Flight of Souls

Chapter 1

I stifled a sigh of relief when the sacred fire flickered to life.

The flames blossomed upward, dancing beneath my fingertips, averting the ill omen of a faltering spark.

I could afford no hesitation to admire the victory.

I masked my fear with practiced composure as I placed the bowl of fire onto its stand and strode across the marble floor toward the dying man.

Damarion’s breaths were slight, his eyes closed, his elderly countenance pale.

The cup of sleep I’d administered moments ago had already taken hold.

The family members at his bedside, five in total, gathered with grim understanding of what was soon to come.

They waited in silence, with one adult son holding each of his hands, flanked by three younger women.

Now that the flame was lit, all of their eyes were on me. Expectant.

My heartbeat quickened. I narrowed my concentration and took another step forward, black ceremonial linen swishing around my ankles. Ornamental jewels glittered on my wrists and fingers as I extended my hands over Damarion’s body.

“Honored of Halieis,” I called to the moribund elder, “we recognize your devotion in the names of our gods. On this day, your people extend to you our most fervent hope. We commend you to Elysium, the halls of the blessed.”

At my words, the fire crackled eerily. I deliberately met each of the mourners’ eyes in turn, attempting to convey unwavering confidence. “His soul goes in the hands of the gods,” I told them. “Leave him in my care.”

Damarion’s family yielded to my authority.

I watched, standing tall, as they spent their final moments at his side.

With teary faces they imparted whispered words, squeezing his motionless hands.

They held fast to each other as they broke away from him, and with solemn nods to me, they retreated through the chamber’s arched doorway.

I remained. Alone with the dying in the spacious stone hall, the weight of the night ahead brought an uncomfortable tightness to my chest. Despite the welcome solitude, this place remained holy, and my duties here were far from complete. With a measured breath I paced toward the ritual supplies.

I retrieved the incense and set it alight using the sacred flame, followed by five pairs of candles, which I placed into their designated holders.

I arranged myself with poise at the foot of Damarion’s bed, standing against the backdrop of grim illumination.

There, I gave voice to the prayers of my city.

My incantations echoed softly in the chamber, calling for his safe delivery to the favored lands.

The words came to me from memory, every curated recitation more lengthy than the last.

Only after repeating each prayer several times did I allow myself a reprieve.

The man must be blessed enough by now, I thought.

Surely the gods must be appeased. After all, why wouldn't they hear our messages on the first try? But Damarion’s heart beat on, and though every breath was shallow, he did still breathe.

My burden would remain until his life was extinguished alongside the flame.

The sun sank below the horizon and its colors faded from the sky.

I moved to sit beneath an open window, wrapping a shawl around my shoulders in an act of minuscule defiance to my strict ceremonial garb.

The crisp night air blew gently through my hair, and I settled against the windowsill, waiting, gazing out across the temple grounds below.

A disturbance startled me to attention. The room’s light shuddered and dimmed, and from behind me came the soft sound of wings in the air—a single beat.

A draft spread outward from the center of the hall, blowing past my ankles with a faint whoosh.

I turned abruptly and barely choked back the shriek that threatened to escape my lips.

The ritual flame had been snuffed out. In the deepening shadows, a menacing figure loomed over Damarion’s bedside: a man, framed by magnificent feathered wings.

Muted candlelight caressed the contours of his sleek black feathers, accentuating countless rows which arched upward from his back and then folded over, stretching nearly to the floor.

The man’s clothing, linen with details lost to the shadows, was black to match.

In contrast, his skin was fair, and his long hair, which fell over his shoulders in a glossy river, was a stunning light blond.

But it was his face, even more so than those clearly sacred wings, that held my eye and froze me to the spot.

This man—this being—was impossibly, terrifyingly beautiful.

His sharp jawline, striking cheekbones, and piercing eyes were so captivating as to force a reckoning with the divine—one that somehow inspired dread instead of desire.

Surely any person could be made to wither under the intensity of his gaze.

Luckily, at the moment, it was fixed upon Damarion.

A smile curved upon the winged man’s lips as he leaned in and murmured something toward the body of the old man—a body which I now realized had released its last breath.

The elder at last lay stony and still beneath the sheets.

This seemed of no consequence to his otherworldly visitor, who let out a laugh in a deep but melodious tone and whispered once more in the direction of the deceased.

A dim violet light blinked into appearance above the corpse, then flitted between the fingers of the intruder’s outstretched hand. In the space of a heartbeat, it flashed up his arm and disappeared into the blackness of his wings.

My stomach sank as understanding dropped into my mind.

A sense of foreboding crept over my skin, upending the hairs at the back of my neck and covering my arms with goosebumps.

The breath I’d been holding tumbled from my mouth, stirring the air with the tiniest hiss. And the god turned to look at me.

My heart pounded furiously in my chest as his gaze pierced through my body. Time seemed to slow, and I thought perhaps I would split in half or crumble to ash. But he simply tilted his head to the side and raised a brow. “It is not your time.”

I drew a shaky breath. “…time?” I repeated weakly.

Before I could blink, he vanished from Damarion’s bedside and reappeared in front of me. “Stand,” he commanded. His soft, deep voice carried the authority of finality.

My mouth went dry. I obeyed, rising on unsteady legs and stepping forward. My shawl slipped from my shoulders and cascaded to the floor behind me.

The god studied me silently, a frown painting the corners of his lips.

His brow furrowed, and he vanished again, reappearing at my left side, and then at my right.

He flitted around me faster than my eyes could follow, a blur of black feathers and pale skin.

In another instant he was standing before me, lifting my hand and examining my fingers as if I had suddenly sprouted a few more.

“I do have all five,” I blurted out helpfully, my hand trembling in his.

At that, he let me go and flashed me the slightest smile. “Usually they cannot see me.” His wings twitched as if in irritation.

“They?” I asked.

“Mortals.” He circled me in a slow walk, causing my insides to perform several flips. “At least, they do not perceive me unless I desire it,” he continued. “Until their time comes.” With a flicker he appeared in front of me again. “But you…what are you, exactly?”

“Hey, I’m a person!” I said indignantly. “And an oracle! A seer! I see things. I see you.”

He gave a little snort and continued to study me as if this information impacted nothing at all. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and tipped my chin, angling my face into the moonlight. I looked into his eyes, terrified but exhilarated. They were crystal blue.

“Hmm,” he murmured. There was a pause. The breeze whistled by outside. One of the candles faltered and blew out. Then he let me go and moved away, toward the open window.

“Wait!” I yelled before my mind had time to process. “You don’t…have to…” My mouth kept moving, but the words didn’t come.

The god froze in his tracks. His wings flared outward as he turned back to me, and his inscrutable expression transformed into an unsettling grin. With a simple gesture he pulled from thin air an elegant, gleaming, horrifying weapon: a long silver scythe.

“Do not fret. I will be back for you.”

With a flick of his wings, he vanished, leaving me alone with my thundering heartbeat and the chilling echo of his laughter.

I stood, trembling, beside the stiffening corpse of my elder.

Only when time dragged uneventfully onward did I allow myself to proceed.

Detached from what was once my reality, I blew out the remaining candles and retrieved the ritual instruments as if I were a spirit removed from my body.

I reported Damarion’s passing in short, monotone words.

I returned the ceremonial jewelry to the temple’s inner sanctum and dressed silently for bed.

Of course, I hardly slept that night. In disbelief I questioned myself—my sanity, my memory, even my sight—but the hours of self-torture could not erase what I knew to be true.

No amount of restless praying could deny my certainty: in the dark of the night I had come face to face with the god who was Death himself. The reaper of souls. Thanatos.

* * *

When I tumbled from bed the following morning, my sisters could tell that something was amiss.

My agitation would have been obvious even if they weren’t talented seers, but we had little opportunity for discussion until after our morning rounds were finished.

When lunchtime came, Alex finally cornered me in our room.

“Alright, what’s the matter?” She plopped down onto our lounge, biting into an apple. Midday light flooded through the windows around us, betraying the funny expression that had probably formed on my face.