Twilight of the Gods
Chapter 1: Someone Interrupts a Good Drink

She slammed her glass on the table, spilling puddles of moonshine. She wasn’t used to the extra kick that one got from drinking bootleg liquor, but what else could she expect from the speakeasy? Aptly named the Pig’s Ale for its front as a butcher’s shop, Myranians gathered here to drink as much as they could as a collective “fuck you” to the Prohibition the king enacted. The fat monarch had claimed that he was trying to raise the moral quality of the nation, but most of the citizens knew he didn’t have their best interests at heart. Rumor had it that it was his concubine, a sly whore by the name of Rosemary, who had convinced him to pass the act, although the truth behind it was much more complicated. Not that the Myranians put much stock in what the truth was, given their reputation as storytellers. The best bards came from Myrania, after all.

“Easy there,” Martha said, pouring her another glass of moonshine. “There’s a reason why I call this concoction ‘Wit’s End.’ It ain’t for the faint of heart.”

“I can handle myself,” she said. To prove it, she downed the whole glass in front of the bartender, not breaking eye contact with her for a single moment. Her eyes watered a bit, but she didn’t dare to put the glass back on the counter until she finished, even though it felt like she was drinking lava from the volcanoes of the Myranian mountain range. She slams the glass down again, wincing but quickly contorting her face into a smile at the satisfying clink of glass against the wood.

“If you say so,” Martha said, resigned. “Just be careful, alright? I don’t want any of these men taking advantage of you when you step foot out of my bar.”

“You’re a big ’ol softie, aren’t you?” A smirk came to her lips, teasing the bartender. Martha’s face took on its habitual scowl as she narrowed her eyes.

“I’m serious,” Martha said, wiping the spilled alcohol off the counter. “I’ve nearly been caught by the guards several times for beating the crap out of some of these men.”

“If you want me to drink something lighter, I’ll oblige,” she said, holding her glass out to Martha.

“I’m saying if you can’t handle your alcohol, then it’s better that you don’t drink at all. I don’t want the King’s Hounds turning up at my door and busting my joint. I’m making too much coin from this.”

“I’ll take it easy,” she promised. She drops a few gold coins on the table. “Just one more glass.”

Martha rolled her eyes. “No more Wit’s End for you, young lady. I’ll give you something that tastes better.”

She shrugged, letting Martha pry the glass from her hands. She wasn’t terribly picky about the alcohol she drank. Truthfully, she couldn’t get drunk, not even if she had a hundred glasses of that moonshine. It was one of the perks of her new immortality.

The bartender returned with a strange pink liquid in the glass. Martha places it before her, giving her an expectant look.

Her eyes darted between the glass and the bartender. “You’re joking, right? A cocktail?”

“You haven’t even tried it,” Martha said, crossing her thick arms.

“This is a fruit punch,” she said, sounding hurt. She had expected whiskey or hell, even rum. But a cocktail? She was offended.

“Try it,” the bartender insisted. “I wouldn’t put fruit punch in front of a loyal customer.”

“Fine,” she huffed. She brings the edge of the glass to her lips, taking a small sip. “Mhm,” she said, pleasantly surprised. The drink was a mix of fruit flavors. In one sip, she tasted strawberries and in the other, she tasted mango. Best of all, the cocktail was more alcoholic than she anticipated.

“What did I tell you? It’s not a fruit punch,” Martha said, pleased by her reaction.

“Whatever it is, it’s amazing,” she replied. She was even starting to feel pleasantly dizzy, an effect she never experienced from a mortal drink.

“I bartered with a mage for it,” the bartender said, puffing out her chest with pride. “Gave him a deal on dragon’s meat in exchange for this bubbly thing.”

That explained the drink’s potency. While it would take endless bottles of beer to get a God drunk, the right mage’s brew usually did the trick, usually because mages stole from Gods.

Speaking of Gods, she could feel the God inside her nod his head in approval to the new drink. It had been a while since either of them got properly drunk and tonight was the closest either of them got to being intoxicated.

More, he whispered, coaxing her to ask the bartender for another drink.

Anhel, she said, invoking his name. I already told her that this would be my last drink.

We share this body. What’s the harm in drinking some more?

She shook her head. If they overstepped their boundaries, there would be no other place for them to drink, at least no other place that stayed open long enough. The King’s Hounds were excellent at finding speakeasies to shut down.

I’ll protect you, he promised. Still, she refused. She was well aware of how insatiable he was and how much he hated being bound to her form. As one of the primordial twins of chaos, Anhel wasn’t accustomed to the rules of a corporeal body. If she had surrendered complete control to him, both of them would lose their privilege to this form because of the sheer havoc he would wreak.

What about half a glass? She contemplated his new offer, unsurprised he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

We haven’t even finished this one, she countered.

Before Anhel could protest, a man wearing a brown cloak took a seat next to her, his hood obscuring his face. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have noticed him, but something about the man was off. His energy differed from the other customers at the speakeasy; his body was tense, a stark contrast to the relaxed atmosphere. Not to mention that he gave off a strange smell, a mixture of herbs rather than the dirt and sweat of the rest of the customers, who were mainly commoners. Nevertheless, that didn’t stop him from trying to blend in with everyone else at the bar.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he said in a gruff voice, pointing to her glass.

“Our last bottle of it is empty,” Martha lied. Even the bartender could sense something was different with the new stranger.

“A cold beer then,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”

Martha grabs a mug, pulling down the lever from the keg. Only a thin stream of beer comes out. Muttering curses under her breath, the bartender goes to the back to replace the keg.

She takes another sip of her mage cocktail, savoring its flavors. The mysterious man turned his attention towards her.

“Come here often?”

She ignores him, pretending to not have heard him. She was in no mood for small talk, especially with someone who unsettled her. His face was still hidden and the smell of the herbs were now replaced by the suffocating smoke of incense.

“I know you can hear me,” he said. “I’m not trying to harass you. I just thought you looked lonely and wanted some company.”

“I’m good, thank you,” she said. “I was actually just heading out.” She downs the mage cocktail and gets up from her seat, ready to make a beeline for the exit of the speakeasy. He grabs her shoulder, stopping her. She flinches, stepping away from him. Smoke rose from her flesh. She covers her skin, hissing in pain. The man opens his palm, revealing five flat silver discs attached to his palms. So the mystery man wielded Conductors. That meant he used magic. How had she not noticed the flash of metal on his hands before?

“I’m not done talking to you,” he said, getting up from his seat. His hood falls back from his head, revealing a shaved cut and a pair of eyes so pale she would’ve thought the man was blind if it weren’t for his intense gaze. She spies the star tattoo on his left cheek and swore softly.

Light magic. Just our luck, she thought.

Nothing we can’t handle, Anhel said.

This is the only place we can get booze, she said. I don’t want to cause any trouble.

She spies the sword at his hip, her eyes widening when she sees the decorative two-faced crest. The good news was that the man wasn’t one of the King’s Hounds. Pig’s Ale would live to see another day. The bad news? The two-faced crest belonged to the kingdom of Ylivia, one of Myrania’s rivals.

“What’s your business?” She keeps a bit of distance between them, wary of the man.

“Like I said, I wanted to keep you company.”

“You can get a whore for that,” she sneered. “That’s no reason for not letting me leave.”

“The thing is, I don’t want the company of a whore,” he drawled. “You’re a very difficult person to track down, Rogue of the Night.”

At the sound of her name, the people of the speakeasy fell silent. She gulps, her hands growing sweaty inside her gloves. The Myranian King had placed a large bounty on her head for all the mischief she caused, including but not limited to the mass murder of guards, stealing from noblemen, sneaking a wild bear into the palace, snatching the crown jewels, and more thievery. All that endless chaos just to keep the God inside her satisfied. And best of all? She did it while pretending to be a man. It only took a few carefully placed rumors to convince the public she had a different gender.

“Everyone knows that the Rogue is a man,” she said, speaking loud enough for onlookers to hear. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

“Then why do you smell like him? You reek of the same chaos,” he said, taking a deep whiff of the air. He smiles, showing off his sharp canines. She had been wrong about him. He was one of the King’s Hounds and yet he carried the sword of a rival monarch. But the customers weren’t bothered by that small detail. All they needed to know was that he was a Hound to rush out of the speakeasy, leaving the two of them alone.

“Not everyone who smells like dark magic is the Rogue,” she said. “For a Hound, your nose doesn’t seem to work so well.”

“My nose works perfectly fine,” he barked. “I’ve fought the Rogue. His scent is committed to my memory and I’m certain that you smell just like him. So, either you are the Rogue or you spend a lot of time in his bed.”

She vaguely recalls fighting a Hound about his size, but all of the king’s guards looked the same to her. Not that his words changed anything. She holds her ground, keeping her eyes on his.

“You’ve got the wrong person,” she said, putting steel behind her voice. “I’m not the Rogue.”

He glares at her. “Then what are you, his soulmate? I’m never wrong about these things.”

At the sound of the word “soulmate,” she feels a twinge in her chest as if a single note of sorrow strummed from a bard’s lute passed through her body. From Myrania to Ylivia, everyone on the continent had a soulmate, born with a special mark that was identical to only one other person although there were cases where three people possessed identical marks. If she had a soulmate, he was long gone, buried in the ashes of her past life.

Lost in her thoughts, she doesn’t notice the man pull out his sword and thrust the tip of his blade towards her. She dodges it in the nick of time, aided by a warning from Anhel. Without sparing another breath, she yanks the blade from his hands. He tries to take his sword back, but she moves too quickly, evading his movements with ease.

Not bad for a drunk God, she thought. Realizing that he was tiring himself out, the Hound gives up.

“Please,” he said. “Give me my sword back.”

“Only if you answer two questions for me,” she said, inspecting the sword. “First, where did a Hound like you get such a fine piece of Ylivian steel?”

“Spoils of war. I took it from a nobleman that I slew at the borders,” he said. “Can I have it back now?”

The pungent smell of rotten eggs fills the air. The Hound was lying. She shakes her head, keeping her voice playful. “One more question. Who is your master?”

“The Myranian King,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing. “I’ve answered your questions. Hand my blade back to me.”

“You answered my questions dishonestly,” she said, adding a dangerous edge to her voice. “You’re hardly an honorable warrior that deserves his sword. I don’t like repeating myself. Who is your master and where did you get this blade?”

“I don’t have to put up with this,” he said, the Conductors on his palms crackling with magic. “Give me my sword back or suffer.”

Her eyes narrowed. Mortals acted so foolishly when they fought Gods. What was so difficult about answering a few questions? “Let me make this easier for you. Who told you where I was? At least be truthful about that.”

“I followed my nose, like any good Hound,” he said. The air was positively putrid now.

“Well my nose tells me that your lies stink,” she replied. “You’ve told me three rotten lies. You must not want your sword back.”

Enraged, the Hound charges at her, fists crackling with magic. Like before, she dodges his movements with ease, but this time he moves faster, invigorated by the magic that flowed through him. For once, she’s struggling to catch her breath. Her movements slow down, giving the Hound an opening.

He aims a punch at her abdomen, sending her flying across the speakeasy. She crashes into a stack of wooden chairs and lies on the ground twitching, the light magic stinging her body.

You’ve shown him too much mercy, Anhel said. Use our powers.

She staggers to her feet, dark veins prominent against her warm skin. The Hound picks up his sword, gripping it triumphantly.

“You got me,” she said, raising her arms. “I am the Rogue. You’ve bested me with your skill.”

He hesitates, caught off guard by her surrender. Then, he relaxes. After all, she was a defenseless girl with no weapons. “I won’t turn you into the King. My master wants to speak with you.”

“And who might that be?”

“I can’t say. He has many names and prefers to keep his identity a secret.”

“Is he human?”

He looks at her strangely. “No, he’s not.” He tilts his head. “What made you think to ask that?”

“Because he didn’t tell you what I was.” She faces him, watching his face crumple in horror as her eyes turned black, flooding the whites of her eyes with pure, animalistic chaos.

“Silly mongrel,” she said, Anhel’s voice overlapping with her own. “You bit off more than you could chew. Tell me the name of your master and I might just let you live.”

“You’re a demon,” he whispered. He holds his sword in front of him, placing a buffer between the two of them.

She grins, flashing her teeth which were now sharp as knives. “Demons are a mortal concept. I’ve been around longer than your ancestors, longer than humanity’s worst fears. Whoever your master is, he offends me by sending a dog to fetch me.”

The Hound shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t told to catch a demon or whatever it is you are. I was only supposed to capture a dark mage.” S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Who is your master, mongrel? Who is the bastard that ruined my night?”

“I swore not to say. I signed my soul over to him,” he said, placing a hand over his chest.

She scoffs in disbelief. His words weren’t going to be worth much once he was a corpse in the ground.

“Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll simply find out myself.”

Before he could protest, she jumped at him, pinning him to the floorboard. She holds him down with one hand, surprising herself with her strength while using her other hand to reach inside him. After a bit of digging around his chest, her fingers curled around something warm. His soul. She pulls it out, examining it. What she saw nearly made her shatter his essence to pieces.

Souls are fragile things. In her hands, his looked like a glowing glass orb, filled with light. But it was the inscription on the orb that made her blood boil. So the Hound had signed himself over to him. If she broke the warrior, he would know in an instant that she had uncovered one of his pawns.

She stares at the Hound’s body, a plan forming in her head. Anhel hummed his approval, adding his own flair to her diabolical arrangements. She would send her stalker a message by giving the Hound a fate worse than death.

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