Destruction was exactly where Creation had last seen her, last touched her.

Almost.

Now, rather than standing at the window, she lounged in his bed, waving one hand in thin air. The tiles that served as stars in the constellations on his ceiling shattered to the ground. Then Creation watched as they magically came back together and returned to the ceiling in a slightly new design.

“Your magic lives here.” Destruction tilted her head toward him. “Every time I destroy something it has an instinct to come back together, though sometimes it’s a little different.”

He wanted to revel in the moment with her. Creation wanted to stop everything and hold her and pretend they could continue to explore the love and synchronicity they had only just found. But Hunt’s death demanded to be the only thing on his mind.

“Hunt is dead.”

Destruction’s hand fell slowly to her side. She stared at him, processing the words. “Dead?”

“Chaos killed her.” Creation tried shaking free the memories of the carnage. “Killed a whole party of her acolytes. I don’t know if Hunt was tracking Chaos or merely at the wrong place at the wrong time. But, either way, Chaos killed her.”

For another minute, Destruction seemed to stare at nothing. The silence was so absolute that Creation could almost hear the beating of her heart—low and slow—not nearly as panicked as his was.

“She is derived from Oblivion and was never a part of the pantheon . . . I’m not surprised she could kill a god if she worked hard enough at it.” Destruction pulled herself to her feet, the long, midnight-colored silks she had swathed herself in like a robe pooling around her and hanging off her shoulders. “But I’m confident because of this that my magic could destroy this world—this reality—as I am not beholden to the pantheon’s rules either, then.”

Her plan came back to him. If his heart wasn’t racing before, it certainly was now, just like his feet were racing to close the gap between them. Creation rested his hands on her shoulders.

“We have no proof that my magic could successfully rebuild it.”

“With that much power released from the death of a world, converted to pure magic, combined with and channeled through your own powers? I’m certain you could, Creation. You could do it simply . . . without gods.”

“What about myself?”

“You’ll stand at the apex of it all. You’ll create a space outside of time first.” Destruction lightly took his hands, lacing his fingers with her own. “This is the only chance we have at being together. Otherwise she will eventually find me. She will force me to rejoin with her and when that happens I will not be able to protect you. Oblivion will destroy everything to return the world to as it was before the gods—to that endless nothingness that she came from and thrives in.”

They hadn’t had enough time together. They hadn’t been given enough.

“You will see me on the other side,” Destruction whispered. “You will, I promise you. Bu you must do this for everyone.”

“I know,” he finally admitted. The world—the universe—would be destroyed if Oblivion reigned once more. So, if he failed, the outcome would be the same. If he succeeded, but she did not return, then at least all life—other than the gods—would be saved. And, truly, the god’s time was limited with Chaos evolving to learn how to slay them.

His brain hurt just thinking about every wretched avenue, but each one rounded back to the singular fact that it was the only option available to them. Even at the cost of Life, Light, Carver, Love, it was the only option.

“I will find my way back to my magic and to you.” She freed her hand and cupped his cheek. “Have faith in that.”

Sealing her promise, Destruction leaned in, resting her lips lightly on his. Creation relished in the warm heat of her breath, savored it all.

Destruction pulled away, looked him in the eye, and whispered, “Let’s do it now, before anyone else can find out and thwart us.”

“Very well. First things first . . .” he began, thinking aloud, forcing himself to recall her earlier plan. “This way.”

Creation led them from his room and to the right, into the workshop he’d used, what seemed like a mere hour ago, to construct Hunt’s arrow. Surely, it had been more time than that? Not that it really mattered; he was about to attempt to alter time and reality itself.

His eyes on Destruction the entire time, Creation used the feeling of her magic, the intimate knowledge he had of her, to fashion a small, silver box. He tried to imbue it with her essence—for that was what it would ultimately have to hold. The light formed underneath his hands once more, building the outline of the box in the air, slowly weaving together and condensing into pure silver.

All the while, her gaze remained locked with his. Destruction didn’t stare in wonder, she didn’t watch his work. She looked at him and Creation could only hope that it was because she was as desperate to memorize his shape as he was.

“What do you think?” he asked, finally pulling his hands away.

“This is more your area of expertise than mine.” Destruction lifted the box, turning it over in her hands. “I don’t feel the need to break it down, however. It’s almost . . . familiar?”

“Then perhaps your magic won’t try to break it down—or out—either.” He hoped. They didn’t really have time to test it, so Creation took her hand—the small box in the other.

“Where are we going now?” she asked as he opened the door across the hall.

“To carve a space out of time.”

They arrived at the empty room he’d discovered earlier. Whatever purpose the room had been intended for, Creation was sure this wasn’t it. He walked to the center of the room, stopping when her hand fell from his grip.

“Are you sure about this?” Destruction asked softly.

“Are you?” Creation felt a twinge of disappointment when she nodded in affirmation.

“Then it’s what we’ll do, what I’ll do, for you. Or us, for this world.” Words were becoming hard. Longing for her was already beginning to overwhelm him and she wasn’t even yet gone.

“Thank you.” Two words, barely more than a breath. Two arms, wrapping around him, holding him tightly—two more holding her back. Two kisses—one on his mouth, and one on hers.

Then, it was time for her very essence to become two as well.

“Be ready to capture my magic when I split, channel it to destroy the world, use the magic of that destruction—I’m sure you’ll feel it as I do—and rebuild everything, and find me again.”

“I will. I will not rest until I’ve found you again.”

Destruction nodded, took a breath, leaned back, and unleashed her raw essence.

It didn’t look painful. She looked almost serene. The center of her chest stretched upward and, then, as if a thread fraying, began to unravel. Magic poured from her in dark tendrils, stringing off and breaking free from the cage of her physical body. Creation watched every splitting of her body up until the moment her face broke apart into a continuous, shapeless, ribbon of pure magic.

Creation held up the box to that swirling mass of raw power. It seemed to rush in, as if it were looking for a place of refuge, as if she was commanding it. The box shuddered closed.

With the box resting in one palm, Creation lifted the other. Pointing his finger downward, he turned in place, drawing a circle in the stone floor. It shone with light before dimming into obsidian. The line created a barrier between him and time itself and the thickness of a warped atmosphere surrounded him.

Time to destroy the world.

Wrangling Destruction’s power was nearly an impossible task. It bucked and resisted; yet, at the same time, it seemed eager to be at his behest. Creation pushed it outward, unleashing it past the barrier, into the world.

He shouted. His body was being torn apart and reborn again, like he was immolating on a cold flame—freezing and burning at the same time. What he was doing was the antithesis to all he was, yet it came almost like a dangerous second-nature.

The world unraveled just as she did. The pillars that Light had built against Oblivion’s darkness shook and crumbled, tumbling, bringing the divine down with them. He witnessed the death of time itself, mourning it like an old friend, before seeing it reborn again, his own magic insistently—and finally—kicking in.

Such destruction was not what he was meant for. With an inaudible scream, his own magic fired off the fumes of a dying world. It rose like a phoenix, bringing a new age with it. She had not been lying about the magic created from the destruction of a world. He imagined mountains and valleys. He imagined the people and places he had been born with knowledge of but he hadn’t yet seen. He pictured a perfect utopia filled with magic and every race.

Every race except for the gods.

Like a band stretched thin, his own magic jostled back into his body. Creation collapsed in his circle, panting. And he had thought making Hunt’s arrow had been difficult. Magic radiated off him like the primordial afterbirth of a new world.

Blinking, Creation looked out the window—the roof had fallen in. Moss now grew in a room that looked like a hundred years had passed. Perhaps that much time had slipped by around him . . . Or, perhaps his temple still sat in ruin because there was no god for it.

Slow footsteps up the stairs interrupted his thought.

Creation turned, heart still racing. Surely, there was only one woman who would go in search of him. There was only one mortal who could know what this place was in this world without gods. He leaned back onto his heels, keenly feeling each footstep rumbling his very core. Would she look the same? But no matter what form she took, he would recognize her. He would know his Destruction without hesitation.

But it was not her. In fact, she was not a woman at all, but a demigod. A demigod that should be dead with the rest of the gods he’d blinked out of existence but wasn’t.

“You must be Creation.” Chaos’s first words to him.

“You—” he doubled over, collapsing onto his hands and knees. “You should be dead.”

“Funny thing, that.” She hummed, twirling a finger in her long viridian hair. The asymmetrical ruffles of her skirts swayed as she approached leisurely, stopping at the edge of the circle. “Your plan was clever, I’ll give you that. To think of splitting her and then rebuilding the world. To think that if she was gone, I’d have nothing to cling with and I’d just poof out of existence with the rest of them.” She clapped slowly. “Not many divine would sacrifice all of their brethren for the world. How very . . . Oblivion of you.”

She crouched on her hands and knees, leaning forward and tilting her head so her cheek was pressed against the floor by his forehead.

“But here’s the thing you didn’t think about—or she didn’t, since it was her plan, wasn’t it?” the demigod whispered to him like a lover across the pillow. “She was already half of a whole, a whole that won’t die if only one part does. So if your plot was to rid the world of me just by splitting her and making her mortal, you failed. If your goal was just to destroy the world for entertainment, then you did a miraculous job of that.”

“Where is she?” Creation growled into the ground, wishing his magic would recover faster. Wishing he was just strong enough to wrap his hands around this woman’s narrow neck until she turned purple.

“I don’t know. You made her mortal, so she’s somewhere out there . . . but I can’t seem to get a sense of where.” Chaos sighed. “And, to make matters worse, this age—this Age of Magic—was not meant for Gods. You and I will fade away soon. Our powers seem to seep into the ether in this time.”

She patted his back and with it, electricity shot straight into Creation’s core. The woman was pure madness and disorder—an upset to the natural order itself.

“Don’t worry though,” she whispered into his ear. “I have an idea to spare us. You made this lovely little bubble outside of time. Why don’t we expand on it?”

Chaos waved her hand and the world around them rippled. Creation lifted his eyes just in time to see reality stretching to the point of breaking. Rooms popped into existence, nonsensical, out of order, impossible. Chaos’s magic surrounded him, and he was helpless to do anything to stop it.

“You and I, we’ll live here, spread the word of a magical wish granter to the mortals. You can just keep destroying worlds at people’s will for me until we find her and then I can take back what’s rightfully mine.” Chaos stood, walking toward the other side of the room where a mysterious door suddenly materialized into view. “Do take your time getting up. We’re in for a long ride, you and I.”

Be it the magic still sapping his strength, the crushing agony of their failure, but Creation’s body moved of its own accord.

“Y-You can’t . . .” His voice croaked. He stretched his hand in her direction, magic pouring out. The effect was minimal, most of his power drained, but it caused Chaos to pause, glancing a cat-like eye over her shoulder before turning around.

Despite his magic attempting to swirl around her, hold her in place, alter her design, something, anything, Chaos merely waved it away. Fury in his magic spiked and sought out new directives. The nonsensical amalgamations Chaos had brought into existence righted themselves into rooms filled with power and luxury. The layout of their new surroundings—their new prison—organized themselves into what Creation couldn’t deny, in his agonizing, grieving half-daze, was a beautiful place.

A mansion outside of time and space.

As his magic finally stuttered and faded, Creation laying limp, Chaos knelt back in front of him, forcing his chin up. He met her eyes, her face blurring as his body began to collapse beneath the weight of all he’d done.

“You can’t,” he repeated through gritted teeth.

“I can’t what?” Chaos purred, her breath on his face faintly registering as candy-sweet. “Creation, Lord Snow, Prince of Gods, protégé and son of the once-god Light? What can’t I do?”

His tongue stayed numb and useless in his mouth.

Somehow, Chaos must have noticed the concession. She let his head fall heavily against the hard floor. Creation groaned, his already fracturing awareness fading further. Though not before he felt Chaos shift back to her feet, her words wrapping around the last vestiges of his consciousness like a noose.

“Pity,” she sighed, possibly pouted. “Well, whatever it is you think I can’t do, Creation, I guarantee you this: I can.”

With that, Creation knew nothing but true despair. And darkness.