Abrax’s eyes burned with cold rage. “Bael is weak. The edge of Nyxobas’s Sword has grown dull—so dull that he allowed one of Emerazel’s hounds to imprison him and torture him. It was that cur who carved the wings from his back. I merely tried to retrieve them for you.”

Nyxobas turned to Bael. “Is this true?” The rage in his voice was unmistakable.

“It is.” A line of blood dripped from the corner of Bael’s mouth, but he didn’t wipe it away.

Bloody hell, this isn’t going well. She needed to intervene. “Did your son mention that he murdered the fae king?” said Ursula.

The god’s eyes bored into her and the edge of his lip twitched. “The fae are worthless, godless creatures.”

At his words, she thought she saw a flicker of fury cross Abrax’s face.

Nyxobas turned to Bael, his voice steely. “You know the punishment for losing your wings?”

“Yes.” His eyes flicked to Ursula’s again, but she couldn’t read his meaning. He dropped to his knees. The blood roared in Ursula’s ears as Nyxobas gripped his sword.

An execution. That was the unspoken punishment. Bael would be sent to the inferno. I need to do something.

But what the hell was she supposed to do? Nyxobas was a god. She didn’t stand a chance against him.

Nyxobas raised the sword. In moments Bael’s head would be rolling to her feet, and his soul—

“Stop!” Ursula shouted. “If you kill him his soul goes to Emerazel.”

Nyxobas’s eyes flashed to hers. Pure malevolence bored into her, but he stayed his sword. “What?”

“I took his soul for the fire goddess. When he lay asleep, I forced him to sign.”

“Is that true?” Nyxobas’s voice was pure wrath.

“I felt the change in my soul. It has been tainted,” said Bael, and the agonized tone of his voice suggested he’d have preferred death to this admission.

Nyxobas threw the sword to the ground, unleashing a primal roar.

Chapter 44

The whole room seemed to vibrate, and Ursula hoped the roar wouldn’t fell the entire tree. Shadows whirled, and Nyxobas appeared in front of her, his eyes black and bottomless. Icy darkness washed over her, then she was standing at the edge of the void again, staring into its depths. A few glimmers of memory whispered past her eyes—the fields of wildflowers in the moonlight, someone teaching her to fight—a woman, her hair like fire. But then the images disappeared, drifting away like a smoke in the wind.

She stared once again into the darkness, ice gripping her chest.

Nothing.

This was what death looked like: cold and solitary. Everyone died alone, left only with their own thoughts and memories, stripped of everything but identity. But she had no identity, hardly had any memories, and there was nothing but the void.