Chapter 9

  Glenn stood in the lobby of the IT Department looking nervous that someone knew what was going on. He stared at his scythe, remembering his fight with Yoshiko. He questioned if he was really doing the right thing.

  Steve nervously approached.

  “So, it is really happening?” asked Steve.

  “Yeah,” said Glenn, handing his scythe over.

  Steve moaned and grabbed his stomach. “Ohhh.”

  “Something wrong?” asked Glenn.

  “I’m fine. A lot of us have been feeling ill since the party. But we don’t get sick here so maybe it is just because our quarterly reviews are today,” said Steve.

  “Reveiws?” Glenn looked with a blank stare.

  “Oh. Oh, no. Don’t tell me you didn’t do your review,” said Steve.

  “This is the first time I am even hearing that word! What review?”

  “Every quarter we have to review ourselves and the workplace. And then you go over it with the Manager.”

  “Wait, he gets to read it?”

  “Yeah. And then he reviews you back after.”

  “Wait. So let me get this straight. You have to review what has been going on. So if you have a problem with the leadership and state that, they will read it? And then base a review on my performance after?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you don’t think that is idiotic?”

  “It's terrible. It’s horrible. Evil even. But it is not idiotic. Management does that on purpose so you keep your mouth shut. Anything you say can and will be used against you. Look. We don’t need attention right now. So go back to your computer. Do your review and come find me after you talk with Michlantculi. I will have the scythe ready by then,” said Steve.

  Glenn agreed and headed back toward his desk.

  “Oh and Glenn!” Steve said, shouting from the distance. “Don’t let the review get you down. You are one of the best to walk these halls.”

  That was one of the nicest things Steve said to Glenn yet. As he sat down at his computer desk, he looked around. Yoshiko was nowhere to be found. He did notice everyone was acting a little odd or sick just like Steve said.

  Glenn turned on the computer and the first thing to pop up was his review from HR with huge “overdue” bold letters flashing.

  Glenn clicked the file and it opened to a document with just four questions.

  What is going well?

  What could be better?

  What challenges do you see yourself facing in the future?

  How would you rate yourself as a Reaper on a scale of zero to five stars?

  That's it? Glenn thought he should just say what he thinks they want him to say and just get this over with. No point in being honest otherwise it may cause problems. So he just started to answer without much thought.

  What is going well?

  I defeated two Sisters of Death. I’ve gained immense power, and am on the board for Reaps. I am now able to keep up with the Elder Reapers.

  What could be better?

  I could demonstrate even greater alignment with Management goals and further streamline my interpersonal communication skills to reflect a more professional tone.

  What challenges?

  I foresee bigger responsibilities with my new powers. I am trying to make Management so I can take on harder challenges that test me.

  My Reaper Rating?

  Everyone seems to like me. I work well with others. Five stars.

  Ok that is good enough. Glenn just quickly glossed over it and hit send.

  *Ding!

  A message appeared on his computer.

  Thank you for your review. Please see Management now.

  Already? He just hit send. Oh well. Glenn had time to kill anyway. As he headed toward the office he saw Oni rubbing the back of a troll who was puking into a bucket.

  Glenn knocked on the office door.

  “Come in,” said Mictlantecuhtli.

  Glenn entered and a wave of uncertainty hit him.

  Today, Mictlantecuhtli wore an immaculate three-piece suit stitched with veins of midnight and gold, and his skeletal face grinned in a way that could curdle blood.

  “Glenn Garcia,” he said in a voice both oily and regal. “It is always a treat to have you here. Sit, sit.”

  “This won’t take up too much of your time. This is your first review, correct? Well, think of it just as a check in. We want to make sure you are happy here, too. The more our Reapers are happy, the more we get out of them.”

  Glenn didn’t say a word yet.

  Mictlantecuhtli skimmed over a few glowing reports, making little humming noises.

  “Well, first off, Glenn, I must say…” Mictlantecuhtli leaned forward, steepling his fingers, “...you have shown remarkable perseverance. Especially considering all the resources we extend to support your… unique methods.”

  Glenn nodded awkwardly.

  “I mean, it’s truly heartwarming how much extra coverage we arrange for you every time you need a break,” Mictlantecuhtli continued smoothly. “Despite your... frequent absences.”

  Glenn blinked. “Sir, I’ve never—”

  “No need to explain!” Mictlantecuhtli cut in with a raised hand and a benevolent smile. “Self-care is vital, Glenn. We at Management pride ourselves on flexibility. Why, we even forgive when employees are... somewhat inconsistent with internal reporting timelines.” His eyes glinted.

  Glenn felt his stomach knot. “Of course. Thank you for your understanding.”

  A loud bang was heard outside and the lights flickered in the room.

  Mictlantecuhtli looked around. “Huh. That was odd. We don’t normally get power outages here. Elders must be battling hard in the gym.”

  Mictlantecuhtli flipped a page on the tablet with a clawed finger, sighing theatrically.

  “Now, about your ratings…” He tapped the self-assessment. “Giving yourself a five. Very ambitious. Very confident.” He chuckled—an unsettling, hollow sound. “We love confidence here. Sometimes it blinds employees to areas where they could... grow.”

  Glenn smiled stiffly, the kind of smile that could shatter glass.

  “But truly,” Mictlantecuhtli said, leaning in with a whispery faux-conspiratorial tone, “you are such a valued member of the Reaper Team. Your enthusiasm for learning from your mistakes”—he paused just long enough for the insult to land—“is inspiring. Even if, occasionally, it creates... unique challenges for the rest of the department.”

  Glenn gripped the arms of the chair. Another quake rumbling through the room. This one was even more powerful than the last.

  “Is everything OK sir?” Glenn asked concerned.

  Mictlantecuhtli added to his notes. “Asks too many questions.” He continued. “Glenn, we are in an underworld full of mythical creatures. Weird stuff can happen. And besides, you know this is the one place where we are all safe. Can I continue?”

  Glenn nodded.

  Mictlantecuhtli leaned back, flourishing a quill.

  “In summary, Glenn, I’m proud to say... you are exceeding expectations.”

  Glenn allowed himself a breath of cautious relief.

  “...verbally, of course,” Mictlantecuhtli added sweetly, sliding a scroll across the desk.

  Glenn unfurled it—and his blood went cold.

  Attendance: Needs Improvement

  Teamwork: Questionable

  Performance: Inconsistent

  Compliance with Management Protocols: Satisfactory (with Opportunity for Growth)

  Initiative: Overzealous, Requires Supervision

  Final Rating: 2/5 – Under Review for Future Opportunities

  Glenn stared at the parchment.

  “But you just said—"

  Mictlantecuhtli beamed. “And I meant every word, Glenn. You are exceeding expectations… for someone in your developmental stage.”

  “Right,” Glenn muttered.

  “Keep it up!” Mictlantecuhtli added cheerfully, already rising to signal the meeting was over. “We’re all rooting for you.”

  Mictlantecuhtli walked over to Glenn and put out his hand. Glenn shook it and they walked to the door together.

  “No. Please don’t!” a voice was heard outside.

  *Bam. A body slammed against the door outside.

  Mictlantecuhtli and Glenn both looked at each other, confused.

  Glenn opened the door and stepped outside with Mictlantecuhtli.

  The door to the Director's Office clicked softly behind Glenn.

  He adjusted the crumpled review sheet under his arm, still mentally cursing the passive-aggressive mess of a meeting he just endured. He stared down the familiar hallway, expecting the usual hum of life — a Hermes Assistant whizzing by, a Techlops arguing with a gremlin about server lag, Maeve’s laughter echoing from the lounge.

  Instead, there was only silence.

  Glenn slowed. His shoes tapped lightly against the stone floor, the sound swallowed by an eerie stillness that raised the hairs on his neck.

  He rounded the corner.

  The first thing he saw was blood.

  It streaked across the pristine white floor like someone had dragged a body—a lot of bodies.

  His heart hammered as he stepped into the main hallway.

  Maeve was slumped against the wall, her banshee wail forever silenced, her eyes wide in frozen horror. A long, jagged wound tore across her chest. Her beautiful white hair was stained crimson.

  “No…” Glenn whispered.

  He stumbled forward, and the horror only worsened.

  The Hermes Assistants lay scattered, feet broken and bloodied. Some had fallen mid-run, expressions frozen in panic. The Techlops lay crushed against a wall, one massive hand still outstretched as if trying to shield others.

  The security trolls and Oni were torn apart. Their weapons — always so proud and polished — were shattered and tossed aside like toys.

  The deeper Glenn went, the more the massacre revealed its brutality.

  Burns. Slashes. Blood splattered high on the walls like grotesque artwork.

  The lounge was worse.

  Tables overturned. Cups of remembrance brew spilled and mixed with blood, forming small pools of violet and scarlet.

  Yami’s body was draped across the bar, his robes ripped apart, his sword fallen uselessly to the floor. His eyes were still open, but empty — a Shinigami, undone by forces he could not escape.

  Baron Samedi sat slumped in a chair, a ghost of a grin carved cruelly into his dead lips. One hand was still clenched around his broken cane.

  La Parca lay nearby, her mask cracked down the middle, revealing her face beneath — peaceful somehow, even in death. Her fingers, once so graceful, were bloodied and limp.

  It looked like a war had raged here... and none of them had survived.

  Glenn stumbled back, bile rising in his throat.

  He tripped over something.

  It was Steve, the TechOps from IT. He was lying on his back, his body curled protectively around something—Glenn’s scythe. His eyes were wide in fear.

  He had been trying to return it.

  Glenn knelt, trembling, and gently pried the scythe from Steve’s stiff fingers.

  It was the only thing that felt real.

  “I'm sorry,” Glenn croaked. “I'm so sorry…”

  Heavy footsteps approached.

  Mictlantecuhtli appeared, hands clasped behind his back, face etched with a false mask of solemnity.

  “My dear boy,” he said, voice dripping with feigned sadness, “What a tragedy. I... I can’t believe this. Who could have done this.”

  Glenn didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Ugh,” A voice said from under some debris.

  Glenn and Mictlantechutli quickly hurried and started removing debris to the side.

  It was Hildr. She was beaten up badly but still alive.

  She scanned the carnage in horror. “It was Lytha. She has committed the unspeakable. And she... she has kidnapped Yoshiko.”

  Glenn’s head snapped up, his heart fracturing further.

  “Yoshiko?” he rasped.

  Mictlantecuhtli placed a hand on Glenn’s shoulder — a gesture so gentle it burned.

  “I know this pain is great. But you must be strong. For them. For her.”

  Glenn stood, swaying slightly, his mind unable to process the nightmare around him.

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  “We fought hard,” she gasped dramatically, locking eyes with Glenn. “But Lytha was... too strong. She... she took Yoshiko. She must be stopped.”

  Her words sounded wrong. Rehearsed.

  But Glenn was too broken to see it.

  He turned away, scythe clenched so tightly in his hand it trembled.

  Glenn staggered back into the ruins of the lounge leaving Mictlantechuli and Hildr behind.. Something caught his eye.

  The remembrance brew still shimmered on the bar in untouched goblets.

  He grabbed a cup.

  And another.

  And another.

  He drank recklessly, desperate to fill the void that yawned inside him.

  The brew hit him like a tidal wave.

  At first, it hurt.

  The memories crashed down in his head: Maeve teasing him, Yami nodding in approval after a sparring match, Canis clumsily throwing a skeleton arm around coworkers shoulder, Baron winking before a vanishing trick, La Parca's rare smile.

  Then… they appeared.

  Not as ghosts. Not as zombies.

  But as whole beings right there in the lounge.

  Alive.

  Laughing. Talking.

  The brew blurred his senses, and suddenly the lounge wasn't broken anymore.

  The music pulsed.

  The lights danced.

  La Parca was laughing, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

  Canis was trying to juggle soul-lanterns and failing miserably.

  Baron Samedi was teaching someone to dance badly while Yami judged silently from a distance.

  Charon leaned against the bar, sipping brew with a secret smile.

  Glenn’s chest tightened with a bittersweet ache.

  They were all here, as they had been. Whole. Smiling. Unbroken.

  Maeve bumped into him, holding two drinks. “Oi, one for you, ya brooding muppet.”

  He chuckled under his breath and took it.

  Then, as the music faded, the dream shifted.

  The friends he loved turned to face him, their smiles sadder now, but full of something deeper: love.

  Canis scratched his bony chin. “You’ve always thought you had to carry all the hurt, buddy. Like some mule for everyone’s grief.”

  Baron Samedi winked. “That’s no way to live, Glenn. Death isn’t a curse. It’s a bridge.”

  La Parca leaned forward, her voice soft. “You never said goodbye properly, did you? Not to your life. Not to your old dreams. Not even to yourself.”

  Glenn swallowed hard, throat burning.

  Maeve squeezed his hand, her touch warm. “You think if you hurt enough, it'll make the loss matter more. But it already mattered, love. Hurtin’ yourself won’t bring 'em back.”

  Yami, stoic and firm, placed a hand on Glenn’s shoulder. “You survived. That is not betrayal. That is honor.”

  Glenn opened his mouth, but no words came out. Only silent, aching grief.

  The world around him shimmered again.

  He saw himself, laughing over burnt toast with his grandmother.

  He saw himself sparring clumsily with Canis, both laughing too hard to fight properly.

  He saw himself being handed his first scythe by Steve, who had grinned like a proud parent.

  He saw Maeve ruffling his hair, Yami nodding once after a rare victory, La Parca handing him a soul-candy on a hard day, Baron tipping an invisible hat.

  Small things.

  Precious things.

  Life.

  “Hey, dummy,” Canis said, waving. “You’re still here.”

  Maeve smiled warmly. “We were lucky to have you.”

  Baron raised a glass. “Death is an old friend, Glenn. But courage to live in the face of Death? Courage is what keeps you human.”

  La Parca touched her broken mask and chuckled. “Do not mourn us. Even death must die.”

  Yami simply bowed his head, a warrior’s silent respect.

  But something pulled at him—a weight he hadn't yet honored.

  He turned back. It was Steve.

  The Techlops still clutched as if holding the scythe, his hands locked in rigor. The scythe that Glenn now held had bloodstains along the handle—Steve's final effort to protect it. To protect him.

  I’m sorry, Steve,” Glenn whispered, his voice raw and shaking. “You were... you were the best of us. You didn't deserve this. None of you did.”

  For a moment, Glenn just sat there, head bowed, like a mourner at a grave too new to accept.

  He tucked Steve’s battered maintenance badge—still clipped to his tattered belt—into his own pocket, close to his heart.

  “I’ll fix this,” he said, voice barely above a breath. “I swear.”

  Glenn fell to his knees, overwhelmed. Tears blurred his vision, but he didn’t wipe them away.

  “You’re not alone,” Maeve whispered. “You never were.”

  Then, together, their voices rose, surrounding him:

  “Life isn't about escaping pain. It's about living alongside it. It's about remembering why you loved in the first place. Management will make you think Death is a thief, Glenn — but it can never steal the moments we made real.”

  Maeve smiled, eyes shining.

  “Carry us forward, love. Not like chains... but like lanterns.”

  Baron Samedi grinned wide.

  “Live enough for all of us.”

  La Parca whispered.

  “Grieve. Cry. But then keep walking.”

  Yami bowed low, one last time.

  “Choose to keep your heart open, even when it hurts.”

  And Canis, dear Canis, threw an arm around Glenn’s shoulders one last time and said simply:

  “We’re proud of you, kid.”

  The memories faded.

  The lounge returned to its ruined, bloody silence.

  But Glenn stood taller.

  Not healed.

  Not unbroken.

  But alive.

  And carrying them all in his heart.

  Glenn swallowed the last of the brew.

  He rose slowly, the scythe heavy in his hand, but his spirit heavier still.

  He turned toward the shattered entrance of the lounge.

  Toward vengeance.

  Toward salvation.

  Toward Lytha.

  The black skull mask began to shimmer at the edges of his vision.

  He headed back toward the lobby where he found Mictlantechutli and Hildr conversing.

  Glenn was cold and to the point.

  “Do you know how to get to Lytha?”

  “I do. I can track Yoshiko’s weapon. It should lead you there. Are you sure you want to go? She did all this. She may be too powerful for you.”

  Glenn just replied. “Enter in the coordinates.”

  Mictlantechutli pushed a dead HA off the chair at the front desk and entered the coordinates.

  Glenn stepped through and the door closed behind him.

  Hildr, who was holding her ribs like they were wounded, stood up perfectly fine.

  “Wow. I must say, I am impressed at how you Management take care of business.”

  “This is going all too perfectly. Glenn will take care of the final Sister of Death, and we in Management will have a monopoly on this universe.”

  “You are not worried about him?” asked Hildr.

  “That dumb human? He is nothing more than another weapon in our arsenal. Nothing more. I shall admit he has been most useful.

  “What about the Reaper Core?”

  “We will just pull from some of the other offices. The rest we can fill in with new recruits. Go and get Lilith from HR for me.”

  “Yes, sir.” And Hildr was off perfectly healed running down the hallway.

  Mictlantechutli just stared at the door, smiling.

  Glenn emerged in a massive gravesite. He couldn’t see an end to them. There must have been over five million graves.

  The skies above a forgotten land churned, a whirling storm of black and violet, as if the heavens themselves recoiled from what was about to happen.

  Glenn burst into the fray, black skull mask blazing with power, his body fueled by rage and betrayal.

  Yoshiko and Lytha had already clashed, but it looked as if Yoshiko was the aggressor.

  “Help!” Yoshiko screamed out to Glenn.

  Lytha stepped back from Yoshiko, locking eyes with Glenn.

  “Wait—” she tried to say.

  But Glenn was already there.

  He came in like a hurricane of shadow and deathlight.

  The scythe of Mora swept in massive arcs, glowing with spectral flame.

  The cloak of Nyra billowed around him like living smoke, wrapping and shifting with impossible grace, each thread humming with stolen power.

  He was beautiful and terrible all at once, a storm given physical form.

  Their weapons clashed with thunderous force, sending shockwaves rippling outward, shattering the battlefield’s jagged stones into dust.

  “You dare use my sisters against me?!” Lytha roared, voice splitting the air like a blade.

  She pulled out a lantern with an odd looking flame burning inside. With a scream of fury, she unleashed her true power.

  Silence.

  Not a lack of sound—no, something worse.

  An anti-sound.

  A suffocating void that swallowed the world.

  Glenn stumbled mid-attack, suddenly deaf to his own heartbeat, his own breath.

  The world felt wrong. Empty.

  It was more than silence — it was severance.

  The air turned thick as tar.

  His limbs felt like they moved through invisible walls.

  Lytha lunged forward — now a blur of motion, unhindered by her own spell.

  She struck Glenn with brutal precision, her blade glancing off his ribs, carving deep gashes into his side.

  Blood bloomed across the battlefield, ruby and slow.

  Glenn dropped to a knee, gasping in the noiseless world.

  Lytha advanced, each step sending ripples across the silent landscape.

  Glenn closed his eyes for a heartbeat.

  Remember.

  “I am not alone.”

  He rose.

  The cloak of Nyra wrapped tight around him, shielding him like armor.

  The scythe of Mora spun in his hand, carving symbols in the empty air.

  And he fought back.

  He moved faster than light, heavy aura snapping around him, the ground cracking and collapsing, forcing Lytha to dodge and weave through collapsing stone pillars.

  He swung the scythe in brutal crescents, each strike causing ripples through the void.

  When Lytha countered with blades of pure silence, Glenn bent the air around him, gravity twisting the attacks away.

  It was a battle among gods, with each blow painting a mural of destruction in the sky, each clash breaking the earth further apart.

  Yoshiko watched in awe and terror, powerless against the forces unleashed.

  At the apex of the battle, Lytha's eyes widened.

  She wasn’t just fighting Glenn.

  She was fighting Death’s own heir.

  She recognized the shape behind the skull.

  The way the darkness bent for him.

  The way Mora’s scythe sang in his hands.

  It was their mother’s echo made flesh.

  This realization froze Lytha. It was only an instance but that is all it took.

  In a final, desperate clash, Glenn used Nora’s cloak to get behind her,

  and drove Mora’s scythe deep into Lytha’s side, shadow flames exploding outward.

  The silence shattered.

  The world roared back into being in a deafening boom.

  Lytha stumbled, blood pouring from the wound, her blade falling from her hand with a hollow clang.

  She crumpled to one knee, trembling, struggling to stay upright.

  Glenn stood over her, breathing hard, the mask still burning on his face.

  Lytha looked up at him — and smiled sadly.

  “I finally figured it out...You are our brother.”

  The words stopped him cold.

  “What?” His voice cracked, breaking through the rage like sunlight through storm clouds.

  She coughed blood, still smiling faintly.

  “Our mother... was Death. You... were the fourth. We were always meant to be four.”

  Glenn staggered back, confusion tearing at his mind.

  “No—no, you’re lying—"

  “You carry her power, her spirit... That mask... it was hers before it was yours.”

  Lytha’s hand reached out, but she lacked the strength to touch him.

  “If you want to know the truth... go back. Back to your grave. Where you first met Mora. I was supposed to take you there, but then she attacked me...”

  Her strength finally gave out.

  She collapsed fully, her body dissolving into a cloud of violet mist, scattering across the ruined battlefield. Only her weapon and her cloak remained.

  A soft whisper lingered in the air.

  “Find the truth... brother…you were meant to stand with us, not against us.”

  Silence reclaimed the world.

  But something remained shining under the cloak - a small, iron lantern, glowing with a soft eternal violet flame.

  The fire didn't burn the way mortal fire did — it pulsed with memory, with loss, with resilience.

  Glenn stared, trembling.

  Mora had given him the scythe.

  Nyra had left him the cloak.

  And now—

  Lytha’s spirit, her final gift, was before him.

  A part of her — her essence — still reaching out.

  The black skull mask over his face flickered and stabilized as he stepped forward.

  The cloak of Nyra shifted and made room, welcoming the third sister.

  The scythe of Mora pulsed in recognition.

  Glenn knelt and lifted the Lantern of Eternal Flame.

  The moment his fingers touched it, the flame exploded outward—

  not with heat, but with a flood of memories:

  —Lytha as a child, playing under shadowed skies.

  —Mora teaching her to carry the last breath of dying souls.

  —Nyra covering her with the cloak when storms of death raged.

  This is how the Sisters held onto souls. In the lantern. And now, they were part of him.

  The Lantern tethered itself to Glenn’s side, the flame dimming to a steady glow.

  He now carried all three Sisters.

  And in doing so, he carried their burdens, too.

  The battlefield quieted.

  Only the whisper of ash on the wind remained.

  Yoshiko approached carefully, saying nothing.

  She could see it now — Glenn was no longer just a Reaper.

  No longer just a pawn.

  He was becoming something terrifying.

  Something inevitable.

  The mask still clung to his face.

  The lantern flickered at his hip.

  The cloak rippled around him, drinking in the dead wind.

  The scythe gleamed like a shard of midnight.

  Glenn turned slowly toward the distant horizon.

  Toward his grave.

  Toward the truth.

  He would uncover everything.

  Even if it meant becoming the very thing Management feared most.

  Ch. 9.1

  The mist rolled thick over the massive grave, clinging low to the shattered earth like ghosts that refused to leave.

  A small, quick shape darted through the gloom — Deathnibbles.

  He landed lightly on a jagged grave, sniffing the cold, broken air.

  The golden shoes of Hermes shimmered faintly on his tiny feet, barely disturbing the ground.

  He checked the slip of parchment Lytha had given him — coordinates scribbled hastily, almost desperately.

  “Squeek…” Deathnibbles muttered, scampering down a twisted path of shattered stone.

  Spirits peaked from behind rubble as if they were frightened by something. Once they saw Deathnibbles, they emerged. Pointing in a direction towards what he was seeking.

  The closer he got, the worse the feeling gnawed at his gut.

  Wrong.

  Everything here felt wrong.

  It wasn’t just death.

  Death was familiar. Comforting, even.

  This was... desolation.

  The air was thick with the residue of a battle between powers too great for the earth to bear.

  He stopped at the center of the devastation.

  The ground was scorched and broken, blackened by the clash of gods.

  And there, lying abandoned amidst the rubble—

  Lytha’s cloak, tattered and motionless, like the shed skin of a fallen beast.

  Beside it her scythe, half-buried in ash, its once-luminous blade darkened to a mournful shade.

  Deathnibbles crept closer, nose twitching.

  He touched the cloak gently.

  It shivered under his paw — cold, heavy with sorrow.

  The scythe pulsed faintly when he brushed it, like a dying heartbeat.

  Deathnibbles backed away, his golden shoes slipping on the rubble.

  “Squeek...” he whispered.

  He didn’t need anyone to explain.

  He didn’t need to see a body.

  He knew.

  Lytha was gone.

  Erased.

  And he knew who had done it.

  His little black nose twitched once more, picking up the lingering scent.

  A scent he knew too well.

  Glenn.

  Deathnibbles’ eyes narrowed to slits.

  His tiny hands curled into fists, trembling with fury.

  This was war.

  Deathnibbles turned without another word, his golden shoes sparking as he vanished into the mist.

  He left the cloak and scythe where they lay—

  not out of reverence.

  But as a promise.

  He would not forget.

  He would not forgive.

  He blames Glenn for the death of his family, and now Lytha.

  And he would make Glenn pay for what he had done.