, whatever they wished to do to spend their time. As he passed, most gave him an angry glance, each one looking like they wanted to punch him. He tried to ignore all of them.

  It wasn’t technically a higher elevation than the mid-level, but the two were separated by a sizable hillline, so everybody who crossed over assumed they were now above, for going up is always more difficult than going down. Out here, all this way from the sea, it was… filthy. He was too defeated to describe it any other way.

  A few drudging streets later, Millik stood out front of the small shack that had been denoted to be his. He didn’t want to go in, not yet. He instinctually looked back to the sea only for his view to be blocked by the ridgeline, towering above most buildings on this side.

  Down the street a little further, Millik came to the edge of the city, where the only pond on this side of the ridge sat, a sad recreation of the ocean’s majesty. The small pier overlooking the water, too, was pathetically reminiscent of the grand dock that the temple stood atop. Though the wood felt the same underneath his feet, everything else was far, far different.

  “Reaper,” the word came with such disdain that Millik didn’t have to turn around to know who said it, or that it was his way of greeting him. Olgernoth, an old merfolk shrunken and wrinkled with age, wearing filthy blue robes saundered beside him. Though he was old and blind, his magic was still extremely potent. If he had more loyalty to Pok, he easily could have been a reaper for decades.

  “Your memory’s as frail as you are,” Millik poked the old man with his elbow and his words. “I haven’t been a reaper for years.”

  “But you still want to be, don’t you?” Olgernoth’s cataractic gaze eyed him slyly, no doubt worming his magic through Millik’s brain. “My age isn’t slowing my perception, kid.”

  Millik sighed.

  “I just got back from the markets myself,” Olgernoth said. He watched Millik with his clouded eyes and his mind’s eye. “Did something go down today?” Olgernoth asked. He reached out a dark, webbed hand out over the lake. The old man worked in such a mysterious way; maybe he was calling to someone, or something, with his mind; maybe he was simply testing the air, seeing how dry it is; maybe his blindness had finally caught up to him.

  “Pok hates me.”

  “Most do.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course. But I can tolerate you, since your mind is so fascinating.”

  “How pleasant.” Millik’s sarcasm carried across the small, rhythmic ripples. “Pok chose a new reaper today.”

  “Good,” Olgernoth said solemnly. “Maybe you can finally move on.”

  Tyril reported to Pok about the Sor corpse found in the mid-level alley, and about how there were rumors that the Sor reaper was seen in the area.

  “Your worry is undeserved,” Pok said to him. “I do not care what Sor nor her reaper do.”

  “They shouldn’t normally be in our territory, though, right?” Tyril knew he was naive, but that didn’t stop him from asking what he felt he must.

  “The victim was running,” Pok waved it off, “It’s no mystery.”

  …

  People stared at Tyril as he walked down the mid-level streets. They would never do that before, but his God-powered accessory meant they would for a long time to come. It wasn’t customary for reapers to secede their power willingly like Millik did. Normally, they die in battle, and Tyril would likely be the next to follow behind all those who came before him, so these stares would likely last for the rest of his life. It was unnerving, like a dagger held to his throat. He wanted it to end, but he knew better, so instead he focused most of his energy into ignoring them all.

  The mid-level soon transitioned into the high-level. Climbing the small ridge was easy, but annoying. Standing at the top, Tyril could look back and see all the way down to the temple, how small it was in the distance.

  He also wasn’t used to the grime that seemed to cling to everything in this level, either. His shiny, low-level robes stood out starkly against the dirt-covered, long-worn robes of everyone else. Even if he didn’t have his reaper-button emanating the God’s power, he surely would have gotten plenty of stares just because of his cleanliness–

  A rotting cabbage knocked the back of his head and then fell to the ground, rolling in its loose leaves. He spun around to see if the thrower would admit their crimes. Of course they wouldn’t, but another spoke up.

  “Reaper!” The sitter, a dry-looking, dark green merfolk, called to him. Tyril wanted to be proud of his new title, but it was hard when they weaved such an insult out of it.

  “I’m looking for someone,” Tyril stopped himself from kneeling in the dirt as he half-begged. “Will you help me find Millik–?”

  An eruption of boos from all around silenced whatever Tyril could say next. They calmed down quickly, but the tension was still palpable. The same merfolk from before pointed further down the street.

  “At the end,” they said plainly. “You’ll see him.”

  “Thank you,” Tyril nodded as politely as he could before taking off down the street.

  “The traitor was dealt with swiftly,” Ameri reported to Sor. Though still a servant, she thought that her dialogue with her God was always easily casual, more so than she deserved. Sor was typically strict with her people, but of course the God of War and Leadership would train her soldiers diligently. She may speak casually with her, but Ameri constantly reminded herself of her place. If she lost Sor’s favor, she wouldn’t be able to enjoy herself in such bloodthirsty ways anymore. Maybe that was what Sor enjoyed about her. From years as her reaper, Ameri was beginning to think that the two of them had more in common than Sor would ever let on.

  “Good job, Ameri,” the mountainous, red-cloaked God said to her, audibly smiling. “I trust you didn’t toy with them for too long?”

  “Unfortunately,” she replied, rolling her eyes, “It was important to stop him fast, so the fight went quickly. I wish I could have had more time to dance, but the few moments I got were exhilarating, as fleeting as they were.” Honesty between a reaper and her God was a must for this relationship to last, not that she could stop her smile as she pictured the blood gushing around her axe.

  “I’m glad.” Sor thought for a moment. “I apologize there wasn’t enough time to fully explain the situation beforehand.”

  “No worries,” Ameri said, “You know I don’t really care for those kinds of details, anyways.”

  “No,” Sor said pensively, “This is important for you to understand.”

  Ameri looked up with wonder. She couldn’t help but smile as Sor called her important.

  “War is brewing between me and Vot.” Her words were delicate, deliberate, but Ameri had been her reaper for a long time, and she could tell the excitement in Sor’s tone. “I’m worried that she will make the first strike, which is why we are preparing weapons now.”

  “That was the transgressor’s message.” Ameri knew that part.

  “Yes. He was going to report our preparations to Vot and her people directly. Of course, if that happened, war would come so much sooner.” Sor trailed off, dreaming of such a possibility.

  “And that would be bad?” Ameri prompted her to continue.

  “Yes,” Sor snapped back to attention. “Though exciting, we would of course be vastly outnumbered.”

  Ameri also let herself daydream about cutting through hordes of enemy warriors. Her axe could cut through most heavily-armoured soldiers, and her gift of Sor’s power alongside her own magic could surely eliminate plenty more. Those were the kind of battles Ameri wished she could partake in more, but peace is still always preferred, as boring as it was. Not that an army of skeletons would feel the same to cut through.

  “I get it,” Ameri said, “I’ll do everything to make sure things go smoothly.”

  “I appreciate it,” Sor said, “as always.”

  Ameri turned to go, but Sor stopped her with one final thing to say.

  “Also,” the God’s words had shifted to something more disdainful, “We’ve come up with something new we were wanting to try. Go to the Lavarus estate at noon tomorrow. I trust you’ll find your way.”

  “Millik!” the fresh reaper called out to his would-be mentor.

  Millik turned around to the tall, muscular man bounding toward him. He had the power of a God, yet he acted with such childishness.

  “I’ll leave you to your trouble,” Olgernoth said, having stood with Millik on the small pier for some time now. The old man turned away and took his slow strides down the dock, although his face was focused on the new reaper. Millik swore he could hear the old man’s thoughts chuckling in the wind, as if he was projecting them outward. No doubt he would eavesdrop nearby, on both their words and their thoughts, not that it mattered to Millik.

  “I told you to learn by yourself,” Millik said, already deducing what the new reaper wanted with him.

  “That’s not it–” Tyril started.

  “Go home,” Millik said. “You don’t need me, so get lost.”

  “No,” Tyril said, “I can’t give you an option, here.”

  Tyril held out his hand and let Pok’s power flow through him, just as Millik had done thousands of times before, but he had never expected it to be used against him. A small orb of water floated in the air above his hand. Though it looked rather pitiful, and he hadn’t even learned to shape it properly yet, Millik knew that there was still enough power in that ball to level the entire ridgeside. Even if it was just a naive threat, Millik found his hand shaking just slightly. It was a new feeling to be trapped even though he was surrounded by water.

  “What do you need from me?” Millik submitted willingly.

  “You need to come with me,” Tyril said. “There’s an event tomorrow, and Pok asked me to bring you.”

  “He did?” The smile that crawled across Millik’s face was more prominent than he expected. As a reaper, he had learned to quell such emotions, but maybe, just maybe, Pok wasn’t done with him after all.

  “Yes,” Tyril nodded. “He said you could help with my introduction.”

  “What exactly is this ‘event’?” Millik also couldn’t help his skepticism.

  “All of the reapers are gathering to talk about peace relations.”

  Olgernoth hopped into Millik’s mind, and they had the same thought: “Who better to talk about peace than a bunch of killers?”

  To Be Continued…