A God's Bitterness, A Dryad's Name

“You’re a god?” The question spilled from her lips before she could restrain it. The word felt alien and yet, as she turned it over in her mind, astonishingly fitting. Jianna had never imagined needing such a concept to articulate a feeling, but standing there, the sole audience to an impossible confession, she was utterly and completely stunned.

“Were,” Malakor corrected, the word a low, gravelly rumble in his chest. “Not anymore. It was a very long time ago. So don’t you worry about it.”

“So?” Jianna pressed, her eyes tracing the gaunt, wretched figure before her. His frame was skeletal, and his clothing was so threadbare and frayed she was amazed the threads held together at all. With his hollowed eyes and long, drawn face, he looked like the very antithesis of a deity. His bizarre behavior in the throne room earlier suddenly clicked into a strange kind of focus. Why would he react so violently to the revelation of his former divinity? “That doesn’t change what you were! An actual god! It’s not every day you meet someone who was once divine, is it?”

Malakor rolled his eyes, his tone seeping into the crisp mountain air with a profound bitterness. “Will you just drop it? Yes, I was a god. Now, I am not. All my powers were stripped from me, save for this damnable immortality. I cannot be killed, except by my own hand or that of an enemy. For the foreseeable future, I am doomed to be The Council’s lapdog.”

“Wh-what does that mean?” Jianna asked, her voice small.

He snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. “It means I am a slave to The Council until I either find a way to die or the current gods deign to release me.” His voice trailed into a grim whisper. “And knowing them, that will never happen. Never.”

A pang of sympathy moved through her, and Jianna reached out, attempting to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. She knew she could never grasp the true depth of his agony, but she could feel the cold weight of it in the space between them. He flinched away instinctively, shaking her arm off and taking several rigid steps back. Clasping the chilly stone of the balcony railing, he turned from her to stare out at the ragged peaks of the distant mountains. She could see the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching, a silent testament to his inner turmoil.

They stood in a strained silence, thick with unspoken words. Neither moved nor acknowledged the other, standing like statues against the wind that whispered around the castle parapets. At last, Malakor sighed and gestured vaguely over his shoulder.

“Dinner is beginning,” he said, his voice quiet and devoid of emotion. Jianna searched his face for any hint of feeling, but it was an unreadable stone mask. “You should go inside.”

Swallowing past a lump that had formed in her throat, Jianna nodded silently. “Okay,” was all she could manage. As she turned away, she gave his shoulder a light, reassuring pat. Just as she was opening the heavy glass balcony doors, she thought she heard him mutter something.

She glanced back. “Did you say something?”

“I said,” Malakor began, his voice a low and venomous snarl, “don’t pity me.” Though he wasn’t looking at her, Jianna was certain that if he were, she would be facing a glare that could melt iron. The raw tension in his shoulders and the white-knuckled death grip he had on the railing radiated pure rage.

Jianna was now thoroughly bewildered. “What? I don’t pity you.”

Malakor snorted again, a sound of pure contempt. “You say you don’t, but I can see it in your eyes, read it in your posture. You don’t live as long as I have without learning a thing or two about reading people. I don’t need your pity. I certainly don’t want it.” Tilting his head slightly, he fixed one of his oversized, crimson eyes on her, a banked fire burning in its depths. “I’m used to your scorn. Didn’t you notice? Even that wretched Satyri was disgusted by what I am when he learned the truth. I’m not to be trusted. I’m too weak to lead my own people.”

He whirled around completely then, advancing on her. Jianna retreated from the sheer force of his presence until her back pressed against the icy, unforgiving glass of the doors. He took only two steps before halting abruptly, his entire body trembling with fury.

“It wasn’t even my fault!” he roared, his voice thick with hatred. “It was her. She and her blasted, idiotic games. She was the one who lost, not me!”

“Malakor, what are you talking about?” Jianna cried out, transfixed by his fury and, for the first time since they had met, truly terrified of the Demon.

“Nothing!” Malakor raged. He then spun on his heel and launched himself over the balcony’s edge. Despite his intimidating display, a wave of alarm shot through Jianna, and she rushed to the railing, fearing the worst. Her horror gave way to wonder as she watched him scale the castle’s sheer wall with a terrifying grace, his six-limbed form finding secure holds in the ancient stonework as if he were born to it.

With a shuddering sigh of relief, Jianna turned away, only then noticing that her own body was shaking. She had never responded well to being yelled at, and Malakor’s raw fury had left her genuinely frightened. Taking a few unsteady steps across the balcony, she re-entered the castle just in time to see the last of the guests disappearing through a large doorway down the hall. She hurried to catch up, following them into another chamber where the others were already taking their seats around a long, polished table. Unsure of the proper etiquette, Jianna chose an empty chair near the door. As she reached to pull it out, a servant materialized at her side and held the high-backed chair for her.

I didn’t know people still did that, she thought as she was gently pushed forward to the table. Then again, this is a different world.

The remainder of the meal passed in a haze of stiff formality. Blynn sat beside her, a calm and reassuring presence, while Flitterwing held court directly across the table, still enveloped by his glittering entourage of chattering Feyan. Jianna had to look away from them several times, feeling an almost physical nausea as she witnessed their crass flirtations, their innuendos constantly threatening to spill over into outright coarseness. Once the kings and queens were seated, the meal was served, and the hall filled with a low murmur of conversation. Jianna ate on autopilot, paid scant attention to Flitterwing’s attempts at teasing, and found her thoughts consumed by two pressing concerns: Malakor, and her own precarious position. What in the world was going to become of her?

“We must strike now, while their forces are still consolidating!” Queen Dawnstrider slammed her hand on the heavy oak table for emphasis. The sharp crack echoed in the tense silence of the strategy room.

After dinner, a servant had escorted Jianna and her companions to yet another chamber, where they now listened with growing confusion as the leaders of the Light Alliance debated the best way to defeat Lady Zovira and scatter her armies. Queen Dawnstrider and Lord Pherrus seemed to favor a direct, overwhelming assault—the ‘destroy everything’ option—while King Kyron and Queen Lyraxis argued for a more cautious and strategic approach.

“Every week, Zovira rallies more of the Grey Factions to her banner,” Dawnstrider continued, her tone sharp and urgent. “If we do not attack soon, her forces will be insurmountable.”

“And what of Zovira herself, Dawnstrider?” King Kyron countered, his voice a cool, rational counterpoint. “Her magic is a force beyond anything we can command. We cannot simply send a phalanx of our best mages to destroy her. You know what happened the last time that was attempted.”

For a moment, Queen Dawnstrider sulked, her jaw tight. “Fine. Then this human girl simply needs to be trained. How long will that take?”

“Anywhere from three weeks, to three months, to three years,” Aria’s silky voice cut through the tension. “The time is different for every individual.”

As Dawnstrider made a sound of frustration deep in her throat, Lord Pherrus leaned forward. “So, when will you begin training the girl?”

Aria gave a soft, knowing laugh. “My own abilities are a pale shadow compared to hers. She requires a far more powerful mentor to guide her development safely and effectively.”

“Who?” King Kyron’s gaze was commanding.

A silent awe fell over the room as Aria spoke the name. “Asgath,” she said. “The Dryad, Asgath. He is arguably the most powerful seer in the world, with skills that could nearly rival Zovira’s own.”