Prince of Gods: A Wish Quartet Novella (Age of Magic: Wish Quartet), Page 2

  “Sorry, I’m not used to new demigods. It’s not too common one of us gets split or we make someone new.” Carver forced a laugh. “Anyway, why don’t you attempt to fashion yourself some clothing. Whatever you prefer.”

  Creation looked down at his nude form and then back to the other two. Life wore a floor-length dress under a long shawl, wrapped many times around her shoulders, covering her head, but not her face. Carver wore significantly less: a wrapped skirt that extended to his knees and a wide necklace of wooden tiles that rested over his shoulders and swooped across his chest.

  Holding his hand before him, Creation felt his own magic swell. It was part Life, part Carver, and part Light, the three morphing into something entirely new. With a wave of his arm, threads of magic wrapped themselves around his body. They clung to his form, like small tendrils of light, and wove to make a shimmering golden tunic, tightening into a belt at the waist, with a cape resting overtop.

  Life clapped her hands happily. “It suits you.”

  Creation didn’t know if she was speaking about the garb, or his magic, so he said a simple, “Thank you.”

  “Well, well, it’s time to be off with you, I believe.” Life ushered him out of the room and into another massive hall.

  Light was seated at the far end—nearly a world away from where they stood—on a throne awash with the sunbeams streaming through an open window behind him. The ceiling of the great hall of the gods was so tall that the columns supporting it disappeared into the clouds, emerging again among the stars higher up, and stretching beyond into the night’s blackness.

  On the opposite side of the room, a balcony stretching outward into thin air. Here was the ether of their divinity, where the gods could descend to the world of mortals. Without a thought, Creation headed directly for it.

  At some point, he must have said his goodbyes to Life and Carver, for they were gone, and he was alone when a voice stopped him.

  “You must be the new one.” A woman with wild black curls leaned against one of the pillars near the balcony. Her hair was barely contained by a thin gold band across her brow. Her tunic was a slip of a thing, ending mid-thigh and bunching around the thick band of a quiver she wore at her back. A wolf slept curled at her feet.

  “You must be Hunt.”

  The woman nodded. “Good luck with actually completing that task of yours; she’s willful. Even more so than her counterpart, in some ways.”

  Creation merely nodded. This was what he was made to do: seek Destruction, be with her. The notion that such a thing could not come to pass was a foreign concept.

  “Don’t take it too hard if you fail, however,” Hunt continued. The wolf stood, shaking out its haze of sleep. Hunt soon followed, pushing off the column. “If that happens, know I’m working on my own plan just in case.”

  “I won’t fail,” Creation said after the goddess.

  She paused, turned, and gave a sly little grin. “Men. Always so sure of themselves. Let me give you some free advice: meet the woman and get to know her before you lay claim to her. Last I heard, she was spotted in a scuffle in the northeast most forests of Aristonia.”

  Creation watched Hunt depart, not bothering to stop her. Why would he not be sure of himself? He was made for this. Surely, Destruction would be of the same mind. They were destined for each other.

  Fighting would be futile.

  He went unhindered to the balcony. Standing at the edge, Creation peered down over the earth with a vision that those below could not even begin to comprehend. All mortals went about their lives beneath him. At one curve of land, he spotted a dense stretch of viridian. Darkness pooled between the trees, obscuring his sight, harboring a secret within.

  Creation stepped into thin air.

  He fell to the earth in mere seconds, the pillar of the gods which supported their world at his back. His knees were bent, easing his fall, and grasses tickled up underneath his tunic. All at once, the edge of the dark forest he’d been looking down on stretched out in welcome.

  Without hesitation, he passed its threshold and began walking.

  Nine

  The recognition was instantaneous. Barely a handful of steps into the forest, Creation’s magic tugged him forward, leading him with an intrinsic understanding toward the target he was made to find. His whole being had been ensnared, a rope pulled taut between him and whatever lay at the other end. Whoever lay at the other end.

  Destruction.

  His magic rejoiced as he made his way through the trees.

  When he’d traversed far enough, he felt the distinct spark and swell of magic in the air. Not Destruction’s, not yet, but similar. Creation paused, one hand braced on the trunk of a tree to his left, and closed his eyes to the ripples of sensation. Five of them, all steeped in a magic that felt twisted beyond repair, an echo of Destruction’s magic lingering in the wake of what was no doubt a devastation. The scuffle Hunt had mentioned, though she’d made no remark about the warring magics, the one belonging to his companion and the one that felt so eerily similar yet so far off.

  So, Chaos was looking for Destruction, too. Of course she would be. He could not imagine the pain of a goddess torn asunder. An unfamiliar pang of emotion sparked in his chest at the thought of two parts of a whole being separated.

  He reached out blindly for what lay beneath the tainted magic, letting the rope linked between them pull taut once more. Now that he’d had a small taste of her magic, the phantom sensation of it fresh amongst the debris, it was easier to follow.

  Could she feel it too? he wondered.

  When Creation opened his eyes, he took in the surrounding flora nearly overgrown beneath his feet, his hand now tangled in vines of a tree. This rush of power came from being close to his destined lover. A smile began to dawn on his lips. Surely she knew he was approaching, perhaps sensing her own magic respond and wondering about the reason behind the sudden, frantic beat of her heart.

  Creation blinked, placing a hand to his chest. It was true; his heart beat faster at the thought of her, at what being in her presence might provoke. Despite the inevitability of their encounter, his own anticipation manifested into something tangible.

  Creation did not hurry towards the pull of Destruction’s magic, did not run or sprint. Each footfall felt lighter the nearer he grew. Their magics encircled them both to close the distance. Her power and thoughts whispered through the trees, in the wind. When he took a breath, he felt her very essence lining the inside of his lungs.

  As he finally approached a glade, the staccato of his heart ceased, the tension in his shoulders and limbs relaxing at the distinct rightness that emanated from within. The same rightness he’d felt when Light called Destruction his companion.

  She was within his reach. At last.

  Without hesitation, Creation wandered, eyes falling easily on the form lying at its center.

  Even with his immense knowledge, despite his minimal existence, he was certain he’d never seen anything so beautiful. Her hair was splayed about the grass, curling naturally like the waves of a darkened sea. Her tan skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, the stars themselves shining against her outstretched hand. He could not see her eyes, though he imagined them as ethereal as she appeared, with the wind blowing subtly at the sleeves of her tunic as she pinched her fingers together.

  A star flickered from existence and Creation stumbled back at the sheer power. The devastating magic radiated between Destruction and the universe above, a single second of warped atmosphere and shattered existence, before the glade settled once more. Her magic felt catastrophic in person, paralyzing him.

  And his own magic suddenly wanted nothing more than to be closer. Her power was ruthless, and any other being would have feared it. But Creation craved more.

  After only a few steps into the glade, Destruction’s head turned towards him and her eyes, as bright as he’d imagined, opened wide in alarm. If it were possible to scramble to one’s feet gracefully, Destruction managed to accompl
ish it; her movements were fluid as she braced for attack.

  But Creation would never hurt her, couldn’t she sense that? Not an ounce in his makeup could fathom harming her. Surely she could feel that he belonged to her as much as she belonged to him?

  But if she did, she showed no signs towards him beyond hostility and panic. She tensed in a way that told Creation she was no more than a second from sprinting away. So, before she could, he stepped towards her, lips parted to speak, an arm outstretched to—

  Destruction leapt back. The glade around them all but exploding in death and decay. The grass yellowed and then darkened as if burnt, and the trees shriveled and collapsed. What had once been a beautiful strip of untouched forest was now a graveyard, Creation and Destruction standing at its center.

  Creation’s magic retaliated with its own outburst of power. This time, he saw Destruction react fully to it, eyes widening as she pressed her hand against her chest, shoulder slumping from the onslaught of sensation.

  Within the span of a second, the grass beneath their feet was vibrant and lush once more, the trees reaching towards the night sky. Flowers dotted the glade where there had once been none, and when Creation bent down to pluck one from the earth, it simply continued to bloom.

  The whole forest breathed their magic, Destruction’s intertwining with Creation’s without her permission, finally seeking his out, even while hesitating. Destruction’s very posture screamed caution

  A coldness settled like a weight in Creation’s stomach.

  What he had hoped would be a simple and natural unity between them was instantly dashed by the narrowing of Destruction’s eyes and the distrust in her voice as she asked, “And who are you supposed to be?”

  Eight

  Creation cleared his throat. “Ahem, greetings?” The word tumbled from his mouth clumsily. This was his destined partner . . . surely he could do better than that? “I am Creation, and I have come for you.”

  That . . . might not have been the best phrasing.

  She took a step back, fear still running rampant in her eyes. Apprehension curled around her like an impenetrable cocoon that both challenged and threatened him to break.

  “Come for me? Like the rest of them?” Destruction looked him over from head to toe. Perhaps she intended to intimidate him, but shivers of delight ran up Creation’s spine just from her attention on him. “Come to take me? Or kill me? Or force me to reunite?”

  “None of those things.” He took another step toward her.

  In the same instant, Destruction took that same step away. She knew his movements before he made them—before he even knew he would make them. He would have reveled in it, if given the chance.

  But he wasn’t.

  Her magic unleashed again, charging at him with all the ferocity of an untethered hound. It meant to swallow him whole, break him apart bit by bit. Yet Creation’s own magic flared to meet it. From the moment she had set out to undo him, he was rebuilding himself.

  No, more than that. His magic unraveled eagerly. It did not cancel her own but hummed overtop in harmony. The barren ground between them sizzled, crackled, split along with fissures that were quickly sutured into more perfect designs.

  A trail of flowers now linked the two of them, and Creation continued forward.

  “Don’t come near me,” Destruction whispered. The distrust in her voice pained him, settling like a vice around his newly formed heart. But he had faith in her, that somewhere within, if he could reach it, she would feel their bond as strongly as he had been born to.

  Instead of saying so, however, he merely promised, “I will not hurt you.”

  “Lies. You are of the pantheon, I can sense it. You’re a puppet of the same deities that split Oblivion in half, giving me the form I am now.”

  “I am not of their pantheon.” He was not of them; was that true? He had been made by them. So, surely, he should count himself among their numbers? And yet . . . “I do not want them, I do not care for them. I am only here for you.”

  A crackle of power seemed to rise off her skin, marring the air around her in waves. “To be their latest weapon against me.”

  “I am no weapon.” Creation’s voice was strong, willing his point across almost sternly, but beneath the bravado, something desperate bubbled to life deep within him. He simply wanted to prove himself, simply wanted her to believe his words.

  “Lies!” Destruction’s voice rose, and with it, her magic to match.

  Creation watched as a shockwave launched from her. The grasses blew back and singed like a wildfire—all save for what was under his feet. Creation looked around him, trying to keep a handle on his power and just steep in hers for a moment. But as soon as the extent of the destruction became known to him, his magic surged forward and the glade was lush once more.

  “I am here for you,” Creation attempted again, almost apologetically, though he didn’t know what he was apologizing for. “Please. Please, don’t be afraid.”

  She laughed then, and there had been nothing in Creation’s short existence that had ever sounded more pleasing. Though, the sound wasn’t likely intended to be so. “Afraid? Why would I ever be afraid of you?”

  Optimism filled his heart, though he willed his feet not to pull him closer to her, as much as they longed to do so. “I’m glad to hear it,” he still said eagerly, ignoring that she may well be belittling him.

  “How did you come to be?” Destruction asked cautiously. “I don’t remember you among the initial pantheon when I was torn asunder. And if you’re not of them . . .”

  “You were torn asunder? Or Oblivion was?” he attempted to clarify.

  Something about the question caused Destruction to bristle, even as her magic spiked with contradicting emotion. Like defensiveness, or stubbornness. “Oblivion and I, We are the same.”

  “Are you?”

  She scowled and then demanded, “Answer my question.”

  “I was recently made,” he answered, seeing no use in subversion. “Carver made my body. Life gave me a part of her power. Light awoke me.” Destruction scoffed, rolled her eyes, and folded her arms. “This . . . doesn’t please you?”

  “And why would it?” she asked. “Why would this please me?”

  The answer seeming so obvious, so deeply etched into his very being that it seemed impossible for her not to already know. Still, he tried to assemble the right words. “Because I was hand crafted only for you.”

  Despite the honesty, Destruction bristled. “Made for me?” Her voice became as sharp as a razor’s edge. “You were ‘made for me’ by people who know nothing of me—by the people you somehow claim not to be a part of. The same divine who look and see me only as something to be controlled and tamed and leashed down.”

  “That’s not—”

  “I will not have it!” she proclaimed. “Go back to your masters and tell them that I am not beholden to them or to Chaos. I do not wish to be joined with her or their pantheon. I am my own woman, and nothing will change that!”

  Creation watched as her eyes widened and lips parted. He could nearly feel her horror at the words she allowed to escape her lips. A confession. She was her own woman . . . a woman whom he’d known only in concept but saw now, with his own eyes, in all her autonomous glory. It was a glory that he . . . he . . .

  His mind froze, and his heart sputtered.

  An autonomy that he only wished he possessed.

  “Nothing will change that,” he repeated softly, like a vow. A soft breeze rustled the trees and grasses as if in agreement.

  Destruction stared back at him, searching, as if words seemed to evade her.

  “Would you prefer it if I called you Zoria, then? Instead of the name the divine refer to you as?” he asked as gently as possible.

  “What did you call me?” she hissed.

  “Zoria, that’s what the mortals call you, isn’t it?” It came from the same knowing he had been born with. “They don’t call us by our names—Destruction, Chaos, Cre
ation, or—”

  “Creation.” The name seemed to stick with her. “Is that you?”

  Warmth bloomed across his chest at her recognition. “It is.”

  “Then let me use your name to say this: Stay away from me, Creation. Now and always.”

  That warmth turned to frost in his veins. “But we are—”

  “We are nothing.”

  “You are everything to—”

  Destruction raised her hand and Creation barely had enough time to react. The moment she unleashed her power, he caught her wrist and held it tight. Her magic exploded against him, washing over him like a violent tide. He weathered it and protested with his own power. Together, the glade shifted shapes and colors, spurred on by the relentless wave of death and rebirth.

  “You are everything to me,” he finally finished. Destruction’s other hand raised up and he took hers in both of his. He brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them gently. “You are what I live for.”

  “You . . .” She stalled and simply met his eyes. “You don’t even know me.”

  Creation was sure she meant the words as a protest. Yet, somehow, they seemed more open now, not quite an invitation but no longer an outright rejection. There was a rush of something happening between them—a sort of feedback loop where for everything she destroyed, he made . . . including their own relationship.

  “Allow me to know you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I—” Creation stalled. There should be an answer. It was right there, right on the tip of his tongue, right where he wanted to access it but . . . “I—”

  Her face fell. “You don’t know, do you?”

  He wanted to know. He wanted to know everything about her, to earn her trust and with it access to the deepest portions of her being. Yet, in the moment he needed to articulate that the most, he couldn’t find the words.

  “You’re just doing what they command, after all.” She pulled away and an icy void rushed to fill the space she’d just been occupying. “You don’t feel anything. You’re nothing more than a shell. You only feel what they designed you to.”