Page 53 of Vasmora

Oswin’s brows shot up at the same time he pointed a finger in the air. “And that, my boy, is why we call it a myth. But to answer your question, the Corvi were believed to use the ritual as a means to temper their goddess.”

“How so?” Zevander flipped to a new page, studying a sketch of what he presumed to be members of the Corvi tribe, given their feathered garb and the black ash painted in the shape of a bird over their eyes and forehead. One of them stood alongside a vein, holding up a naked infant as if to throw it into the fire.

“The goddess does not take physical form. She must possess a vessel. This vessel then houses tremendous power. A power that could take life with a simple touch. Mere will. A power so dangerous, they felt it needed to be restrained. Destroyed, if necessary.”

Of course, Zevander had seen that power firsthand. His heart clenched at the thought of Maevyth. “Did they not worship the goddess? Why would they seek to destroy her vessel?”

“The Corvi were wise enough to understand that no god or goddess is truly benevolent. Imagine a powerful being, trapped in the Aethyr for centuries at a time. Ascending into a mortal body that wasn’t meant to house it. Some would call it cruel.”

“How does she ascend?”

The older man shrugged. “That is a mystery of the gods. But given she is death, no good would come of it. Such power requires a counterbalance.”

“Yet they were willing to sacrifice their infants to call upon another god.” He ran his finger over the image on the page, but it stirred no memory of his own Emberforge ritual. No echo of pain, or terror.

“Sablefyre belongs to no god.”

“It’s said to be the god of chaos.”

Oswin waved a dismissive hand. “A loose term. A god, once a mortal, no less, resides in its flames, but the flame has existed since long before Deimos in the Cor of Aethyria. It is older than the gods we worship and isn’t bound by their laws.”

“Deimos and Morsana were said to be lovers. It seems unlikely he’d use the flame to kill her vessel.” Fairytales, as far as Zevander was concerned, but he was curious nonetheless.

Oswin snorted before groaning. He stole another sip of his drink. “In spite of what the annals tell you, there is no tragic love story between a goddess and her mortal lover. Deimos wasn’t cast into the flame. He chose it.”

“Is this what you’ve gleaned from pillaging Corvus Keep?”

“Deimos was in love with the daughter of their priestess.” He tugged another book from the shelf, as ancient as the one lying on the table, and flipped through to an image of a beautiful woman surrounded by warriors. “Death has only one purpose—to extinguish life and strengthen her presence in our world. For millennia, she did so by mating with the strongest men and women. And she wanted Deimos more than any other, so she took his beloved as her vessel.” He sighed and shook his head. “When the Solassions attacked, they were merciless. Threw her into the vein.” His expression turned troubled and he tipped back another sip of his drink. “The goddess possesses tremendous power, but she is only as invincible as the vessel she chooses, and hers was not immune to the flame. She perished, sending the goddess back to the Aethyr, and Deimos was forced to watch his beloved burn alive. It enraged him.” His eye twitched as if he knew that rage. “He fought with vengeance. Killed more men that day than he ever had in battle, until he was mortally wounded. Instead of offering his soul to the goddess, as was customary for the Corvikae, he crawled toward the vein and let it consume him.”

The story lingered in Zevander’s thoughts as he sat in silence, his mind drawing parallels to Maevyth’s capture. “Why did the flame grant him the power?”

“You’re asking me why chaos chose him? Some men live, some men die, and some become gods. We do not know the intricacies behind their fates.”

“So, the purpose of the Emberforge ritual was to create a being that would kill the vessel when she proved to be a threat?”

He shrugged again, then nodded. “Yes. Theoretically, the ritual would only be successful in times of war, famine, or plague. When the goddess is more likely to ascend into her vessel. When balance is necessary.”

“And what if this vessel happened to be resistant to sablefyre?”

“Impossible.” His scoff slipped into a chuckle as he lifted the jug for another swill. “No one is resistant to sablefyre.”

Zevander wanted to laugh at that. “Of course not. But if she were.”

The old man’s brow quirked. “Well, that sounds like chaos in the flesh.”

A deep, resonate horn blared from a distance, and Oswin froze, eyes wide. He swapped the jug for a spyglass lying on the table and hobbled back toward the stairs, peering out of the hatchway. “Godsteeth!”

“What is it?” Zevander asked, hunching low as he made his way toward the companionway.

Oswin climbed out onto the main deck, Zevander following behind, and the older man handed the spyglass to him. “Have a look.”

As the boat pitched violently against a swell, Zevander peered through the small telescope.

A dark silhouette sat on the horizon, the moon’s silvery bands glittering over the sea between them. The larger ship’s black hull cut through the waves like sharpened teeth, angled to intercept them. Its sail rippled in the wind, its direction keen. He clutched the spyglass, focusing on the mainsail’s patchwork stitching, the shades of fabric with blotches of pink and yellow–too glossy to be linen or canvas. He scanned lower, to a flattened, stretched face, nothing but two crude holes where the eyes used to peer out.

Human skin.

“Who are they?” he asked.