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

by Elise Kova

  They arrived at the entrance of the temple, the doors pulled open. Creation wandered ahead, awed by the delicate stonework lining the atrium, the various tools of craftsmen held up on pedestals. At the far back hung a portrait of, he assumed, him, judging from the swoop of white hair across the painted man’s face.

  Hunt clearing her throat brought him back to reality. “You need to invite me into your temple, that whole barrier-not-barrier thing.”

  “Oh, right. Please come in, Hunt,” Creation said, hoping he didn’t need to be any more ceremonious than that. Her step in assured him he didn’t. “We’re here, what now?”

  “Let’s find a space we can work.”

  The two began to explore, walking through the various halls and rooms of the temple. It was more like a palace, really, on the inside. Toward the back, behind the main congregation area, they stumbled on an elderly man donned in yards of white fabric.

  “Prince of Gods.” He fell to his knees. “Goddess Mielikki.”

  Creation glanced at Hunt on hearing the strange name. He would never understand the mortal’s need to give a name to everything. It seemed much easier to call the pantheon by that which they were the patrons of. Or, at least have all mortals agree on a singular set of names. But he didn’t correct the mortals who referred to Light as Zeus and he certainly wouldn’t start now.

  “You honor this lowly priest of creation with your presence. How may I be of service to your cause?”

  “I have come to inspect my temple,” Creation said with an air of authority. “Is there a place I may take rest and work?”

  “Yes, of course, the God’s Wing has been prepared for you. All craftsmen of the city have left offerings for you there.”

  “Show me.”

  The man led them back toward the entrance and off to the side, up a narrow spiral stair, and through a heavy door. “These chambers are not touched, save for offerings. I shall tell your acolytes you have come to honor us. You will hear them sing joyous praise to you for hours to come.”

  “Thank you,” Creation wasn’t sure what else there was to be said. He was grateful for it all, but had asked for none of this.

  “It is our honor, Lord Snow.” The priest gave one more bow—so low he almost fell flat on his face. Then, one to Hunt. “Lady Mielikki.” With that, he quickly departed.

  “Lord Snow?” Creation repeated, starting through one of the three doors that branched off the landing.

  “It seems you received your first mortal name.” Hunt gave a small grin. “At least it’s a fairly simple one.”

  “Though it makes no sense,” he sighed. Snow had more to do with “God of Winter,” as one mortal had incorrectly called him, than creation.

  “Perhaps your hair and general glow?” she suggested. Further conversation on mortals and names was cut short as Creation opened the door to a modest but exceptionally well put together workshop. There were tools of every shape and size and long wooden tables and wide beams along the stone ceiling.

  “This is all for me?” Creation wondered aloud, looking back to the landing. What was hidden behind the other two doors?

  Hunt’s fingers ran lightly along the surface of a table. “Just wait until you have shrines popping up everywhere—little ones in small towns, big ones in cities. You never know what you’ll find there. The offerings really are a delight to pick through.”

  “I suppose we’ll see when we get to that point,” he said, pretending to be optimistic. Nothing felt guaranteed as long as Chaos lived, not even the next morning’s sunrise. Which brought Creation to the reason they came to this particular corner of the world. “About your weapon . . .”

  “Yes.” Hunt crossed to the table. “The champion I have in mind will be an archer.”

  He could’ve guessed, given the large bow strapped to the goddess’s back. “So you’ll need a bow and arrow, then?”

  Hunt paused, thinking. Strumming her fingers along the table, she finally shook her head. “Just the arrow. I don’t want a bow of god-like power roaming the world.”

  “But an arrow that can kill a demigod roaming the world is fine?”

  “Don’t try to impress too much logic on me, Creation. I’m a ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ kind of woman.”

  Just the kind he liked, if Destruction was any measure. “Very well, just an arrow then.”

  Creation lifted his hands off the table, envisioning what he would like to make. Warm, yellow light began to hover in the air, condensing into lines like a blueprint. This would be far more complex than making his clothing.

  “One other important thing,” Hunt said quickly. Creation glanced at her. “Make it so no godly hand can touch it but yours and mine.”

  “What?” His hands fell, and the light faded. But a new light dawned on him. “You do not want to risk it falling into Chaos’s hands.”

  “Yes,” Hunt said grimly. “I know you will die before giving it to her, as will I.”

  “You don’t trust the rest of the pantheon?” Creation felt like he should be surprised by the fact, but he wasn’t. In truth, some part of him felt suspicious. Perhaps it was the corner of him dedicated to Destruction and her wariness bleeding over into his own mind.

  “Motives shift faster than the weather. Gods do as it suits them. I only trust myself and those I’m forced to.”

  Creation nearly asked if she trusted him as well, but quickly backed away from the question. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to trust him; they just needed to work together. They just needed to kill Chaos. At the least, he knew she trusted they both had an invested interest.

  So Creation lifted his hands once more, allowing the light to condense—now with a new thought in his mind. Let no one touch this but Hunt and I. Yet Destruction crept in his head and, like always, he did not have the will to push her away.

  Four

  Hunt left as soon as the arrow was complete.

  With only a brief thank you, she was gone, leaving him almost dazed by her swift departure. He sunk into one of the chairs and tilted his head toward the ceiling. Crafting such a perfect and powerful weapon had truly drained him; it appeared his well of power only seemed infinite.

  The momentary exhaustion passed, however, and Creation was on his feet again. With Hunt off to deliver the arrow to her chosen champion, he had time to indulge his curiosity surrounding the other two doors of his godly quarters.

  “Let’s see what the mortals think I need . . .” he mumbled, opening the door directly across from the workshop. It led to yet another staircase that wound up and around a different landing. The room was circular, but empty. He couldn’t help but wonder what the mortals ultimately intended to do with it.

  Creation started back down the steps and tried the final door at the end of the first hall. This one was painted white and he didn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t the lavish bedroom that waited on the other side.

  Tapestries hung on the walls and a fireplace in its center that Creation went to on instinct. With a dip of his wrist and twitch of his fingers, a fire flickered into existence, instantly replacing the blues and purples of late evening along his walls with orange and yellow. He looked at the way the firelight played on the walls, the four-poster bed, and the lush rugs underneath his feet. Creation walked over to the window, gazing below at the hedges that surrounded the temple—palace, more like, as it was truly fit for a king.

  Or a Prince of Gods, he supposed.

  A sudden thrumming across the ether of his magic cut his exploration short.

  Creation sensed Destruction the moment she set foot within the kingdom of Aristonia. Turning, he began walking hastily, a pace that quickened to a near sprint as her presence grew. Though, as he approached the main temple doors, he made it a point to slow his stride, catch his breath and steady his mind.

  He had no way of knowing why she was here, just like he had no way of truly knowing why she’d left at the beach. After the way it had felt to finally hold her in hi
s arms, to finally connect with her on the level his magic had been designed to crave, she had run.

  Perhaps she was only here to do him the kindness of a final goodbye.

  Creation’s heart ached at the thought. But even as the possibility loomed just on the other side, he knew he was beyond denying himself her presence, even if it was the last time she were ever to allow it.

  So, focusing on the silent pull of her magic, Creation opened the door and laid eyes on her for what felt like the first time in centuries.

  “I was starting to think you’d keep me out here in the cold forever,” Destruction said without preamble. She stood with her back against the stone curve of the archway, arms crossed over her chest in a perfect imitation of indifference—easily offset by the slight tilt of a smirk at the corner of her lips. Whether it be the spike in his magic from their last interaction—their kiss—or something more intangible, Creation couldn’t fathom, but the longer he was in her proximity, the less he was inclined to believe that this feeling coursing through him was anything less than real, true, and entirely his.

  “It took a moment to convince myself you would truly come,” Creation admitted in return. The words you have no reason to went unspoken, but Destruction’s smirk falling and her darting away said it was heard regardless. Despite himself, Creation felt guilty; she was given no choice in this connection forcing them together.

  Yet, she was still here, without explanation, and it was easy to succumb to his own hopeful imaginings of the reason for her appearance.

  So, before she could shatter that hope, Creation remembered what Hunt had said about the temples and spoke hastily. “Please, come in. You are always welcome here.”

  “I don’t know about always,” was what her mouth said, but her feet said a different story as she strolled into his temple as if already owning the place.

  Destruction gave a low whistle. “Barely a demigod for a few years in mortal time and they’ve already gone out of their way to see this repurposed for you.” Creation was too busy watching her every movement to ask—or even care—what it had been repurposed from. “Then again, I guess that’s what happens when you’re the favorite of a king.”

  “I am certain your temples are twice the size.”

  “I’m Destruction; mortals aren’t too fond of that.” She shook her head. “I don’t have temples. I have a small chalet I’ve made my own and that’s about it.”

  He resisted the urge to ask where. “They will be fond of you when they see—” us together, Creation stopped himself short, hastily recovering “—how much good your powers can do.”

  Destruction gave a small smile that was almost . . . sad? He wasn't used to seeing her vulnerability and wasn’t sure if she was used to showing it.

  “They’ll always see me as part of Chaos, with the way she hunts for me. She’s done me no favors by making sure even the mortals know that I’m ‘hers.’”

  Hunt. Chaos. The two words brought him back to the present. “Come this way,” Creation ushered her toward the stairs, asking as they walked. “Is that why you’ve come? Because Chaos is hunting you?” Or is it because you wished to see me? was the question he dared not ask.

  Destruction merely hummed, offering no further response. Creation didn’t pry; he was too afraid of the answer.

  He opened the white door at the end of the hall, inviting her in to the comfortable room he’d begun to think of as his own. Just like the temple doors before, she entered as if she owned the place. But as far as he was concerned, she did. There was no chamber or quarter he would ever bar her from entering.

  Creation closed the door behind her, savoring one more blissful moment of pretending that this was real. That nothing else existed but the room they were in and nothing else mattered but their love . . . or him trying to earn her love. But reality weighed heavily and would for as long as Chaos walked the earth.

  “Speaking of Chaos . . . Hunt has enlisted a champion to be her marksman against her,” he explained, walking over to the flames still burning in the fireplace. Holding out a hand he created a few logs of wood, depositing them at the base of the fire. “I’ve created an arrow fit to pierce the heart of a demigod. She’s bringing it to that champion now, so soon you will have your freedom.” He paused. “So if that was the knowledge you’ve come here to seek, you now have it . . .”

  He didn’t want her to go, never wanted to watch the sight of her back but he also vowed never to force her to stay. He kept his eyes firmly pinned on the hearth, waiting for the sound of her departing footsteps. She’d seen his temple, had a reprieve, and received an update. Surely business.

  Instead of fading away, however, her steps grew closer, until she appeared in his periphery.

  “It’ll never work,” she said softly, reaching a hand out towards the flames. “If Hunt’s plan is to hinge this all on a single mortal and one shot then, she will fail. I’ve seen what Chaos does to mortals . . . she’s far too strong to fall for something like that. We’ll have to think of our own solution.”

  Creation watched her face. She dismissed all his work so easily. From the corner of his eyes he saw her fingers breach the pyre, though no pain marred her face. In a crackle of magic, the fire roared and then died, a single breath between life and death. Creation imagined seeing the darkness bleeding into her skin, sucking the warm yellow glow from her cheeks.

  He was so distracted that he almost missed the implication of her words. “We?” Creation’s heart hammered as Destruction captured his gaze. Even in the renewed darkness, she seemed illuminous; in any light, it was impossible for him not to see every detail of her beauty.

  For a long moment, Destruction simply scanned his face, searching for something—waiting for something, perhaps. When she spoke, the look never shifted, never wavered to reveal her thoughts or intentions, yet it was impossible not to hear the half-truth lying underneath.

  “My freedom depends on the success of all this,” she said, turning to face him fully. “I run all possibilities over in my head and it becomes clearer and clearer to me that you have no chance at defeating Chaos without my help.” Then, as if it physically pained her to say so, she added through gritted teeth, “I understand her better than anyone, demigod and god alike. I have to be involved in whatever end she meets.”

  “You are not like—” Creation began to say before he could stop himself, a hand already reaching for her, the tips of his fingers just grazing the bare skin of her upper arm.

  Instantly, the smoldering embers within the hearth caught flame, shining a light on the curiosity in Destruction’s eyes. She seemed surprised by his half-formed sentence. Or perhaps at the overwhelming magic rippling between them at such a simple, barely-there touch.

  “I am not like . . .?” she whispered once the flames died down and the silence had stretched on long enough. Yet, neither of them made a move to pull away.

  “You are not like Chaos,” Creation whispered. He desperately needed her to know that, though where it stemmed from, he was unsure. He simply needed her to believe in her own autonomy, her own personality, her own power as much as she claimed she did.

  “How do you know? You have never met her or even seen her, have you?” Destruction raised an eyebrow at him, though her eyes glittered not with annoyance or stubbornness, but with mischief. As well as something Creation couldn’t quite identify so much as feel—like a tingling beneath his skin.

  Creation took a selfish moment to raise a hand to Destruction’s cheek, thrilled at her eyes automatically fluttering closed. Just that simple touch alone filled him with an indescribable rightness. He knew she felt it, too.

  “I may have been made for you, Destruction,” he willed himself to say after allowing one more moment to bask in the feel of her closeness. “But that doesn’t change what my magic, what my heart recognizes. I don’t need to have met her—I know you. And that’s all that matters.”

  “And what do you think you know?” Destruction’s words fell in a breath
against his palm, causing a shiver to run down his spine. He wrapped an arm around her waist and led her a little bit closer. She didn’t pull away or tense, didn’t even hesitate, lips shaping a smile she seemed unable to bite back.

  “You may have once been the other half to Oblivion,” Creation answered, filling his words with every ounce of honesty he possessed. “But now, you are the other half to my own. Whether you wish to stay by my side or not, the fact that I am your perfect match is a truth I will forever be grateful for. And, I have seen in you a woman all her own, unbeholden to anyone or anything else.” His thumb dragged across her cheekbone.

  “If I didn’t know any better,” she smirked, swaying into him further as if pulling him into a silent dance. “What you’re describing almost sounds like love.”

  Love.

  Of course it was love. Of course this pull, both within their magic and within each other, was nothing other than love. He had never been more certain of anything in the entirety of his existence. But to be made as a counterbalance and to be in love were two different things, and he was suddenly desperate for her to know which path he craved.

  “I had never loved until the moment I saw you, and now will never love anything as much.”

  Destruction blinked, mouth slightly agape, before she was letting out a soft, breathy laugh. Any distance that remained between them was gone, their bodies flush together. Heat coiled tight in Creation’s stomach. His heart stuttered.

  “You love me,” Destruction whispered, carding her fingers through the short strands of hair at his nape, fingernails dragging against his skin. She hummed as if in thought, her ministrations never stopping. “Close your eyes.”

  This time, it was Creation’s turn to look confused. “What?”