He died in the fight, but the High Father was so taken with him that he raised him to the Aether and made him the god of battle. And storms, which are battles in the Aether. Every day, I learn more about Aron, and it makes me sad that this man who has come so far is being punished by the High Father like this. There has to be a better way to set the gods back on the right path than this, though what it is, I don’t know.

Not that I’m ungrateful. I’m just happy to be with Aron, to wake up in his arms and feel a little bit of contentment, however fleeting.

I feel all of that slipping away as Aron gazes back down at the field of battle below.

Aron wants to be down there. I can tell. He’s recharged in a way I’ve never seen before at the sight of the battle preparing to happen below. It’s early, but I can see troops gathering on the walls of the Yshrem keep and the Adassian soldiers are organizing, getting ready to move. It’s sure to be a bloodbath, given that they’ll be running up against stone walls protected by a river, but it also looks like no one cares.

For a moment, I want to take Aron by the hand and lead him away from this, from all of this. There’s no time limit on how long it takes for Aron to kill his other Aspect. We can find a little cabin somewhere, hide out from the world, and just live together, taking each day as it comes. Hell, we can wait for old age to decide things. Maybe Hedonism Aron’s anchor will go first—a likely scenario since he—or she—has got to be affected by his master’s pleasure-loving slant. Maybe we just let fate sort things out.

But…that’s not who my Aron is. He can’t sit by and wait for life to happen. He has to make things happen. He has to go to battle because it’s part of who he is. He’s war. It’s not just about winning and controlling which Aspect re-ascends to the Aether.

It’s about Aron being a war god. I have to accept it, because I have to accept Aron as he is or not at all.

I understand it, even if it fills me with terror.

So I take Aron’s hand and link his fingers in mine, and gaze out at the battlefields below. “He’ll be hiding his anchor,” I guess. “He’s going to want him close enough that he can keep an eye on him, but far enough from battle that he won’t get hurt. That means he’s probably somewhere in one of those tents.” I gesture at the sea of them in the distance.

“Or he’s put him in armor and is hiding him in plain sight. It might be worthwhile to see if any of the soldiers remains behind when the others surge ahead.” Markos moves to the other side of Aron, gazing down at the field.

I look over at my Aron. “What would you do?”

“I’m Arrogance,” he answers simply. “I won’t think the same as he does. Did he pick his anchor because it was a soldier that volunteered? Is it a wench he wanted to bed? Or did he simply have no other options like I did?”

“Oooh, burn on me,” I tease. “Just call me Last Resort Faith.”

Aron flashes a playful smile in my direction. “I’ve come around to liking how things turned out, though it probably would have been wiser to pick someone who knew how to carry a sword.”

And who he didn’t want to stick his dick into constantly. I mean, I get it. For a god of battle, a wimpy girl like me is a bad call. I have no muscle strength, I can barely sit on a woale for a few hours without bitching about it, and I’ve never used a bladed weapon. I’m a poor choice. A sitting duck.

No one will ever care for Aron as much as me, though. No one. I’m the best woman for the job.

A horn sounds from down below, and the men line up. We watch atop the distant cliff as the men bellow out a cry, a narrow bridge is dropped over the river, and then they surge forward to attack the keep. Ladders are produced and just as quickly destroyed by the men crowding the ramparts. Trash—and hot oil—are thrown down on the enemy men, and on and on it goes. They’re not getting a toehold in the slightest. It seems senseless to me.

Then, off to the side, a massive keep gate opens on the far end of the river. Men ride out on horses—the first horses I’ve seen since I arrived here—and carry spears. They’re deeply tanned, with long, flowing hair, and scream war cries as they raise their spears into the air.

“The Cyclopae,” Aron murmurs.

As I watch, a group of Adassian warriors split off and approach the Cyclopae riders, who surge across the water farther down the river and then regroup on the far side. One of the Adassians steps forward, flinging his cloak off and then brandishing an axe with a flourish. He stands on the ground before the others, and they surge around him, like waters parting. Avoiding him.

That’d be Hedonism Aron.

A brave man approaches, his horse circling, and then he zooms in for the attack. He’s quickly cut down, and then newcomers approach. I swallow hard. He can’t be killed. This isn’t even fair to watch. I turn away, because I don’t want to see more men fling themselves at certain death. “How do we get down to the keep?” I ask, trying to focus. “How do we get inside it?”

“There’s no getting around that army,” Kerren says. “We’d be giving ourselves a swift death if we approach.”

“The cover of night will hide us if we want to get closer,” Solat adds, his voice flat. “But the question is, if we get close, what do we do then?”

“I know the keep,” Aron says. “The Cyclopae are dedicated to me. I have seen glimpses of this keep many, many times.” He turns to me, a hint of a smile on his face. “And I know its secrets.”

“You do?”

He nods. “I know that King Mathior had a secret passage built from his wife’s private chambers leading down to the crypts so she can escape if things get too dangerous.” He rubs his chin. “Mathior is one of my favorites. Very devoted. Amazing in battle.”

I stare at my lover like he’s grown two heads. “Crypts? Hell to the no.”

“There is a passage hidden there,” Aron says. “It’s our best way to get you safely inside. I remember that they installed a passage behind a statue dedicated to me.” He frowns. “Damned ugly statue, too.”

“Hey, remember what happened the last time we hung around with a bunch of dead guys?” I say desperately. I hate this idea already. “The cemetery back in Katharn? Where everyone tried to come up and say hello?” I gesture at the smoking piles below. “Why do you think they’re fucking burning their dead, Aron? Come on.”

“It’s the best way,” he says stubbornly. “You can’t stay out here in the open. I don’t care if I have three loyal men or three thousand, you wouldn’t be safe from my other Aspect.”

“Where is the crypt, my lord?” Markos asks.

Aron points, past the river, where the trees cluster at the edge of the horizon. “That way. They trail under the earth near the castle.”

I put my hands on my hips, because I hate this idea. “If you know about this crypt because the king is so super loyal, then your other Aspect knows about it, too.”

Aron nods. “Truth. It’s still the best idea.” He arches one of those arrogant brows at me. “Unless you’d prefer to go through the front gate?”

I throw a hand up, gesturing at him. “You can. You’re fucking invulnerable.”

Aron blinks at me, and then a smile curves his mouth. “You’re right.” He moves toward me, puts his hands on my shoulders, and kisses me hard. “Clever, and right.”

Dazed, I stare up at him. “W-what did I say?”

“When it grows dark, Markos and the others will take you to the crypts. They’re sure to be guarded, but with a diversion, we can hopefully distract anyone there long enough for you to get in.”

“Distraction?” I echo.

He grins at me, and I can practically see the battle-lust in his eyes. “I’m going to go through the gate, just as you say.”

I look down at the clusterfuck below, then back at my Aron. My everything. “Aron, no. This is a really, really bad idea.”

“It is the best idea,” he says fiercely. “Do you not trust me?”