Page 295 of When Sisters Collide
“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 curtainsstirred 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.”
