Chapter Text
MORAX
“...and there they fought upon the Guili Plains, where black dust choked the heavens and a thousand rocks splintered…”
In the dredge of time, the gods ravaged the world around him. He existed not as himself but as a half-aware other. He did not know his name. He did not know his purpose. He knew only how to conquer, and to torture, and to devour.
The battlefield changed often. Elemental power sculpted new landscapes as the gods fought for the thrones in the sky, for vengeance, for dominion of the stars. It was not the practiced art of creation. It was chaotic—there was violence born in mountain ranges and breathing oceans and ice-spear rain.
He had a master.
This he knew well. Yet the rest of his living had that quality of unreality. The endless days and nights glossed through his mind in a seamless ribbon, and it felt as though his vision saw through frosted glass. It was difficult to know the length of one year from the next.
He heard the sound first. He did not know when. It came a great, growling bellow that cracked open the air and seized his lungs, clearing the clouds overhead. It went in every direction. The smaller, fragile creatures around him fled. The sound came again now quieter, hollow in reverberation. He raised his head and looked at the dark horizon.
The ground shook next.
It jolted up and through him, heels unsteady in the dirt, legs bowing, ribs rattling. The earth quaked in seismic ripples that stretched their rings out for miles. The epicenter was distant; he couldn’t see it. Loose rock jumped like fish across the splintering fissures created by unseen force. Sand became liquid, running rivers. He slipped and leapt back to find more solid standing.
Finally he glimpsed something at the far rim of the world where all was dark and inexplicit: a flash of gold seared his eyes and left him lightblind. He fell to his knees. He blinked hard, gasping, color sparkling behind his eyelids.
It ended. There was no noise in the preternatural silence that followed. The earth had again changed around him. He was perched at the top of towering cliffs, height giving him vantage over the land. Everything was dark once more. Raw, and newly altered, his world lingered in the malformed shadow of rebirth.
Then he remembered—Alatus.
And with it came everything else.
You little worm. You scum. Why do you delay when I summon you? Where are you, maggot? Where are you? Where are you!
He was already dashing ahead, a blur across the ground as the words tore into his mind. He could not respond to them; he could only endure them.
The moment I need you most, and you are not here! Maggot! Where are you!
It was no longer a question. It blistered through his head and left it aflame, each stabbing shout raucous against the backdrop of his perception. He was running. At stuttered intervals he teleported ahead, but he did not know where to arrive, as his master had always obscured his presence from him. Pain stitched his empty lungs. His bare feet bled freely, but he went. He went faster.
Eventually the screaming faded.
When he arrived, he was too late to do anything about what had occurred. Yet he was not looking at the pale and mangled body of his master, but instead the killer who loomed above it, watching him. He dared not move. This scaled, serpentine creature dwarfed him, its bestial head furred and horned and whiskered, body coiled in twists of muscle. Gold touched it everywhere—paintbrush strokes of glowing color across sharp claws, a fluffy tail, a ridged spine. Elemental power hummed in the air. He could taste it on his tongue, blackly rich like fresh soil.
He knew the legend of this god. A mythical cross of qilin and dragon, he recognized Morax on sight, and he understood that he would die at his fallen master’s side. He felt no fear. This was as it should be in his unforgivable failure. So he went to hands and knees, bowing so low his forehead scraped the earth.
“The God of Dreams,” Morax spoke then, booming, “slaughtered the God of Dust.”
He could not remember the last time he’d heard a voice that was not rooted like a hook inside his mind. He flinched, but he did not reply.
“Penance paid through death is more than one deserves. I granted this not out of clemency, nor good will, and I intend to levy further punishment through the destruction of this territory. It will belong to no one. Nothing will live here.”
Head bent, he could not see Morax, but he felt the creature move, deceptively graceful in his periphery. Morax walked a full circle around him. Daring to glance, he saw himself ringed in by cor lapis, mineral blooming beneath the god’s claws in each deliberate footstep. It was a strange and beautiful act.
“You were the servant of this god... Were you not?”
Illicit impatience ate at him. He wished if he were to be killed, it would be here and now, but perhaps the Warrior God, Morax, desired first to torment him. If so, it was deserved. An excruciating and prolonged death was the least he owed after all he had inflicted upon this world. Soon he would leave it, and he would be grateful to Morax for removing the stain of his existence.
“Will you speak?”
“Yes,” came thick and raspy with disuse. “Yes,” he tried again, past the ache in his throat.
“Good,” Morax said in that low, frightening pitch. “Then I will ask you to tell me your name.”
He dared not lift his head, but his eyes sought again the cor lapis around him, crystallized like a prison that held him within it so he could not escape. In that glossy rock, he saw his own reflection: pale and filthy, black hair lank around his shoulders, wearing a gaunt face he did not know. Who was this?
Then he recalled the golden light that had blitzed through the sky while the earth shook apart. Moments ago, or hours. The afterimage had scorched his eyelids, so the memory was close, permanent.
“Alatus,” he answered with a great deal of effort. “That is… I believe… I am not...”
“You are not certain?”
Morax was too close. The creature hung over him, over the ringed ore, whiskers twitching with the wind. It was impossible to avoid the god in the edges of his awareness. Even when he looked straight down, he could feel Morax’s warm breath gusting his skin. He anticipated pain—that fangs might embed his throat, tear out his pathetic voice, shred his tongue. It didn’t come.
“Hmm,” Morax rumbled. “In you, I am reminded of a story. One that spoke of a spirit from another world who endured much suffering and hardship, as it seems you have. I will not tell it to you now, because I suspect you will not remember it, but hear this: I will give you a new name. You may use it as you choose.”
Why was he still alive?
“After I destroy this place, you will come with me. Do you understand?”
At this his head jolted up, shock surging in his throat until it burned as bile and he thought he might retch, miserably, at the feet of the god before him. He did not understand. Yet Morax took no protest, and the power of geo began to thunder through the earth once again, shattering everything outward from the circle of cor lapis. He remained unhurt, cradled within that golden center.
“Xiao,” Morax said to him, carving a new path of rock across the ruined battlefield. “Come.”
Xiao could not say how long they walked. Obediently, he trailed Morax through the devastated land, eyes on the creature that led him. He still could not shake the iron belief he would die. Perhaps his fate was only postponed; he had little ability to question the minds of gods. As he watched, Morax’s lithe, golden form loped with grace, a snake-like meandering in their slow trek. It puzzled him. Morax could certainly take flight—or perhaps he could dive into the bedrock and travel much faster that way—so why did he walk now?
Xiao’s feet burned, scraped raw, each heel leaving behind a pale green print. It was simple to focus his mind on this pain rather than allow himself to spiral. His life was forfeit. He’d failed his master, and he had no one else to serve. It was only that final order he clung to: Come.
Soon the terrain spread into swampland, flooded waters impeding progress forward. This did not slow Morax long. Where their paths were obstructed, he paved the ground across in bridges and raised plateaus with effortless ease.
As they went, Xiao began to recognize his surroundings. This was not an area he had ever visited directly, although he had often hunted its perimeter at the behest of his master, spooling out the sweet dreams of its mortal inhabitants.
It was the Guili Plains. Or it was what remained of that territory, wrecked now by flood and war, covered in the detritus of civilization. Collapsed buildings, piled rubble, and waterlogged fields rose up in every direction he looked. The air was thick with dust and tasted like char on his tongue though there was no lit fire in sight. Morax continued through this ruin, leading him to shelter carved into the side of a mountain.
They were not alone here. Xiao saw two other beasts, smaller than Morax: one was a crane feathered in red-brown plumage, and the other a regal, stoic stag with luminous eyes and golden hooves. There was a girl, too, dressed in brown and blue, hair braided up around her head. All of them awaited Morax’s approach with grave quiet.
It was then Xiao noticed the presence of a fourth person. Laid on a bed of granite at the center of the cave was the body of a woman. Her hair hung in a long, sweeping banner over dark rock; her skin was the white of alabaster, marbled with dust. The woman was dead.
He did not know what to make of this scene. In silence, he watched Morax approach the woman. No one spoke. The great creature’s head bent down, hovered, and remained still. The unmoving moment hung on a thread—then it wavered, and broke, and the woman’s skin spidered out fine crack-lines before crumbling into powder.
The God of Dreams… slaughtered the God of Dust.
Understanding began to dawn. Morax brought him here to make his death an example before his disciples. In retribution both for his actions and his allegiance to the enemy, he would be killed here on Morax’s territory for all to witness. Perhaps his hot blood might be dashed across the God of Dust’s divine remains as an oblation for her wrongful death. He stood rigid, waiting.
When Morax moved, it was not to strike him as Xiao readied himself for, but to continue deeper into the cave. Xiao stared. If Morax’s disciples had noticed him, he did not dare look. He only looked on, eyes following the sweep of a gold tail as it vanished into the dark channel ahead.
Come.
The command yet remained, so he went.
There was a wider, deeper network of caves further in. He followed Morax in a path that did not cut straight through, but instead seemed to wander at random; without the guide of the god in front of him, he doubted he could ever navigate these chambers alone. It would be too easy to lose the way.
Eventually, Morax stopped them in a large room, its walls lit by lanterns affixed to stone at even intervals, and whose ceiling Xiao could not make out for its height. The immensity stunned him. Light reflected off glittering ore—crystal, jade, cor lapis—at strange angles, creating a pattern of color across the floor like jagged patchwork carpet. There were pillars of white iron, and flat levels of rock, where a creature of Morax’s size might perch or stretch out leisurely.
This was the heart of his domain.
When Morax turned to face him at last, he went to the ground, kowtowing. “I…” Xiao swallowed past soreness and tried again: “I am ready.”
“Are you?” the booming voice answered, almost lethargic. “For what, may I ask?”
“Death.”
A sweep of movement signaled Morax’s tail as it lashed around, caught him sideways, and flipped him onto his back. Xiao made a breathless noise and stared up into the dizzying, unseen black above. Then a scaled, deadly claw set itself down onto his chest. The gold talons felt cool and hard through the filthy tatters of his clothing. He could not move, even if he dared not make the attempt.
“Little one,” came the low, gusting, inhuman rumble as Morax’s head drooped. “If it was your life I sought, I would have taken it the moment you arrived in my presence on that battlefield. There is no sense in prolonging a decision of such severity. Do you believe I am shaped the same as your devious master, who would bind you unwillingly to the whim of a god? Have I led you along, a cow to slaughter?”
Xiao looked into the points of two slitted auric eyes. They gazed down at him, immutable and unfamiliar, and it became even more difficult to understand that he would be brought to this sacred place if not for sacrifice.
“Those I determine to destroy, and kill, I do it not through trickery or deceit. It is an agreement. It is definitive. Perhaps, little one… you may see death as a kindness, but for me to grant you this desperate wish, first you would need to deserve it.”
“I do,” he gasped. “I do. I failed—”
“You came when bid. You would have fought me, I am sure, had your god still lived, had you suffered the order of certain defeat. That is not betrayal or failure on your part.”
“Please…”
“I know the acts you have committed. You terrorize mortals in the realm of their purest dreams, many of whom come from my own domain. You have killed, as well. You are a bane upon this land, and this is egregious, of course. Yet the question remains: Do you do this of your own will? Should I let you leave my den, would you go on to do as you have done at the command of another?”
Shame went through him like a hot knife, flaying him open to those clever, perceptive eyes. The god watched him—ancient, unfathomable, silent—knowing everything, seeing all that he was.
The air rattled in his chest. The claw over his heart could surely sense how it raced in an uptick.
“It was wrong. I was commanded. But still I enjoyed it. Those dreams… They tasted good.”
Morax exhaled through nostrils in laughter or judgment, or perhaps disgust, if only Xiao could comprehend its meaning. Then the claw lifted off.
“Ping,” Morax called into the huge room’s dark entrance. “Come here.”
Burning with humiliation that Morax would disregard his remorseful confession, Xiao curled into himself, turning on his side. He realized he was shaking.
“My lord?” The young girl with the braids in her hair appeared.
“This one has injured his feet. Bring bandage and medicinal balm. Shoes, as well—have Moon Carver search the ruins. Small.” Xiao did not look up, but he felt that heavy gaze on him. “Very small. A child’s size.”
Tears stung his eyes as he laid there, trembling, confused at his own reaction. He covered his mouth with one hand to quiet the pitiful sounds he made.
Morax had not left his hovering, looming position above, warm breath stirring the fringe of his hair in the reminder that he could not hide. “Xiao… Is that name acceptable? Do you wish to have it?”
A genuine response felt impossible. How could he express that he had already taken this name from the moment of offering, and clung to it, and he would not forget it, or abandon it, for the rest of his meager existence? He did not deserve even these barest shreds of kindness. He felt lost in this place, under this watchful god’s guidance, but he did not wish to go. He did not ever wish to go.
“Yes,” Xiao slipped through his own fingers, through muted sobs. “Yes.”
The mortals of Morax’s domain were beginning to make their way south. It took time. Decades went with the array of seasons, and the world continued to change, but the Guili Plains never recovered from the devastated swampland it had become. The shallow, rooted crops once planted in its fertile earth could no longer grow there, and adjusting to the new environment proved more difficult than relocation due to the lack of tools and resources that remained. There was also a steep population decline. Most had died, and those who had survived could not live easily in the shambles of their previous homes. They went to the nearby mountains for a time, under Morax’s watchful guidance, but they could not farm there, they could not expand their size. Adaptation was limited.
And the world was not calm.
War—the Archon War—continued all around them, dueling gods still embroiled in conflict over the celestial seats. Morax, in possession of one such throne, ruled his territory now alone, albeit aided by loyal adepti. Some sought to take advantage of his solitude and invade his region; thus, much of Morax’s energy was spent in tireless defense against assault.
Xiao had not seen the Warrior God in full for many years. When sightings did occur, they were brief and unsatisfying glimpses. Morax was a dark shadow in the earth who appeared only to ward off danger and retreat to a place he could not be reached.
It was his will, so Xiao did not question it, but he felt himself languishing in purposelessness. His daily life was mute and gray, interspersed with negligible incidents on the boundary of Morax’s territory where he encountered wild animals and vagrants. He did not seem needed. Nor was he inclined to interact with mortals as others did, like the benevolent Marchosius, God of the Stove, or Adeptus Ping and Mountain Shaper.
In listless tedium, he continued his patrol.
It was a sunny afternoon when the clouds rolled in. Xiao was there only by luck, having traveled east where he’d fought back a band of starving boars from the edge of a village.
The clouds were the wrong color. Not thin white streamers, scudded and choppy with wind, these clouds were dense and tinted a deep, bruised violet. They were not storm clouds, although at first Xiao mistook them for it.
He went to the rise of a hill for a better view. The air became ominous and shadowed, thickly humid, and as the clouds moved the pressure grew worse. He glanced back to the village he had defended from the boars earlier. It sat between high cliffs and rolling hills; the sick clouds would pour in through the valley, filling the area like a bowl trapped by mountains and left stewing.
Instinctively he knew the clouds were wrong. He did not need to be told. He dashed ahead, carried by an urgent gust of wind.
Several villagers had moved outside to investigate, their bodies like small black ants at such distance. Xiao was too far away. He had miles to go—if he teleported, perhaps—then, what?
What could he possibly do?
The bank of clouds spilled in across the land, darkening the sky like early night. Heedless to the futility, Xiao flashed closer. He had perfect vantage east of the road to witness the villagers who began to drop from the noxious fumes. He could taste it when he inhaled: the sharp, caustic flavor of metal and saccharine rot. It did not seem to affect his immortal body.
A figure appeared beside him on the cliff.
It was a woman. Tall, dressed in blue fabric stitched loose and heavily feathered, she faced Xiao. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders; she was masked. It was this mask he stared at longest—two horns bent and curved up over her head, and four bright, glowing slits looked back at him.
“You,” she spoke, breathless. “Alatus, where have you been?”
He said nothing. He could only gaze at that mask, transfixed by his own shock.
“You look… hm… but that is no matter, Alatus, we do not have time. Come with us.”
Us. There was someone else behind the woman now. A taller, broader man in brown and gold standing silent—masked. This one was more beastly, with horns like tusks jutting down to frame a proud chin.
“Who are you?” Xiao demanded, backing away. “How do you know that name?”
“Alatus,” the woman said more urgently. “To protect the lives of these villagers, please, I beg you aid us in our battle. Questions can come after.”
She moved without waiting for his agreement, lifting one hand to make an unknown signal to the man with quick fingers. They both descended the cliff at great speed.
Hesitantly Xiao followed, and down in the valley he was met by five more strangers awaiting their return. All wore masks of animalistic design; all were dressed as warriors and armed with weapons. He did not recognize any of them, knew none of their names, nagged by a familiarity he couldn’t place and only frustrated him to encounter.
“Bonanus!” one of the warriors called. “Is this him?”
“It is,” the woman answered curtly, moving through the group. She took the lead and unslung the silver bow from her shoulder. “Focus. Talk later. Menogias and I have seen the miasma at the heart of a woodland nearby. If we are quick, we will save souls. Hurry.”
Bonanus ran ahead, guiding them through the valley and into neighboring foothills. The copse of trees was dark when they entered, made darker by the purple sky above. Xiao lingered at the rear of the party. Suspicion warred inside of him, but his abilities were useless against poisonous fumes, so he went with little choice, hoping this was not some trick, hoping it would make him useful.
The forest was unnaturally silent. Nature made no noise, did not even breathe through the trees as they drew closer to the center. The air was thick and clouded with the same toxic haze, but none of the warriors displayed discomfort. Like him, they were unaffected.
Bonanus came to an abrupt stop, raising one arm out and halting their path forward.
“Here,” Bonanus whispered, but the word reached them all. It was as though she had spoken it directly into his ear. Xiao tensed. Everyone was still, expectant, locked in the moment before battle.
Out of the poisonous dark came a roaring creature.
Several heads high, its body was a mangled mass of flesh, crowned with six jagged horns—one broken off mid-stem—and a mouthful of bladed teeth. It was like nothing he had seen or fought before. Not divine, not even animal, but some abominable cross between. Black, flickering shadow wreathed its towering silhouette, and its eyes glowed a terrible brightness.
“Now!” Bonanus shouted.
They rushed in all at once, movement a blur over the black grass, weapons flashing in the wan light. Xiao did not move with them. He watched as Bonanus loosed an arrow from her bow, needling through the air and embedding in the creature’s meaty shoulder. It snarled and lunged to meet their charge. Fire erupted from one warrior’s hands, coating daggers; another razed crackling electricity across the ground. Both of these caused an explosion that drove the creature backward.
Finally, Xiao tore into the battle, driving hard gusts of wind down to keep the creature from recovering its stance.
There were other elements—rocks volleyed through the air by Menogias, water slashed by Bonanus’ arrows—barraging the twisted beast and breaking its rage beneath them. It stood no chance. It died screaming. That black, inky umbra burst from the decimated corpse, bathing the surrounding area. Xiao inhaled sharply and tasted soot.
The fumes dissipated, clearing above so the sun could shine once more through the canopy. Xiao stood there in the dappled light, looking at the group.
“Alatus,” someone called to him, and this caused heads to turn. But it was Bonanus who approached him first.
“It is good to see you alive, though at such a cost.” He stared at her, and she must have seen the blank look in his eye, because she said next, “You do not remember us.”
“No,” he admitted. “There are… gaps in my memory of that time before. As Alatus. This name… It only returned to me recently.”
Bonanus lifted one hand and removed her mask to reveal a lean and feminine face, scarred badly across the right cheek. She was not smiling, yet her expression bore a certain gentleness. “Your enslavement.”
Xiao’s gaze flinched down.
“No matter,” she reassured, then pointed to the man beside her—Menogias, she had called him, who wielded geo with his hands. “Do you see this one? A god took his tongue. Cannot speak.” She made a gesture with her fingers again, and Menogias answered in kind. “We talk this way through the language we invented. It is easier.”
Menogias removed his own mask, dark and handsome beneath it. He smiled at Xiao, whose eyes darted back to Bonanus, then away, landing finally on the massive corpse of the slain beast. “Something was wrong with it.”
“Yes,” Bonanus said. “A corruption of the dead gods. It is frequent these days, as war goes on.”
Dismay surged at this. If true, if this event was the product of a god fallen in battle, would there be more of these creatures? How many? What of the poisonous clouds brought in by this one’s presence?
“As yaksha, we are capable. It is right that we—”
“I must tell Morax,” he cut in, wrung with dread. “This is his territory, he’ll need to know.”
“Another god.” Bonanus stared hard at him. “We call that one the Stonebreaker for his violence.”
“He isn’t…” Xiao swallowed tightly. “He is different.”
“So you say.”
She was looking at him critically, and in that moment he loathed himself for what he could not recall, all of those years lived prior to his memory, where he existed as someone else, capable of something more than cruelty. A greatness, perhaps, with the warrior’s skill of these other yakshas, who would answer a call of protection when necessary and deliver himself in service of good. Instead he was bent, broken, and shaped as a weapon that deserved little more than death. Bonanus looked at him and expected understanding—she sought a warrior’s pride and dignity that was not there. He was not good. She did not trust him, because he had been tainted by the gods, and here he still clung to them.
Yet it was impossible to shake the image of Morax from his mind, huge and golden, instructing him to dress his injured feet, calling him Xiao in that low rumble, in the echoing dark of the caves. He would surrender all of his memory for that alone.
“I will tell this to him,” Xiao finally said. “I have no desire to interfere with your affairs, but I’m loyal to this territory, and to Morax. He is the one who freed me. Therefore, he must be aware of what has occurred in his domain. Do whatever you will.”
And he turned to leave. The yakshas gathered in that dark wood did not stop him, although he felt their gleaming eyes on his back long after he had vanished through the trees.
Morax could not be found. Even seeking him, hunting those places where he should be expected—battlefields, the outer perimeter of his territory, the peaks of the tallest mountains—Xiao was unlucky. There was no sign of the god in crevasse or valley. It was as though Morax had vanished into myth.
He knew this was not true, because no invasion upon the land was successful. Morax kept his steadfast watch; he simply did not do it in plain sight. Perhaps he had not done so since the dissolution of the Guili Assembly. Having never tried to find the god on purpose, Xiao could only guess at this obscure behavior. It was never his place to question before.
At his wit’s end, Xiao went to Mt. Aocang, climbing its great height in a breathless hurry. He did not usually seek the company of adepti, but the situation merited exception. And Cloud Retainer had seemed one of the closest to Morax’s personal counsel.
By the time he arrived, the sun had long set, lacy stars vivid across the black vault of the sky. The round moon hung solitary above, bathing the area in whole light. Xiao paused on a rock and tried to gather his bearings.
Situated so high over the land, the mountain had a breathtaking view of the surrounding cliffs and distant sea, as if plucked from the mortal world and fixed into the clouds. As he climbed down to the pond on the plateau, he noticed a stone table in the shade of a tree gone golden-brown with the season. It was set with three chairs. Curiously, he crept closer.
A loud noise startled him. He whipped around, braced for an opponent—only to find a small, peculiar, round creature stumbling toward him. It was a child. Blue-haired and fully human except for tiny red nubs on the crown of its head.
“Baba! Baba!” the child shrieked, but before it could reach Xiao, an elegant crane swept down and intercepted. “Mama…”
“Now, now, Ganyu, one knows better than to roam unsupervised. One wonders where she thought she was going? Ah, it seems there is company, and most esteemed at that.” The way Cloud Retainer’s pale eyes fell on him did not feel so welcoming. “One must question the purpose behind such a sudden visit.”
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, head lowering. “I would not have come if I did not think it was important. I am seeking Morax.”
“And one believes that this one would know the location of the Lord of Geo? Does one challenge his whereabouts?”
“Not at all.” Xiao’s gaze strayed across the grass at the shoreline, watching as the child—Ganyu—began to butt her horns against the crane’s long legs. Cloud Retainer huffed and stepped around her, a sleek wing coming down to gently shield against the next overeager headbutt.
“It is not one’s place,” Cloud Retainer preached, “and one must wait until our Lord returns of his own will. There are many forms and identities our Lord would assume to wander the world, so seeking him is futile, and patience is spent most usefully in the protection of his domain. Does one understand this?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good,” she said. “Come then, Ganyu, we shall see this one down the mountain.” And she turned, neck craning to nudge the child along.
“Wait,” he blurted, burning with impropriety. They may both be creatures of divine power, but Xiao knew they were not equal; Cloud Retainer held a position at Morax’s side he could never dream to possess. “Morax must know. I have discovered something… dangerous, a taint manifested by the fallen gods. It is especially harmful to the mortals of this land.”
The crane’s eyes darted back. “Hmm. One has witnessed this anomalous occurrence firsthand?”
“I have,” he said. “The creature I discovered was defeated, but I’m certain there are others.”
Silence hung, coaxing Xiao’s attention across the pool to the table beneath the tree. He could not say why it drew his notice so strongly. Cloud Retainer saw him looking. “That is our meeting place. Oneself, Guizhong, and Rex Lapis. Or so it once was, as it has not seen use in many, many years.”
His thoughts had stuck on the name Rex Lapis, but he forced himself past it, into the memory of a dead woman crumbling on an altar. Shame chewed his gut. Morax had not blamed him, and yet he still felt responsible for the death of the God of Dust.
“Perhaps one will never use this meeting place again,” Cloud Retainer went on. “Still, one remains sentimental. Guizhong was unmatched in wisdom and gentleness, and Rex Lapis cherished her. Such is the way of war and loss.”
Ganyu was busy doing somersaults in the grass, tumbling head-over-feet in fits of giggles. Xiao was not watching her. His eyes had fallen to his feet, and he was aware of some foreign, intangible feeling in his body overwhelming the guilt of a moment ago. It was dark and heavy, like a syrupy rot that spread into the corners of his mind—and he loathed Guizhong for her place in Morax’s heart, he hated her for dying and leaving his god alone—the feeling overtook him, a roar of blood in his ears that drowned out all else—
“Xiao,” Cloud Retainer said. She stared at him.
His head snapped up; he noticed he was breathing hard. With shaking hands, he smoothed out the front of his tunic. His mind was clear and empty. The feeling had fled.
“To the south, there is a place called Feiyun Slope. One might have luck there. Our Lord is leading his people to a land by the sea more fortified than the valleys and plains here. The people are thankful, for often the sea offers fairer, swifter transport than the land.” Cloud Retainer bent down again, nudging the child away from the waterline. “One suspects this war will be ending soon.”
He could not speak immediately. His tongue felt like a rock in his mouth, but he forced himself to nod. “Thank you,” he managed at last, before turning to go. The adeptus and her half-mortal charge looked on.
Xiao had never gone this far south. As he went, he strayed closer to the humans also traveling, nomadic communities stitched around their god’s promise of safe haven. He surveyed them from hilltops and treelines, but he did not see any sign of Morax among them—or perhaps he did not know the identity Morax had taken. Surely he’d sense Xiao’s presence, if he was here.
It was like following the orderly trail of ants. All of the mortals kept in groups; here and there they stopped to rest, attend to their chores or care for one another, then they went on. Occasionally they stayed a while. Xiao understood this even less. As their number expanded through birth and the mixing of other groups, small bands stripped off and created permanent shelters on the way, content to set their roots into the valley soil.
He came across one such minor village in the second year of travel. It was late evening by then, sun at a low red slant as it pulled its modest light from the world. He hadn’t intended to stop here, but something had caught his attention.
There was a hanging darkness around this place. He could sense it from a distance away. When he was closer, he could even see it, hovering in a plump black cloud over the bamboo huts and animal-skin tents clustered in the foothills. It was not the same as the miasma he’d witnessed on the plains; this was smaller, denser, a smudge on the green canopy of trees. Yet there was no movement or activity as he observed from a perch in the cliffs above.
Xiao edged closer under the cover of nightfall. At the fringe of the village, he noticed a figure crouched down beside a fence. He began to walk a semi-circle around the human until realizing that they were not watching him. Looking at them again, he saw that they were asleep.
“Ah, so you beat me here,” a voice came from behind him.
He whirled, backing away, posture defensive as his eyes snapped to the source.
“Relax,” the stranger said, dropping into sight. “I had heard of your return, Alatus, but I didn’t expect we would cross paths so soon. Fortuitous indeed.”
It was a man—no, not a man, it was another yaksha. He knew this without confirmation. Xiao could see the gleam of a beastly mask even before he drew near, slashed eyeholes with teeth like tusks. The yaksha was tall, almost three heads taller than Xiao, and he was very broad across the shoulders, larger and more muscular even than Menogias had been, with dark hair swept up messily on his head. He had two pairs of arms. And he was shirtless.
“Name yourself,” Xiao said.
“A shame to think we must begin again as strangers,” the yaksha sighed, lamentation clearly dramatized. “It’s me, my friend. Bosacius.”
“You should not be so familiar with me,” he said, although his tone lacked sting. He felt as uncomfortable as he had when Bonanus addressed him as a fellow warrior. “Why are you here?”
“I know you may not remember me—”
“Why are you here?” Xiao cut across this distraction.
“The same reason as yourself,” Bosacius said. He gestured to the village behind them. “This place is plagued by a nightmare spirit.”
“I have not heard of such a spirit.”
“No? Well, take a look at that mortal,” Bosacius gestured to the hunched-over villager asleep by the fence. “He may look peaceful on the outside, but inside, he is enduring quite a miserable dream. You see this fog above? It’s created out of vengeance from some fallen god.”
Xiao had assumed as much, but still this realization struck him powerfully, scanning the dark surroundings with alert caution. Another ill omen. Another curse in consequence of war. It could not be coincidence, too, that these evil spirits attracted the yaksha warriors of this land. Worse than that, he looked at the villager and felt himself drawn back into his own mind, into memory—where once he had feasted upon sleeping mortals with fervor beneath the command of another master.
It was as though he was there again, claws raking through the sweet, gummy dreams of innocents, closing his mouth around their precious thoughts, swallowing in whole gulps. And each time he would watch their serene faces twist as they buckled under their own agony, pleading for mercy.
“Alatus,” the yaksha’s voice rescued him from his recollection. “Let’s relieve these people of their suffering, hm?”
It did not take long. It was no difficult endeavor next to the battle in the forest, as the nightmare spirit was weak outside its sleeping domain, and Bosacius appeared to know what to do. They went around the silent village, hunting each nook and cranny—pots and barrels and vegetable gardens and cupboards—until they found it tucked deep at the bottom of a knapsack in a shed. To Xiao, it looked like the ugliest creature he had ever seen: a gnarled, naked lump with wrinkled soot-colored skin, stinking of rot, its eyes tiny and red and its mouth narrow as a needle. It shrieked at them when they pulled it out. Corruption rippled around it, materially visible. Bosacius raised up his sword casually and swung it down, splitting the spirit in half, and Xiao watched it dissolve with a last whine.
Again, the viscous umbra popped like a bubble and filled his mouth with the taste of ash. The spot on the floor where it laid was smoking.
He glanced at Bosacius.
“Don’t think I don’t know,” the other yaksha said despite Xiao’s silence. “We have all noticed. Doesn’t feel very nice, does it? And yet it must be done.”
They walked away from the village, back into the foothills. The mortals went on slumbering, but the black cloud had dissipated and the sky was clear once more, stars punched out in twinkling holes above. He did not speak again until they were farther away.
“I am going south to find Morax, the Lord of Geo.” He could not say why he shared this, except that it felt urgent and necessary in the moment, and that perhaps one yaksha might be swayed in place of several. “This is his land. He should be warned of what is occurring within it.”
“And you think he doesn’t know?” Bosacius faced him, brows raised in arches of amusement. “If this is his territory, then he’s seen it.”
“I cannot be certain of that,” Xiao admitted. “And he may also be unaware of my ability to fight these evil spirits.”
“So you want to become a weapon in the hand of a god.” Bosacius had stopped walking, one set of arms crossed over his bare chest, smirking. “Interesting. I’d thought you would value your freedom more highly now.”
Xiao ducked his head, unwilling to meet the other yaksha’s glittering eyes. “I’m indebted to him. He is the protector of this place and its people. He does not rule with cruelty like others.”
“Oh, doesn’t he? How well do you know the Stonebreaker?”
He bit his tongue; he realized he was glaring at a patch of dirt as though he meant to set it aflame. When Bosacius laughed, his gaze jolted up reflexively, offended.
“Don’t worry,” Bosacius said, “I believe you. In all of these years, I’ve seen your god a few times myself, and I’ve heard of how he treats the mortals in his protection. He is certainly the lesser of evils. A good thing he is the Archon of this land, now, wouldn’t you say?”
Xiao didn’t answer. He was ignorant of the reason behind the gods’ war; his master had never told him. He knew there were thrones of power to be obtained, and he had heard that those who succeeded were crowned as Archon, but that was the extent of his knowledge. Yet he agreed with Bosacius, chin jerking in a nod.
“It’s good to see that you haven’t entirely changed,” Bosacius said next, drawing a look from Xiao that was uncertain. “I worried after what the others told me.”
“What I was no longer matters.” He prepared himself for an insult, something that would drag him down into resentment toward his own lost memory as his conversation with Bonanus had done. He knew there was no place for him among the other yakshas, not any longer, but if he could convince them to aid him against the evil spirits in service to Morax, however possible, perhaps he could yet atone for all of his hateful misdeeds.
“You want to help,” Bosacius said, “because you care. You’re gentle, I think, deep down. Different from so many of us.”
Xiao turned his cheek. His skin felt hot and too tight.
“I’ll speak with the others.” Bosacius moved away, giving him time to recollect his composure, to gather up the pieces of himself that would snap apart. “Perhaps they’ll be willing to fight for this Morax—the world is changing, after all, and in time even gods could become a rarity. Farewell, Alatus. I’m sure we’ll meet each other again soon.”
After Bosacius was gone, he stayed a while on that cliff, monitoring the village for its inhabitants to rise from deep slumber. With the curse eradicated, he believed they were no longer in danger, but he still wished to verify it for himself. He wondered if they might simply stay asleep; it was a fate not unimaginable after all he had witnessed of the gods and the frightening power they possessed.
As Xiao waited, there was a vague tug at his awareness. A sweet scent tickled his nose. His head lifted and he went forward, leaping to the soft grass below, following the smell. It was only when he crossed into a golden wheat field with the midday sun blazing overhead that he understood where he was.
A short distance away, a mortal man leaned against the shaft of a sickle, watching children chase each other through tall wheat stalks. He was smiling. He had not noticed Xiao’s presence at his back. He would not see the danger in his dream until it was too late.
Hunger bloomed in Xiao’s belly, causing him to buckle in half and clutch his middle to brace against the sharp, stabbing pangs. He sobbed airlessly and pushed his forehead into the gritty earth. Then he dug in his fingers, hands clawing into soil to keep himself rooted, to prevent himself from lunging forward and tearing further into the mortal’s mind. A craving apart from anything he’d experienced burned raw and vital through his body. Its flavor coated his tongue, slick and addictive and familiar.
“No,” he growled, “no.”
He could not. He would not.
A sob rose in his throat as he flattened himself down against the dirt, unwilling to move for as long as it would take the urge to ride out. Yet already he could sense—hear, smell, taste—the dreams around him, pouring from the happy village now spared their nightmares. Voices laughed, sang, called out. They were swept to the height of fantasy, and he longed to consume them all, to shred that elated emotion with his teeth until they screamed again in terror.
Xiao.
It was a whisper, yet it came to him louder than the commotion of his own thoughts, a summoning speared through the rush of blood in his ears. Xiao gasped against the earth. His vision blackened until he could no longer see the sun overhead nor feel its warmth over his back.
All at once the world was silent and still, and the hunger in his stomach began to cool.
Xiao lifted his head.
He was kneeling in darkness, light provided only by the primal glow of cor lapis covering the walls in patches and chunks, veined and pulsing dull gold. He stared at this puzzling view, the ore’s terrestrial heartbeat a soothing rhythm that gradually calmed his mind into order. Then he blinked hard, seeing spangles of color behind his eyelids, and tried to move.
He stopped when his back met the obstacle of a wall. Uncertainly, he put out one hand to feel across it. Firm and warm, it sloped in a broad plane, and it wasn’t until his fingers collided with a jutting ridge of lapis that he realized his mistake.
Beneath his hand, he felt movement: a slow rise and fall that matched the hum of illumination around the room. It was breathing. It was alive, and what he’d taken as rock was instead a mass of scales and spines.
Morax was lying on the ground enclosing him in a perfect circle.
The heat was immense. Xiao felt sweat tickling the back of his neck as he withdrew his hand sharply, stung by his own indignity. Morax appeared to be asleep—as his eyes adjusted, he saw the huge head a few steps away, unresponsive, eyelids shut. He forced himself to stand, but he was confronted with trouble when he realized how difficult it would be to climb over the god’s serpentine body unobtrusively. Still, he had no choice if he wanted to remove himself from his god’s immediate, intimate presence. If he used his natural ability to leap and dash over, then perhaps it could be done quickly. If not, he would submit himself to Morax’s punishment for interrupting his god’s rest.
Xiao turned and looked for the best place to jump in the low light from the ore. It was then he saw two slitted eyes watching him.
He froze. Panic locked his throat.
“I—” he stumbled. “Forgive me—”
There was not enough space to comfortably bow. Xiao went to his knees regardless of this, head lowered and shoulders awkwardly hunched.
“Xiao,” Morax rumbled, so close to his face that the humidity of his breath was scorching. “There is no need for that. I was the one who called you here to me, although I understand the circumstances could be improved.”
Xiao didn’t know what he meant. He kept his head in place, refusing to lift it.
“Your presence was near,” Morax said. “And it was evident that you were struggling.”
“It was not my intention to…”
Morax shushed him, so he closed his mouth and vowed not to open it again unless he was bid to speak. There were only so many transgressions he could bear to commit at once; surely Morax’s patience would end, and what life he had left would run its course. Xiao wouldn’t blame him at all.
“I never bound you to me, Xiao,” the god said, voice no more than a purr, a vibration he felt in his teeth. “I may have released you from your servitude as a consequence of war, but I did not intend to subjugate you similarly. Do you understand? You are free to go where you wish.”
There was a question in it, but he couldn’t comprehend the answer. He said nothing. If he looked too long into the face of Morax’s words, he feared that he might find himself useless and unnecessary; it would be too much.
“I wonder why…” Morax rose, body uncoiling in one lithe line, powerful muscles flexing beneath the gleam of dark scales. Now his head loomed above Xiao. Though he could not see it well, he heard the shift of pitch that indicated the change. “Hmm. Unfortunately, I think that there’s something I must ask of you yet, little one… but I am loath to do it.”
Xiao exhaled. “Anything.”
“Not like this.” Morax made a noise that might have been laughter, but its tone was too dark and its cadence too slow. His great form shifted further away.
It was then the urgency of his pursuit returned, and Xiao lifted up out of his position, gaze falling on the god out of reach, shapeless in shadow. “Morax, forgive me, but I came south seeking you. There is a malady plaguing this land. The fallen gods—”
“Yes,” Morax said. “I know.”
Then Bosacius was right. His head dropped down again and he was silent.
“Come with me.” The god did not sound alarmed or perturbed to learn of the evil spirits beleaguering his territory, and Xiao did not know how to interpret this, but he was as obedient to the command as the first time it was given to him. He rose fully, following Morax’s figure through the dark as it went, meandering in an unseen direction. Xiao’s eyes failed him here, but he knew he could rely on Morax’s lead—for the earth was his domain.
Eventually the ground slanted up beneath his feet. Ahead he saw an opening no wider than a cart, cut out of pale light enough to bring clarity to his vision. Morax fit perfectly through the hole in the rock. Only his tail brushed the upper rim as he went, a soundless scrape.
When they emerged, Xiao went still, horrified by what he saw.
They were on a mountainside near the ocean. The wind lashed him, briny and cold as it stung every inch of bare skin exposed to it. A storm front blackened the horizon, distant rain like a wall over the water moving ominously closer at great speed. It would soon drown the shoreline in heavy sheets. He could hardly tell the time of day, as both sun and moon were missing, blocked out by the enraged weather. The air felt brittle and electric.
It was a battlefield, Xiao knew, but it was larger and more dangerous than any he had witnessed. It was not one he could imagine treading upon.
His head whipped, turning back, and now in the gray light he could see that his god was not as flawless as he thought before. Morax was in disarray, whiskers drooping and fur matted. That divine body was littered with signs of recent conflict, gashes grated across scales in lines raw enough to look viscous and sticky, though they were not bleeding. Perhaps a god did not bleed. Yet it frightened him more than the battlefield to see the damage done to Morax. He edged in, raising his voice over the gale.
“You are hurt,” Xiao said in a breath. “What happened?”
Morax did not answer, but he was watching the ocean so Xiao looked as well. There he saw the faintest glimmer beneath the water. A beast was writhing, long translucent limbs occasionally breaking the surface and crashing down, churning up frothy waves. Its voice bellowed like a quake: “Morax, do you cower? Are you defeated? Face me!”
The Lord of Geo was quiet as the rain finally reached them in a violent deluge that emptied across the land and soaked it through in frigid seconds. Xiao’s eyes burned and his clothing clung to him like a second heavy skin, but he refused to look away.
“What can I do?” he pleaded louder and more desperately. “I will fight your enemy. I will give you my life. I have no need for it.”
Morax, still, said nothing. He was unreachable to Xiao. He moved forward with a primeval grace, sloping to the ridge of the mountainside and then up, climbing in bounds of sinewy strength, ascending at a vertical angle. Xiao shuffled to the edge and shaded his eyes against the rain to watch the god’s path skyward. After a point there was no more mountain to climb, so Morax summoned platforms of rock midair and leapt to each one with quick, limber movements until he was only a dark form far above, slight as a bird on its journey to the heavens.
It was not a place Xiao could follow.
The sea monster came alive with a vengeance, howling words he couldn’t discern over the storm. In its thrashing, it sent rolling hills of water ashore, tentacles reaching up, and up, and up—but Morax had gone too high.
Then the ground cracked open, colossal pieces of rock splintering weightless into the air. The sound was deafening. He recoiled backward to avoid sliding off the mountainside as it rattled with the earthquake. Xiao watched in awe, captivated, as the Lord of Geo threw these sharp-edged stones across the ocean and speared the sea monster through its lashing limbs. It screamed in fury and pain, pinned to the bedrock below. A black ichor began leaching into the water, gathering in opaque pools around its body, but it was still alive, still roaring over the wind and rain.
“Die, Morax! Die for your betrayal! You are nothing! Nothing!”
Xiao saw a blaze of brilliant light plummeting down to earth like a star in freefall, and he knew it was Morax, knew then that this was what he’d witnessed at the beginning, on that battlefield years past just as he was given freedom from his unwilling servitude. It was beautiful and blinding. God assailed god; everything was blurred with motion and power. He couldn’t see anything. He could only hope that Morax would win.
There came one last, agonized howl as the sea monster lost the fight, dying bitterly. The rain began to taper to a drizzle, and the storm clouds cleared to reveal a fresh slate sky.
Xiao anxiously scanned the horizon. The rock spears jutted up like teeth in the newly made isles, but he could not find Morax.
Going to the ridge of the mountain, he leapt down, bursts of wind propelling his pace. He slid at last onto the shore. Then he sprinted across it.
There was a hollow in the soft, gritty sand, ringed by misshapen boulders. Xiao leapt onto one of these bulky slabs and looked down. Morax was there—half-dragon, half-qilin body tightly coiled around itself, golden spines splattered black and scales shiny with the monster’s essence. The god’s head lifted when Xiao came close, and those gleaming eyes pinned him in their axis, pupils blown too wide.
Morax snarled. He showed his teeth to Xiao, mouth dripping with black ichor as though he had torn out the sea monster’s throat like an animal.
“Are you wounded?” he asked, receiving no answer, then made the fatal mistake of retreating down from the boulder onto the sand.
Morax lunged at him.
Heart loud in his ears, Xiao turned to run. He managed to gain distance in one dash before realizing that to flee from a god was senseless, and if Morax wished to kill him, he had no right to mercy. Xiao went still and turned around.
He was knocked back by a heavy blow to the chest, all of the air punched out in one breathless gasp. He landed hard and dizzied. His vision swam, awaiting the end through a haze of pain, but it never arrived.
After bleary moments, Xiao struggled to move—he saw the twisting shape of Morax buffeted by a crane and a stag—and then his world fell into nothing.
Illuminated beasts, themselves sources of divine power in lesser form, had no need for sleep. The state he found himself in was somewhere murky between wakefulness. In this it was familiar, too, although he was unaware of his body being used to execute the machinations of a cruel master as one might perform puppetry. As far as he could sense, all he did in this time was lie on a flat surface and stare at the beams of a featureless ceiling. His body ached, but even that faded eventually from his awareness.
There was not much light in the room, if it was a room at all. His periphery gave little information. Sometimes he noticed footsteps, always exact in their pace, carrying over to his right side. A hand would slide beneath his head and tilt it; the hand had claws, and he felt these against his scalp in hard, cool points of contact. Then the porcelain rim of a cup was put to his lips, and he forced himself to swallow the bitter fluid. It was an identical flavor every time: acidic citrus, mint, and loam. It slid warm down his throat and settled in an empty belly.
Eventually Xiao became impatient with his circumstances and turned his head at the next sound of the footsteps, trying to sit up with the leverage of his elbows. The clawed hand pushed him back down.
“Your bones are mending,” a voice said, and he might have placed it, only it was not rumbling at him from a deep, long throat. And it was sorrowful. “Quite a few were shattered. It would be best to remain still, Xiao, until that time they are healed.”
Squinting eyes vied to identify his caretaker in the vague shadow. He thought he saw glowing ore with slits for pupils; those, finally, he knew. “Morax,” he croaked.
“Shh. I know. It is easier to care for you in this form,” Morax told him. “Don’t trouble yourself. We will speak when you are well again.”
Protest couldn’t be made, not ever against the god at his side, so he shut his eyes and returned his head to a neutral position, allowing his thoughts to drift at the silty bottom of his mind.
Never had he dreamed before, but much later, once he was awake and alert enough to study the dark room of an empty abode, Xiao would wonder if he’d dreamt everything. His god was not there.
His god. Xiao couldn’t place exactly when this sentiment first came upon him, except it was somewhere in the space between Liyue Harbor’s genesis and Osial’s death, once Morax’s vengeful foe was ossified into islands as vivid warning. Morax’s territory was protected. It belonged to the Archon of Geo, and it would not suffer desecration. Or it was a sentiment born even earlier, as he sought Morax across the land and came to realize what it would take to defend that territory against all of those dead gods on all of those battlefields.
Perhaps it was not wise to see Morax as his god. Perhaps he had gone mad, toiling in the delusion of a broken creature that could not stand to live dissident and free. If Bonanus was here, he wondered if she would say this to him. He wondered if she would even be wrong.
This mattered little to Xiao. The fact remained that when his god summoned him next, he went willingly; he was not forced.
The Golden House sat on the cliffs overlooking the meager seaside village of Liyue. It was a sacred place carved out of the rock, and no human could get there unaided, no matter how long they traversed the mountains seeking it—they could climb for days with the Golden House ahead of them, in tempting sight, but they would never reach it. The aid of an adepti was required. And the adepti, on their part, first needed Morax’s permission.
When Xiao arrived, it was late autumn, and the world around him was a smear of crisp color, canopies rainbowed in reds and oranges and yellows as far as his eye could see. The air felt brisk. His body had healed well, and it did not ache when he finished the climb.
The golden door hinged open easily beneath his hand.
Xiao slipped inside, moving through the shadowed entrance and into the greater chamber at its heart. Lanterns hung on arches, reflecting off pillars of solid gold to paint the interior a permanent, honeyed glow. His footsteps echoed on the glazed tiles. There were sigils etched into the walls; they were the symbol of geo, diamond-shaped, two angular lines forming the perfect symmetrical center.
This place must once have been a hole in the mountain scraped out by brutal hands, but now it was shaped by mortal improvements into a proper temple. It sheltered divinity.
Xiao felt very small in that space. He was not sure where to go, so he stood there foolishly and waited for a sign. He did not have to wait long.
He heard movement. When he turned, a man emerged from one of the offshooting hallways.
Not a man, Xiao realized—a god.
His god.
Morax’s appearance was changed; he now wore a guise crossed halfway between mortal and animal. He had kept the curved antlers and the thick, bushy tail, but his body had shrunk to a human structure, dwarfed by its original size if no less fierce in demeanor. His arms were bare, an ombre gradient from dark to light: black shoulders sloped to brown, then turned into the brilliant gold of two clawed hands. A geometric pattern shone on his skin like lapis ore. He was wearing a white cloak, holes in the hood for horns to jut up, hair hanging loose and sleek. His feet were bare and nearly silent on the ground. Only his eyes were identical, slitted and keen in their intelligence.
Xiao caught himself before he stumbled back, cowed in his uncertainty. He was so astonished he forgot to bow.
“There you are,” Morax said. He stood almost three heads taller, but it was not so high as before, and that gaze razed him. It wasn’t as though he thought Morax was different, but… for the first time, it seemed to him the god felt within reach. “I am grateful you came. In the future, if you should ever need me, consider this domain a reasonable place to start. I expect I will be spending a lot of time here.”
“Why?” Xiao blurted.
Morax smiled, the expression new on a handsome and almost human face. “How are you feeling?”
His eyes dropped. “Fine. Well. I am healed.”
“There’s no worthy apology I can offer for what was done. It was a moment of weakness on my part,” Morax said. “When you have fought in war for as long as I have, Xiao, you must understand that there are times, in the heat and fire of conflict, where it becomes you. It must, or else it will destroy you. I have seen that happen too many times. By now I’ve lost count. Still, it is not a good reason for attacking an ally on the battlefield.”
“No, that’s…” Xiao swallowed past the knot in his throat. “I don’t blame you.”
“I had a feeling you would say so.”
“It is true,” he said, suddenly realizing his indecency and sinking down to his knees. He was stopped before he could bend the rest of the way over. Morax’s hand touched the top of his head; he went rigid.
“Please, not this time. Rise.”
Mechanically, bone by bone, he unfolded and stood upright.
“This war is ending,” Morax went on, looking at Xiao all the while he looked away. “Six of the seven seats have been claimed. Countless gods have perished or fled. The world after war, I believe, will come to look quite different from what we’re used to, little one.”
Fabric rustled with movement. Xiao’s eyes peeked sideways, catching a glimpse of what Morax revealed in the palm of his hand: it was a small, cylindrical item with a square stone of lapis at the head. It resembled a piece of jewelry.
“My prize,” Morax clarified, “as ruling Archon of this land.” Slender claws closed over it and tucked it away. His next words sounded remote. “Are you afraid of me?”
Xiao startled. “No, I—” Then his mouth shut.
The silence ached. He could not bring himself to lie to his god.
“I respect you,” he managed to utter at last. “And I am indebted to you.”
“You are not.”
“I am,” Xiao said. “You released me from the chains of my previous master.”
“I killed your previous master out of vengeance, earning your freedom as a consequence of my brutality.”
“It was mercy,” he protested hotly. “Without your intervention, I would still be suffering their cruelty. I would be in agony, committing atrocities against my will at the bidding of another.”
Morax did not respond to this immediately, and for a moment he thought he had misstepped, evoking anger in the god for his disagreement—but looking more closely at that new face, Morax didn’t appear enraged. His features were coolly composed, and the corners of his mouth pinched gently up. Xiao could not determine whether it meant to display humor or more sorrow. “Yet here you are, prepared to give yourself to me in the same manner. Isn’t this why you were trying to find me, Xiao? To tell me of the spirits manifesting within my land, and that you had every intention of hunting them down for my sake, no matter the toll it took on you?”
Xiao’s lips pressed into a line. “That… is not the same.”
“No, it is a more willing enslavement, but one nonetheless.” Morax moved away, and his soul stretched in the desire to follow, to beg forgiveness for whatever wrong he had seemingly committed. He knew he’d done something. Did his god hate him? Would he be sent away as penalty for some invisible mistake?
All this time he had expected and anticipated punishment. Yet now it was coming, and he could not bear it.
“Please,” Xiao pleaded. “I only wish to serve you.”
“You don’t understand what you ask of me,” Morax said. His voice was low, but it was fierce, echoing off the gold walls. His back faced Xiao. “You have no idea what this will cost.”
“I am willing to give it. Whatever it is.”
His god only leaned down, placing one hand flat to the floor. The tile split open, cracks spidering apart until the seam widened and something was pulled out—long, sleek, silver and green, deadly. It was a spear. The point formed a delicate, bladed arch surrounded by jewels of jade like sharp teeth.
“In this form,” he said, turning around, elegantly twirling the weapon as though it was made to fit his hands, “it is much easier to use mortal tools. The human race is crafty and inventive; I have seen their progress, their ingenuity and adaptivity developing over thousands of years, yet it never ceases to surprise me how much they can create. Perhaps the nature of being mortal requires this condition. In comparison, the gods are slow and dimwitted creatures unwilling to change.”
Xiao was staring at the jade spearhead, rapt.
“Mortals don’t live long.” Morax stopped in front of him. “Their lives are fragile and small. They are inevitably racing toward the end. Any chance they have to improve themselves and their circumstances… well, they must take it.”
The weapon was held out to him. Stunned, he blinked, eyes snapping onto Morax’s face.
“I will need to say it again and again,” Morax’s voice gentled, “but I am sorry, Xiao. I need you. I wish I did not. The other yakshas have come to me in your stead as you healed—they recognize the danger of allowing this world to be touched by the embittered spirits of the fallen gods. We have agreed to a contract.”
“A contract,” Xiao echoed. He continued staring at the weapon, unable to take it.
“A formal agreement. I will never chain you to me against your will, and this will stand testament to that. All of the adepti serve me according to conditions that are first discussed and defined. It is a binding arrangement, of course, but it is not done unilaterally. It requires both sides to come to a consensus. It is fair.”
“I… don’t understand. What does this weapon have to do with a contract?”
“It is the first condition,” Morax said. He kneeled on the tile, glittering and gold. “And it is my gift to you, for if you are to battle against my enemies, I will ensure you do it with a tool befitting your talent.”
Xiao felt an immense discomfort at their subverted positions. “I cannot accept this.”
“You’ll have to,” Morax said plainly. “I won’t allow this arrangement otherwise. Xiao, there is more to say. What you wish to do for my sake, and for the sake of my territory, is not so simple as it seems. It isn’t the straightforward duty of a warrior on a battlefield. You and the others will have noticed it by now… that black, burdensome feeling after you’ve removed a vengeful spirit from this plane, sparing humanity its curse. Do you know what that is?”
He recalled how it felt. A sickly burn across his skin as the beast was slaughtered in the woods, a tangible weight of resentment when the nightmare split beneath Bosacius’ sword. Xiao shook his head.
“It is the debt you will have to pay,” Morax said, “each time you beat back the gods. And it will never end.”
He swallowed, feeling his throat stick.
“Their hatred is immortalized. That is what you will have to contend with in every encounter. It’s also why I hesitate to even allow this contract’s legitimacy.” Morax’s eyes closed. For the first time, he noticed a pattern of delicate scales around the god’s eyelids. “… Yet it must be done.”
There was not an errant thought in his mind as he said, “I’ll do it.”
Morax opened his eyes, irises too gold to bear around vivid slits of black. “No hesitation? I suppose I should have expected as much. Still,” and the smile came again, now a clear curve of sorrow, “how regretful.”
Xiao did not need to speak when he reached out and took the spear into hand. The power thrummed through him like a heartbeat, some second living thing—an extension of himself as well as a physical signature of his god’s conscript. He closed his eyes, releasing his breath. Morax stood above and was silent. The contract was made.
And for so long as he might continue to exist, he would serve.