Page 11 of Flamesworn

“Wait, what?” Elena rubbed her eyes, looking like Malik when he was tired and refused to sleep. “The god of–what are you saying to me? The god of war is in Arktos and that’s who burned the northern watchtower?”

“Actually, it might have been–”

“No,” Kataida said, quickly, shaking her head emphatically. “It’s the same as it is with Aleks and Azaiah. Ares is the god of war. They don’t cause it, just as Aleks wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“Oh, but I would,” Aleks said from where he was finishing up with the tea service, likely hoping the familiar act of service would settle him. “If anyone threatens my family, Iabsolutelywould.”

“You’d give them a cushioned seat and a blanket on your boat, though, after you did it,” Theron said. “Don’t lie.”

Aleks pushed his messy hair out of his face, shrugging. “Yeah, I would. Well, maybe not a blanket. Unless it was cold. Damn it.”

Evander and Elena both smiled at him, but Evander’s was distracted, and when he fixed his dark eyes on Kataida, she knewshe had to start talking. She sighed. “Let me have some tea first and I’ll answer your questions as best I can.”

They went into the sunken room, with Aleks kneeling by Elena so she could tug at his hair. Much more surprisingly, Theron knelt, too, though not close enough for anyone to touch him. He saw everyone staring at him and waved a hand. “It’s not every day you get drunk with your sister after she dumps a guy and then you’re called to a meeting at two in the morning so you can watch agodmake lovey-dovey eyes at her.”

Kataida groaned. “They think I’m Atreus Akti.”

“Yeah, sure they do. Big guy with a beard, lived a few hundred years go, of course they thought you were him.”

“Did you break up with Atlas?” Aleks asked. He looked disappointed. “I like him.”

“I did too. Ido,” she corrected. “Just not like that.”

“The soldier we brought in tonight,” Evander said, cutting through the conversation like a hot knife through butter, “he kept saying war was here with us. I thought he meant Arktos. When Kataida arrived, she…saw something, someone, in the corner of the room. The moment she entered, weallsaw someone.”

“These are not a lot of descriptive words, general,” Elena said, drumming her fingers on her stomach. “Someone? Something?”

“It was Ares,” Kataida said, “the god of war. We call them theGracious Onein Arktos–I don’t know if you have another name for them in Lukos.”

Aleks shrugged. “We don’t really have gods in Lukos. We left war behind when we were exiled, but we have a concept for strife, if that counts. We call it a Mountain.”

“It’s what people say instead offighting a losing battle,” Elena explained. “We saythey’re climbing the impossiblemountain.” She pulled on Aleks’ hair, either to settle herself or him, it wasn’t clear, but Aleks did seem to visibly relax.

Kataida wondered if it would settle Ares to have their hair pulled, if they were angry at their sibling for not being there immediately upon their awakening, if Arktos would suffer because Azaiah was not. She wondered if pullingAres’hair would make her feel better aboutthat.

“Kataida’s patron is the Gracious One, but many make their offerings to War when they are of age.” Evander looked as if he would rather have a healthy sample of Athenero, or maybe some of Theron’s contraband Starian whiskey, in his teacup instead of tea. “Arktos is said to belong to the Gracious One, though we have shrines to other gods, spirits. Until Aleks, I would have thought it all metaphor, sympathetic ritual, like the broom ceremonies in D’Hiver in Northern Staria. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“It wasn’t the offerings I made to them,” Kataida said quietly, looking at her hands. They were shaking, and she was thinking about Ares’ wild, hopeful, manic smile, their too-bright eyes, the gunpowder on their fingers and howhottheir skin had been beneath her mouth. “Six others in my regiment made offerings to the Gracious One. It’s because they’ve been calling me since I was a child. I used to dream about a fire in the desert. I think it was them. They know the one whose soul came back as mine.”

Evander rose to his feet. Kataida felt a spike of fear when she realized she’d only ever seen that expression on his face twice before—once, when she’d climbed up a rope out of the crypt with Aleks, and then a few weeks after that, when he’d found her killing a cultist in their ancestor’s tomb. “Your soul might have been our revered ancestor’s, butyouare not Atreus Akti. You’re Kataida Akti, my daughter, storm-born and loyal, and no plaything for a god to burn a country to impress.”

Evander’s dominance was so heavy, she could hear Theron suck in a breath and mutter atone it down, Dad.

“I know that. I told them that,” she added. “I have no memories of being Atreus. Well, no.” She sipped her tea, lukewarm and too sweet, though she only barely noticed either. “I know how Atreus liked his tea. I know that he died in Ares’ arms. I know that Atreus loved someone more than Ares, and Ares became a sword and slept in their beloved’s tomb.”

The tomb that, no matter how much she and her father tried, they could never find again. Atreus Akti’s shield was on display in the square, constantly guarded as the priceless historical artifact it was by two soldiers only just off brazier duty. Kataida remembered the sword hanging between two lit torches, eternal twin flames that reminded her suddenly of Ares’ bright smile and burning skin.

“I ended things with Atlas because when I dream of the fire in the desert, I…it makes me want to spill blood. Not as a sadist with a willing partner, but someone else’s blood, in combat. It makes me feel like if I wake up with someone next to me, I’ll slit their throat and slide my hands through their blood, watch the light leave their eyes with them thrashing beneath me while they try to breathe.”

She couldn’t believe she’d just said that. The room was quiet as that tomb had been, and she felt tears sting the back of her eyes.

How could she justsaythat, admit what a bloodthirsty, monstrous, violent person she was? Why didn’t she just go ahead and admit that when it gotthisbad, when the dreams of spectral fires and ephemeral ash had her so wet between her legs, her thighs were sticky with it, that she would bite her own hand while she got herself off, not because she wanted the pain from the bite, just the sensation of her own teeth sinking into skin?

I can only come when it’s this bad, when I remember how the sword felt sliding into his stomach, when I remember howhe bled out at my feet. It wasn’t hurting him that I liked. It waskillinghim.

She was crying, she realized, but she couldn’t tell if it was from guilt, shame, or a desperate craving that she knew could only be satisfied if what Ares said was true, if war reallyhadcome back to Arktos. “I know what you’re going to say.” She put her cup down, dashing at her tears, ashamed more of her weakness in crying than what she’d admitted to. “Mom and Mama told me all the time that it was normal. But it’s not.It’s not,” she added, vehemently, when her father looked as if he wanted to speak. “I know what sadists are. I’ve met many. If that’s all I was, I’d be thrilled. But that’s not– I’m not just a dominant who’s a sadist. I’m a–amonster–”

Before anyone could answer, a very small voice said, tiredly, “Kat-kat? Why crying?” And then Malik Akti, four years old, his sleep shirt on inside out and his hair messy, dragging his favorite ribbon dragon behind him with his baby blanket wrapped like a cape around his shoulders, came over, ignoring her crisis, and climbed right up in her lap. He gave her the stuffed dragon, put the blanket on her head and patted her cheeks with two open palms. “There. Don’t cry.”

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