Decay’s domain reeked of endings.

  Fetid air thick with spores. Pools of black water teeming with rot. The constant slurp and plop of things falling apart. Gnarled trees, their bark peeling away in ribbons of rotted flesh, stood as silent sentinels in the murky gloom. Crumbling temples, their once-proud columns now reduced to jagged stumps, littered the landscape like broken teeth. Pools of blackened water lay stagnant, occasionally releasing bubbles of noxious gas that popped with sickly whispers.

  It was beautiful, in its own way. A canvas of gradual degradation, painted with the slow brush of time and neglect.

  As she walked among its shadows, she cherished her masterpiece of rot.

  In a sudden rush, the tension in the air shifted. She paused, alone on her daily walk, having never feared anything to enter her domain.

  This, however, was different.

  Decay felt it before she saw it—a presence so overwhelming, so absolute, that even the act of decay itself seemed to pause in reverence. The shadows deepened, coalescing into a figure cloaked in inky blackness. He emerged as if he had always been there.

  Watching.

  Waiting, like an executioner polishing his axe.

  Death had arrived.

  Decay’s breath caught in her throat, a lump of fear she couldn’t swallow. Her lips, usually curled in a sardonic smile, trembled. This was power beyond her comprehension, beyond even her sister's reach. This was the end of all things, wrapped in a calm demeanor that only made him more terrifying.

  “My Lord,” she managed, hating how her voice quivered. “To what do I owe this... honor?”

  Death’s face was hidden beneath his hood, but she could feel his gaze upon her. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly gentle, almost cheerful. “Now, now, my dear Decay. There's no need for such formality between us. After all, we’re practically family.”

  Decay’s eyes widened. Was he mocking her? Did Death have a sense of humor? The thought was almost as terrifying as his presence.

  “Are you here to... end me?” she asked, forcing the words past her fear.

  Death chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling in an autumn wind. “Not today, my dear.”

  Those words should have been reassuring.

  They weren’t.

  “Then why—”

  “I know what you’re planning,” Death interrupted, his tone shifting to something more businesslike. “And I know who you’re after.”

  Decay opted not to reply, but her neck tensed with the unspoken warning in his tone.

  “This little passion project of yours,” he said with a broad gesture across her domain. “I like it. It suits me. Thus, I have a proposition for you,”

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  It took everything in Decay’s power to not balk at the very idea of making a deal with Death himself. “A proposition, my Lord?”

  He nodded. “It concerns Cade Stormhollow.”

  Decay's fear gave way to confusion, then suspicion. “What about him?”

  “You will call off your little vendetta,” Death ordered. “Cin will come home, and you will not send any of your assassins after him again. No more attempts on his life, and no more blaming things on your charming sister.”

  It wasn’t a request.

  Anger flared in Decay's chest, momentarily overwhelming her fear. “You can't be serious. That mortal—”

  “—belongs to my love,” Death interrupted. “My beautiful Destruction owns him, and he is therefore under my protection as well as hers. Do not defy the old gods, Decay. You will not win.”

  Death’s voice carried a hint of steel that emphasized the devastating power lurking just beyond his calm exterior.

  Decay swallowed hard. So much writhed beneath the surface of her thoughts—indignation, rebellion, even bristling anger. She was not used to being spoken to in such a way by anyone, gods or mortals alike, and in her own domain no less.

  But Death was something more than even her, and no wise soul dared to argue with him.

  Instead, she forced her features into a mask of indifference. “My Lord, I need the Remnant he stole.”

  “‘Need’ is a strong word,” Death chided. “But I have use for you and this little passion project of yours.”

  Before she could reply, Death reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a small, crystalline object. It pulsed with an otherworldly energy, darkness and light swirling within its faceted surface. Decay's breath caught again, this time in awe rather than fear.

  “Is that—”

  “One of my Remnants,” he confirmed, holding it out to her. “More power than you've ever dreamed of, my dear. Enough to spread your influence across half the continent.”

  Decay’s mind raced. The possibilities were intoxicating. With that kind of power, she could rival her brutish sister. Hells below, she could possibly even take out Honor or Destiny with that much magic. Greed flared to life, and it almost got the better of her. After a moment of reflection, she realized what felt off about his offer.

  It all seemed too good to be true.

  “Why?” she asked, her eyes never leaving the Remnant. “Why offer me this?”

  Death’s hood tilted slightly, as if he were considering her question. “It’s not for you to know. Do we have a deal?”

  Decay hesitated, her ambition warring with her suspicion. This was too easy. There had to be a catch, some hidden clause that would come back to haunt her.

  In the end, however, her greed won.

  “Deal,” she said, reaching for the Remnant.

  “Tsk,” he chided, and the Remnant disappeared into his cloak. “Prove to me first that you can obey, little goddess, and I will see to it that you are rewarded.”

  She blinked, and in that split second, the cloaked figure closed the distance between them. He leaned over her, a breath away, and the air between them frosted over. Ice crept along her skin from his mere presence, breaking through her defenses and biting her with a mortal chill for the first time in ages.

  “You are my ward, now,” he said, and his voice took on an ominous glint. “My wards obey me, or they die. And trust me, my dear, I can claim even you.”

  Decay swallowed hard, captivated as she was by the endless shadows beneath his hood, and she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe, and she simply gaped at him in horrified silence.

  And then he was gone, melting back into the shadows as if he'd never been there at all.

  Decay stood alone in her realm, clutching a hand to her chest as her breath returned in ragged gasps. The chill faded from her skin, and she was left once more with the numb sensation of nothingness.

  Slowly, her fear faded, replaced by a heady mix of triumph and trepidation. She had made a deal with Death himself and lived to tell the tale. As she gazed out over her beautiful domain, however, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered a warning.

  She had just become a pawn in a game far larger than any she had ever known. And Death, it seemed, was a master player.

  Decay smiled, a cruel twist of her lips.

  Let the games begin.

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