Epilogue
CAIUS
The chamber reeked of rot, a noxious blend of herbs and blood left too long in the air.
Shadows clung to the carved stone walls, stirred only by the flutter of wings in the cages suspended overhead.
Caius ducked beneath one of them, nearly catching his head on rusted iron bars. A bat hissed angrily from within.
At the centre of the room, Sagar was hunched over the marble slab, hands working a pestle in steady circles. He ground leaves and powders into a slick, rank paste; each stroke sent up foul-smelling steam that curled through the air and clung to their throats.
“Velthur found her,” Caius announced.
Sagar didn’t look up. “Who?”
Caius clenched his jaw. The old fool was forever buried in his chamber, blind to anything else. “The Omega,” he snapped. “She’s being brought to me now.”
That made the priest pause. Slowly he turned, dark eyes gleaming in the gloom. “She is within your grasp?”
“Yes.”
A smile cracked across Sagar’s face, revealing teeth the colour of old parchment. The sight made Caius’ skin prickle. “Laran be praised. You must kill her. As soon as she arrives in Kisra, bring her here, and we will—”
“No.” The word landed like a hammer, reverberating through the foetid air between them.
Sagar’s brow knitted. “No?”
“She is not merely the Omega,” Caius said, voice rising with a feverish edge.
“She is also the Rebel Queen’s daughter.
This is perfect. I will organise a Triumph and parade her through the streets.
My temple might be unfinished, but the arena…
” His mouth curved into a grin. “The arena will be overflowing. The people will witness her and the new Western chief commander torn to pieces in Laran’s name.
We will hold the prayer there, before thousands. You will lead it.”
“The Senate—” Sagar began.
“Who cares about the Senate when I am about to become a literal god?!” Caius roared, words crashing through the chamber.
The bats above shrieked at the force of it, wings thrashing in their cages. His hands trembled, not with fear, but with the thrill racing through him.
Sagar—long accustomed to Caius’ tempers—merely dipped his head and returned to his mortar, grinding the leaves into pulp as though the outburst meant nothing. “But the Omega?” he asked coolly. “She will die?”
“She will die,” Caius confirmed.
The priest let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Caius. Keeping her alive—” The words strangled off. His body stiffened, hands spasming over the mortar. His eyes snapped wide, then flooded crimson, burning with a light that did not belong to him.
His voice dropped, ragged with awe. “Laran. He is here… He summons you.”
Caius’ pulse hammered. “Where?”
“Where you always find him.”
The crimson glow guttered out. Sagar sagged, shoulders shivering as though something vast had slipped free of him.
Caius hadn’t seen the god of war in weeks. Why had he come now? He turned for the door. “I should go.”
“Wait!” The chief priest’s command cracked through the chamber.
His hand hovered, then dipped into fresh blood smeared across the marble slab.
With slow strokes, he dragged a finger through the pool, tracing shapes only he seemed to recognise, gaze distant, rapt.
“The Fates have spoken,” he murmured. “So long as Laran walks beside us, you will prevail. But beware—the Achaean Twelve and Western gods lend the Omega strength already. One of ours may yet rise for her, too. You must not risk that. When she reaches Kisra, strike without delay.”
Caius curled his lip. He was tired of the priest’s riddles and omens.
A Rasennan god siding with the Omega, the Empire’s enemy, was unthinkable.
“No,” Caius said with finality. “I will have my Triumph. I will see the Rebel Queen’s daughter broken before the people, paraded in chains. And then, when Kisra roars my name, she will die, like all the others before her.”
The Empress’ chamber lay in stillness, thick with the weight of absent attendants.
No rustle of handmaidens’ skirts, no soft clatter of fans or pitchers, only the soft brush of silk curtains stirred by a summer breeze.
The Empress sat propped against her pillows, pale as porcelain, gaze fixed on the window where sunlight poured in unchallenged. A bead of sweat traced down her cheek.
The crushing weight on Caius’ mind and chest deepened with every step, Laran’s presence intensifying as he neared.
The god of war stood beside the Empress’ bed, a dark silhouette against the bright windows. He rarely visited during the day while the Empress was awake. Caius wasn’t sure if she could see him or not. Either way, she never seemed to acknowledge him.
When Laran turned at last, his gaze struck like fire, locking onto Caius and leaving no room for misstep. “Sourcing stone from my temples now, are you, Tarquinius?”
Caius froze, the hairs at his nape prickling. Before he could reply, Laran raised a hand; an invisible force tightened around Caius’ throat and hurled him against the wall with such suddenness that fresco fragments showered down. The room narrowed to the scrape of his ribs and thunder of his pulse.
“I should rip you to pieces for your insolence.” Laran’s voice was low and terrible.
Caius choked on a gasp, lips pulling into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “We both know that would be a waste of time. Besides”—he forced the words through clenched teeth—“you need me.”
Laran’s gaze narrowed to a blade’s edge. “Care to repeat that?”
Caius jerked his chin towards the Empress, pale and silent against the pillows. At once, the invisible grip loosened. Air seared back into his lungs, and he crumpled to his knees, coughing, clutching his bruised throat.
Good. He had the god’s attention.
A lesser man might have grovelled. Instead, Caius straightened, brushed the dust from his tebenna, and smoothed the folds with deliberate calm, reclaiming his dignity inch by inch.
His lips curled into a smile, thin and cruel.
“Did you know,” he rasped, “that Kisra houses the greatest library in the Empire? Sagar, your chief priest, is very proud of it. Shelves stacked with the scribblings of his ancestor, the great prophet Tarkis. Gibberish, mostly. Prophets—like the oracles of Achaea or Kemet—are always speaking riddles no one cares to understand.”
He let the pause hang, and the faintest flicker of impatience crossed Laran’s face. Then Caius pressed on. “But every so often, buried in the rambling, comes a truth. A fragment of our world laid bare. Or of the gods themselves.”
Laran’s arms folded across his chest, shadows clinging to him even in daylight. His silence weighed heavier than any roar.
Exactly where Caius wanted him.
“What are you getting at?” the god demanded at last.
Caius eased off the wall, forcing his steps into a measured prowl.
“One of Prophet Tarkis’ scrolls claimed that mortals could only be invited into the realms of the gods once.
If they refused the food, the drink, and escaped…
they could never be summoned back. Unless, of course, they became a god themselves. ”
He let his glance drift to the Empress, then paced a slow half-circle around the bed, always keeping Laran in view.
“I kept her hidden for years,” he murmured.
“And all this time I wondered why you, the god of war, did not simply whisk her away to be by your side. Instead, you come here time and time again and watch her from afar.”
The air grew taut, humming with restrained violence. Shadows thickened at the edges of the frescoed walls. Laran’s nostrils flared.
“But then I remembered Tarkis’ words, and it all made sense.” Caius let the corner of his mouth curl, savouring the moment. “You once invited Andrasta into your realm, and she refused you. That is why she remains here. That is why you ordered me to make her my Empress.”
For the first time, Laran’s composure cracked. His gaze sharpened, cold and cutting. “How did you—?”
“She talks,” Caius interrupted, his voice steady despite the lingering adrenaline.
“Rambles like those prophets of old with fleeting moments of clarity. ‘I should have accepted,’ she said one late afternoon. ‘I should have stayed and saved them.’ She was wrong, of course. The Western tribes can’t be saved, not anymore.
My legions will crush them. I will see to it. ”
Rather than flare into rage, as was often his nature, Laran only chuckled softly and moved with unhurried grace to the low table.
His shoulders were loose, posture effortless, as though Caius’ speech were no more than background noise.
He poured wine into a goblet, the liquid catching the light and glowing like molten blood.
When the god’s attention slid back to him, the smile on his face was all teeth and cold amusement. “She did not mean the tribes.”
Caius paused, heart thudding, mind racing for his next move. “Oh? Her daughters, then? That’s too bad—the Omega is in my grasp.”
“Then her sister will come for her,” Laran said, swirling his wine. “Or perhaps she will come for you, Tarquinius. She intends to kill you.”
Caius let out a brittle laugh that sounded too small in the high, frescoed room.
“She’s welcome to try. Last I heard, your Chosen One jumped off the cliffs of the Rodanos.
Her mind went mad when she broke free of your spell, and she killed herself.
She brought us a great victory, and the people will be celebrating for weeks, but it’s a shame she didn’t last as long as the others. ”
“She’s stronger than you think.” Laran downed the wine in two large gulps, then grimaced.
“If she survives, my legions will find her,” Caius said smoothly. “But in the meantime, we need more Gifted.”