A chilling wind surrounded the Country of the Death the day Patriarch Khalus was murdered.
Goddess Messaline, the proud Matriarch of her own Country of the Clairvoyant was visiting that day too, noticing something bitter and unsettling in the air. Something of the same quality of betrayal. However, she’d not known that the Death God was going to be killed.
If she’d rushed, she would have seen the act of murder. She would have known who killed the Death God.
She’d stepped into his chambers to greet Patriarch Khalus, but found him surrounded in a pool of his own blood, a knife painted red balancing on his open palm. Messaline knew the man had a penchant for talking morbidly about how interesting being dead would be, but to actually kill himself?
He had not. It was plain as day for the Goddess of Clairvoyance. She had scented murder in the winds of the Death Country, and it only meant one thing; Khalus hadn’t killed himself. He’d been killed. But by who?
The answer was obvious, was it not? Only a higher-up could kill a God, and the only person with status higher than the Death God was the God of the Heavens himself. The God of Heavens, Messaline duly noted as she dared to make such an assumption, was a man of peace. He would not have dared kill Khalus, right?
A single raven stirred outside the window of Khalus’s bed chamber, cawing and flapping its wings. Then, it struck her-the answer so clear to her then.
Messaline knelt beside the black-robed corpse and stroked his sallow cheek, taking in the threads of his memory through the tips of her pearlescent fingers. And there it was-the man who killed him.
She sighed and walked out. A shame, how Khalus had let himself go this way. To be murdered by his own subject.
Death shan’t take thyself.
A lie. All of it. Lies, lies, lies.