Twilight of the Gods
Chapter 2: Someone is Bad at Chess

Ezra was a careful person. As one of the seven Elysians that kept the balance of the universe in check, he had to be. At least, that was what he told himself whenever he meddled in mortal lives.

He stares intently at his chessboard, eyes fixed upon his white knight piece.

Once upon a time, the Boards were a key asset to the war the Elysians had waged with the Gods. Anhel and Odi were a mighty force to be reckoned with back then, enormous titans who shaped the world. And the Elysians, although powerful now, were just weary refugees fleeing their dead homeland of Elysia when the fighting first started.

If it weren’t for the Boards, they wouldn’t have turned the tides of the war. None of the Elysians knew where the game pieces or the set had come from. It had come in a gray, unassuming duffel bag at their doors. The only indication of who the sender was, came in the form of a small slip of paper that merely read the name “Nyx.”

Ezra suspected whoever that person was, they would come to collect their debt soon for helping them win the war. But in the meantime, the Elysians used the Boards to shape the world into their image.

For Ezra, this meant granting certain mortals special abilities and having them do his bidding. He made his name known in Myrania and Ylivia as the “Charitable One,” a deity who would replace the fallen Anhel and Odi and give man the gift of magic.

He gained several worshippers in no time and his fellow Elysians followed suit. Anhel and Odi, although not forgotten, would no longer be revered. Their stories would be old wives’ tales and they would be relegated to the ruins of the past.

Using the Boards, the Elysians also created a new home, Otherworld, to replace their memories of Elysia. There they, and worthy worshippers, reside, with all of the luxuries under the two suns. It was there that the Elysians finally regained control.

But Ezra was feeling quite the opposite of “in control” as he continued to stare at his Board. He had moved his knight a day ago to capture a pawn, but the piece hadn’t budged since then. He shifts his focus to the pawn piece. There was something strange about the squat, black game piece. It phased in and out of the board as if it wasn’t really there. He picks up his knight, tapping the pawn.

The game piece changes, growing taller and gaining ridges. He nearly drops his knight piece on the floor, his hands shaking. He had foolishly sent his knight against a queen piece. Yet, his knight was still intact, the piece warm between his fingers.

He gets up from his seat, still uncertain if he had made the right play. He had a sinking feeling that the girl was more dangerous than he feared.

Ezra picks up a puppet, ignoring the sweat on his hands. The small figurine vaguely resembles him, with blue buttons sewn in for its eyes and light brown yarn for its hair. The puppet was his way into the Mortal Realm, a loophole in the restrictions that bound him to Otherworld. His fingers glow white as he pulls the strings of the puppet and he closes his eyes, instantly transporting himself into a human body.

He takes a deep breath, not quite used to the dizziness that the spell caused. He rarely left the comforts of Otherworld unless he had urgent business. Once the spinning sensation stopped, he opened his eyes to find himself sitting before a roaring fireplace clothed in the finest silk pajamas money could buy. In the Mortal Realm, he was a wealthy Ylivian fur trader living in a secluded mansion on the snowy mountainside. It kept him away from the prying eyes of the other Elysians and aroused little suspicion from the few mortals that lived in the village nearby. Besides, anyone who was curious could always be bought off with coin.

He walks out of the room, stumbling. He wasn’t used to the weak limbs of this vessel, although in all fairness it was his fault. He had left this body dormant for months, neglecting to care for it.

A maid sweeping the floors notices him, her eyes widening. He had been asleep for so long that she assumed he was dead. But she knew better than to ask him any questions. She wasn’t going to find a master that paid her more than him, at least not in these outskirts. Hell, she was certain that her master possessed more gold than the king, although she could never seem to find his stash no matter how long he went away.

“Master Ezra,” she said. “I see you’ve awakened. Care to have any supper?”

“I’m fine,” he said. He was rarely hungry.

“Well,” she said, “during your slumber, a man came to visit you. He’s been standing outside your door for three days.”

“He must be freezing,” Ezra said, watching the snow accumulate outside the window. “Why didn’t you let him in?”

The maid resists the urge to roll her eyes. “You said not to let anyone in unless we inform you of their presence. I could hardly do that since you were asleep.”

“You’ve informed me now. You may let the man in,” he said.

“He’s got a sword and the scariest eyes I’ve ever seen. Are you sure about that?”

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“I’m sure,” he replied. “That scary man is a friend of mine.”

He follows her to the front door, his bare feet padding on the hardwood floor. She sets her broom to the side, dusting her hands on her apron before unlocking the door. The cold wind rushes in, bringing bits of ice and a draft. The maid shivers, staring at the man that towered before them. Somehow his eyes were colder than the winter outside.

“Gabriel,” Ezra said, greeting the imposing warrior. “I’m sorry that Maude had you stand out here for so long. Please, do come in.” He ushers the man inside, closing the door behind them. “Maude, could you please prepare a hot stew for him? He looks like he hasn’t eaten in days.”

The maid turned on her heel, glad to escape the man’s cold eyes. Ezra walks him to the living room, trying to get him before a fire. Gabriel’s cheeks were hollow as if he hadn’t stood out there for three days but three weeks, starving in the snow. Ice coated his lashes and Ezra swore he saw an icicle hanging from his nose.

“Did you find the dark mage?” Now that the two men had privacy to themselves, Ezra felt comfortable confronting Gabriel about his mission.

The warrior faced him, saying nothing. That’s when Ezra noticed something strange about him. He had initially dismissed Maude’s complaints about Gabriel’s eyes, accustomed to the intimidating presence of the soldier. But as he inspected his face, he noticed that his eyes were hollow, almost lifeless.

“Gabriel?”

The tall, hulking soldier finally acknowledges Ezra’s presence, opening his mouth. But he could’ve never predicted the next words he uttered.

“Help me,” Gabriel said, his voice wavering. A tear slips down his face.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

An awful noise came from his mouth as if he was choking on something. A black tendril snakes out of his throat. Ezra steps back, only able to watch in horror as the parasite devoured Gabriel from the inside out, splitting him into fleshy chunks. The monster’s dark tentacles wrap around the warrior’s face, pushing his eyeballs out whilst sucking up his blood.

Shoving his disgust to the back of his head, Ezra chants a spell to ward off the creature. His fingers glow white, summoning magic that ate at the monster. The parasite’s flesh sizzled, causing it to let out a horrible scream. He ignores the sound, chanting until the monster turns to ashes. He then approaches what remained of Gabriel’s body and picks up a severed arm.

Judging by how dark the warrior’s blood was, the parasite had been living inside him for some time. Ezra was surprised Gabriel had the strength to make it to Ylivia. The monster should have liquidated his bones and turned his insides into mush by now. It would’ve been a slow, painful end, nothing like the violence Ezra just witnessed.

No, having Gabriel die in front of him was a deliberate act. The girl wanted to send a message to him, to tell him that she was a force to be reckoned with.

He places the dead man’s arm back on the floor among the blood and guts of his other body parts, sighing while doing so. Ezra had underestimated her, something he paid the price for. He had assumed that Anhel, being the ancient God that he was, would be weak. He didn’t think she would be such an effective conduit for his powers, besting a man as if she were a well-trained warrior herself.

Maude returns to the living room with a steaming bowl of broth in her hands. She nearly spills it, staring at the dead body on the floor with her mouth agape.

“What happened to your friend?”

“He exploded,” Ezra said matter-of-factly.

“Are you expecting me to clean that up?”

He narrows his eyes at her. “What else am I paying you for?”

* * * A few days ago, back in Myrania * * *

The Rogue watches the Hound run away, his muscles twitching from the parasite she placed inside of him. She wipes the brackish liquid from her lips, spitting on the cobblestone.

How did we do that? By “that,” she was referring to the parasite she vomited from her guts. She felt violated creating that monster, as if any moment the parasite would return to her body and consume her.

I’m a primordial God, Anhel said. Creating things is my specialty. I was there at the beginning of time before you mortals littered the ground. I understand the fabric of the universe better than most deities.

No need to brag, she said. I’m just glad he finally went away. Still, she couldn’t help but feel bad. They had told the Hound there would be a cure for the parasite knowing full well that the creature she pulled from her body hadn’t walked the earth in a few hundred years.

He deserved it, Anhel said. If we let him have his way, we’d be in the clutches of the Elysians.

She shakes her head. Weren’t they the ones that kicked us out of Otherworld? You’d think they’d leave us alone.

Those bastards want to control everything. Leaving things alone isn’t how they act, he said, disapproval clear in his voice. They probably won’t just send one warrior next time. We need to prepare for armies.

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. All this ‘Elysians’ business gave her a headache. She needed to go home.

“Uriel,” she whispered into the night. “I summon you.”

A shower of gold rains on her, glittering in the lamplight. Uriel descends from the sky, his gold wings gleaming. The moment his feet touch the ground he bows before her, taking her hands to press a chaste kiss on her palms.

“At your service,” he said, rising from the cobblestone. “How may I assist you?”

“I want to go home,” she said. “Will you fly me?”

He leans into her, inspecting her face. “You did it,” he said, his voice incredulous. “You finally got drunk.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You reek of alcohol,” he said. “And your eyes are amber. I never thought I’d see a drunk God again in my lifetime.”

She quickly checks her reflection in the store mirror. He was right. Her eyes were emitting a warm, topaz light, making her feel like some nocturnal animal living in the woods.

We should raise hell, Anhel suggested. Kill a few more of the King’s Hounds. Find more of that mage’s brew. Set a dragon loose on the town.

She yawns, her jaws stretching her face. The human body has limits. We can’t push it too much or it’ll break.

Nonsense! You have my magic. Your body will never break, he said.

“Are you talking to Anhel again? Tell him I say hello. In the meantime, let’s get you home,” the angel said, picking her up.

Tell him to put us down, the God said. There’s still so much to do.

“Let’s go,” she said. Instantly, Uriel launches them into the night sky, his wings catching the wind. She didn’t know if it was the mages brew or the fact that she sent a man to his death that made the sky especially beautiful tonight. The stars were brighter than usual as if someone poked larger holes in the fabric of the sky. The moon was luminous like a glowing pearl stitched among the stars.

She presses her ear to Uriel’s chest, soothed by the rhythmic ticking of his mechanical heart. For someone who was more metal than flesh, she found him to be the most comforting person she had ever met in her second life.

Don’t be fooled. His kind was designed to be that way. All angels were made to be pleasing to the Gods they served, Anhel said.

But don’t they have free will? She refused to believe that Uriel was kind to her because he was a zombie.

And that’s precisely why you should be careful. He has a mind of his own, but that doesn’t mean he has your best interests at heart. I suspect he serves us for a reason so we may just be a means to an end.

She frowns. You don’t have to be so cynical. Why can’t I have a friend?

The God chuckles. I’ve been around for thousands of years, dear girl. This is just how everyone works, whether they be mortal like your bartender or celestial like the angel holding us.

Uriel gently sets her on the ground. The Rogue blinks rapidly. She had been so caught up in her conversation with Anhel that she didn’t notice that the angel had stopped flying. He walks forward, holding open the door for her.

“Welcome home, Daeva,” he said. “Let’s get you ready for bed.” He beams, giving her a smile that lit up the night. She walks into the building, finding it hard to believe that the angel would want to hurt her.

Daeva saunters past the statues and tall columns, making her way up the wide steps to her room. Her current home was an abandoned temple on the outskirts of the kingdom that was built in worship of Anhel a hundred years ago. She had heard plenty from the God about the numerous offerings he had received, the lambs slaughtered in his name. But all those people who had once prayed to him were now dead, slaughtered by armies of more powerful kingdoms. With those new invaders came new idols to worship, leaving Anhel to rot in obscurity.

She sits before a mirror, removing a red mask that covers the right side of her face. To anyone who asked why she wore it, she had a plethora of excuses, her favorite being that she had a hideous burn from falling into a pit of fire. But truthfully, her mask hid something more harmless, not that it was anyone’s business why she wore the thing. Her fingers trace the patch of pale skin on the right side of her face, displeased with how it clashed with the brown of the rest of her face. She liked to joke that she looked like someone spilled milk on her and never bothered to wipe up the mess. But she had stopped saying that when she realized that the pale splotches on her skin, which were found in all sorts of places on her body, wouldn’t go away.

“Is there something wrong with me?” She remembers asking the question to Uriel, afraid that she had caught some disease on the first day of her new life.

“No,” he had reassured her. “You just have vitiligo. It’s perfectly natural.”

Well, if it was so normal, then why did everyone stare at her like she was some strange alien? She recalled the way people’s eyes seemed to follow her wherever she went, whether she was in the market or searching for a job in those early days. At first, she tried to ignore their stares, going about her business like any ordinary Myranian. But then a child who was a little too honest for his own good had to open his mouth.

“Mommy,” he had said, tugging on the skirt of the woman in the stall next to her. “What’s that thing on that lady’s face?”

The woman had given Daeva an apologetic look. “Sweetie, that’s just her skin.”

“She looks just like our dog. Henry’s got the same spots,” the boy said.

That remark had made Daeva’s cheeks burn. Before the woman could say anything to her, she had walked to another stall. She could live without tomatoes for a day.

She shakes the embarrassing memory away. That moment had contributed to her eventually donning the mask, but what really made her keep it on her face was a deadly encounter.

Uriel pulls her curls from her face, parting her hair into two neat sections. He made it a ritual to braid her hair every night before bed, spraying her hair with water before getting to work. As he was braiding the left side of her head, a thought occurred to Daeva about what Anhel said about the angels. If they were made to serve Gods, then where were the rest of them? Her presence in Myranian should’ve summoned all of them to her. She voices these thoughts to the mechanical angel.

His hands freeze for a fraction of second, mid-braid.

“So Anhel hasn’t told you,” he said, continuing to braid her hair.

“Told me what?”

“Innocent child,” he said. “There are no more angels. I’m the only one left.”

They sat in silence as she absorbed the information. She was afraid to ask what had happened to the others.

They burned, Anhel said. Slaughtered and turned to ashes. I’m surprised Uriel made it out of that alive. He certainly wouldn’t be moving without those mechanical parts.

But why? Who could do such a thing?

Is there ever a good reason for that kind of violence?

Uriel secures her braids, satisfied with his work. He leaves her room, gold wings trailing behind him.

She lies on her bed, a makeshift mattress made of stolen blankets layered on top of each other. She tries to imagine what it must have been like for Uriel, the pain. How long did he have to suffer as he did? The worst part had to be the loneliness. At least he had been there for her.

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