The War God of the Underworld

The last thing Kael remembered was the knife in his back.

Not a metaphorical knife—an actual blade, six inches of obsidian steel, buried between his shoulder blades by the woman he was supposed to marry. Princess Elara of the Celestial Court. The Golden Rose of the Nine Heavens. The most beautiful woman in the realm, and the most treacherous.

He'd died on the steps of the Temple of Eternal Light, surrounded by cheering nobles who thought they were witnessing the execution of a demon spy. They weren't wrong, exactly. Kael was from the Underworld. But he wasn't a spy.

He was the Crown Prince.

And now, three hundred years later, he was back.

The Celestial Court hadn't changed much in three centuries. Same floating islands suspended in clouds of liquid gold. Same crystal spires that sang in the wind. Same arrogant bastards in silk robes who looked at the lower classes like they were something stuck to the bottom of their divine sandals.

Kael stood in the corner of the War God's reception hall, holding a tray of nectar wine, wearing the rough-spun tunic of a mortal servant. His face was different—he'd made sure of that. Broader jaw, flatter nose, muddy brown eyes instead of the violet that marked his bloodline. Even his aura was suppressed, dialed down to barely a flicker of spiritual energy. To the divine senses around him, he might as well have been furniture.

“You're new,” said the girl beside him. Mira, a mortal like him, or at least pretending to be. She'd been showing him the ropes all morning. “Don't stare at the nobles. They hate that. And whatever you do, don't look at the War God directly. She killed the last servant who made eye contact.”

“The War God,” Kael repeated, keeping his voice appropriately humble. “General Elara?”

“That's her title now.” Mira's voice dropped to a whisper. “They say she ascended after the Battle of Broken Stars. Single-handedly held the demon horde at the Gates of Dawn for three days. The previous War God fell in that battle, and she took his place.”

Kael felt something cold settle in his chest. “The previous War God?”

“Lord Aric. Her fiancé, actually. Died protecting her, or so the songs say.” Mira shivered. “She never talks about it. But sometimes, late at night, you can hear her screaming in the eastern tower. The healers say it's battle trauma.”

Battle trauma. Kael almost laughed. He remembered the Battle of Broken Stars. He remembered holding the Gates of Dawn for three days while his soldiers died around him. He remembered the arrow in his throat, the sword in his gut, the way Elara had looked at him when he'd begged her to retreat.

Run, he'd said, blood bubbling on his lips. I'll hold them.

She'd run, all right. Straight to the Celestial Emperor with a story about how Kael—Lord Aric, the War God—had betrayed the realm to the demons. How she'd been forced to kill him to save the Nine Heavens. How she'd wept while she did it.

The songs didn't mention the obsidian knife. They didn't mention the way she'd smiled when he'd fallen.

“She's coming,” Mira hissed, elbowing him. “Head down!”

Kael lowered his gaze just as the doors burst open.

General Elara swept into the hall like a storm front made flesh. She wore armor of white gold, etched with phoenix patterns that seemed to move in the light. Her hair was the color of spun sunlight, her eyes the blue of a winter sky. Three hundred years, and she hadn't aged a day. Divine immortality was like that.