Page 15 of Thorn & Ash
CYRUS
Cyrus was a shell of who he once used to be. The only thing he could compare it to was that hazy state between sleep and consciousness, when his brain was muddled and he couldn’t quite think straight.
Of course, thinking about this state of mind made him think of Prue. It was only with her that he had ever slept. As a god, he generally had no need for such mortal weaknesses. But around her, it didn’t feel like a weakness at all, but something private to be shared just with her.
A sudden bolt of clarity speared through his mind at the thought of his witch bride, and the dark cloud of his mind began to clear. He sat atop his throne in Styx, overseeing Tartarus. The crown of bones rested upon his head. He could barely make out the horned demon who stood before him—Abraxos was his name. He was tasked with keeping the tormented souls in line, ensuring they wouldn’t escape.
Cyrus had no control over his motions or his voice, but whatever magical being held Cyrus’s body captive was using him to yell obscenities at the demon overseer.
Cyrus had tried raging and thrashing against the death magic that had trapped him. But his fight only seemed to empower it. And upon further reflection, Cyrus realized this made sense. His anger, his rage, always fueled his power. It fed it like tinder to a flame.
He needed a different tactic. So for now, he lurked in the shadows of his mind, watching. Waiting.
Cyrus had never been particularly patient. But when his consciousness had emerged to find Prue shackled and starving—yet her pale purple eyes as fierce and determined as ever—something inside him broke. He would do anything—anything—to free her from this prison.
Even if it meant biding his time until he found a weak spot in his magic.
He paid close attention to the words coming out of his traitorous mouth. Sifting through the violent curses, he made out words such as “careless” and “dangerous” and “escape.”
Gods above… Had a soul escaped from Tartarus?
Cyrus strained, his mind already beginning to fog once more. Focus, he urged himself. Just a bit longer.
Finally, he could make out the mumbled response of Abraxos.
“My king, no one has escaped,” the demon growled. “We are being cautious.”
“Not cautious enough!” Cyrus screeched in a voice that sounded nothing like his own. “I felt the souls at the edge of the barrier. They should never be allowed that close.”
Cyrus grew more alert at this. There was genuine panic in his captor’s mind. It bled into Cyrus’s own thoughts, leaking through as if this magical being were so enraged—or frightened—that its defenses were wearing down.
Something in Tartarus had his death magic terrified.
This was interesting news indeed.
Perhaps he could use this panic to his advantage. How much could he get away with when the death magic was so distracted?
Carefully, tentatively, Cyrus pressed his consciousness forward, trying to reach his body. A finger. Just move a finger. That’s all.
The air went perfectly still, and Cyrus stopped.
But it was too late.
A dark force slammed into him, crushing him, dragging him back down into oblivion. Foul curses filled his mind as the death magic chained him once more, bringing everything into darkness.
What are you? he demanded into the darkness. How could he fight this foe if he didn’t even know what it was? Until recently, he believed his magic to be something non-living. Something he could wield like a weapon.
But it was so much more than that. It had thoughts and fears. It was alive.
A deep chuckle resonated in his mind, and the voice answered: I am Kronos.
PROGRESS
MONA
Before Mona’s Resurrection
Rest when you’re dead was such a stupid phrase. Because, as it turned out, Mona couldn’t rest when she was dead. Her soul remained hovering meaninglessly above the stream alongside a very quiet river guardian who watched her tirelessly as if she were a rare specimen to be observed instead of a soul to be saved.