Andohr considered his options for a moment. He was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. Messing with Death it wasn't something to be taken lightly. Death was different. A solitary figure, ancient, powerful, a being who existed outside the squabbles of the Pantheon. He didn't crave worship, didn't seek power, didn't play their games. He simply was.
Death had created the Three Horsemen and tasked them with maintaining balance. A necessary function, perhaps, but one that had corrupted them over time. They became obsessed with their duties, with their power, and with death itself. And when Death had cast them out, their resentment and thirst for revenge had festered, grown into something monstrous.
And now, they wanted to capture him, imprison him. To be honest, it was madness as far as Andohr was concerned.
But Andohr wasn't about to interfere. Not directly, at least. He would help them as promised and create a cage around Death, a temporal barrier that would prevent him from escaping to his domain and summoning his full power. A few minutes. That's all they would need as Morbus had said.
And if they succeeded well, then Andohr would have three allies. Powerful allies, if a bit unhinged. It wasn't ideal, not by a long shot. But it would strengthen his position against the Pantheon, against the God of Darkness. An enemy of my enemy was a friend and all that bullshit.
And if they failed if Death escaped well, then that was their problem, wasn't it? He would have fulfilled his end of the bargain. And he would be rid of three potential headaches. Three liabilities. Three fucking loose cannons.
It was a win-win, really.
"Very well, Morbus," Andohr said, his voice smooth, his expression carefully neutral. "I will assist you. I will contain Death. Prevent him from escaping. For a few minutes. But that's it. That's all you get."
Morbus chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that made Andohr's skin crawl.
"That's all we need, Andohr. Just a few minutes."
"And after that," Andohr continued, his gaze hardening, "our deal is concluded. You'll owe me nothing. And I'll owe you less than nothing."
Morbus grinned, his yellowish teeth gleaming in the dim light.
"Agreed."
Just as Andohr was no fool, Morbus was neither. He knew what Andohr was. He knew how the God of Time and Space operated. He was using them, just as they were using him. And this alliance was temporary, a marriage of convenience and nothing more.
Among the three of them, Xyloth, the God of Murder, was the most powerful. He'd turned murder into a business. A goddamn franchise. He'd created a cult, a following of worshippers who killed in his name. They had ranks, titles, and even benefits. The more they killed, the more favored they were by Xyloth. And the more favored they were, the more they worshipped him. It was a vicious cycle, a self-perpetuating machine of death and devotion. And it made Xyloth strong.
Rin, his daughter, his Princess of Murder, stood at the top of that twisted hierarchy. His most devoted follower. His most efficient killer.
Fourcrux, while not as flashy as Xyloth, was still a force to be reckoned with. He didn't have the numbers that Xyloth commanded, but he had quality. His followers, and his Reapers were specialists in the dark arts, necromancy, and the manipulation of life and death.
He targeted the vulnerable. The grieving. Those who had lost loved ones. He would whisper in their ears, promising them reunion and resurrection. After finding suitable targets, Fourcrux and his reapers would guide them, providing them with knowledge, rituals, and power.
They would show the poor souls how to dig up graves, stitch together body parts and breathe life back into dead flesh.
In other words, he would hook them, reel them in and make them dependent on his magic. And in return, they would worship him, serve him, and become his eyes and ears throughout the realm. His agents of death. It wasn't as widespread as Xyloth's operation, but it was effective. And it made Fourcrux very powerful.
And then there was Morbus. The God of Plagues. The sickness made manifest.
He was different from his brothers. He didn't have Xyloth's business acumen or Fourcrux's morbid charm. He didn't crave followers. Or power. Not in the same way, at least. Instead, he simply enjoyed his work as he reveled in disease and suffering. He wasn't interested in building anything but wanted to spread his gifts. To infect. To corrupt.
"Fourcrux," Morbus said, his voice a low, guttural rasp, "is everything in place? To capture our dear brother?"
He wasn't helping his brothers out of any sense of loyalty or brotherly love. Instead, he just wanted to survive, live long enough to spread his plagues and watch the world wither. And he knew with the God of Darkness on a god-killing spree his chances were slim. After all, he was there in Fortuna's domain when Rainar had fallen. He saw the crossbow bolt, heard the scream, and felt the shift in the balance of power. To be exact, He felt the fear and the certainty that gods could die. He didn't want to experience that sensation ever again.
So he had joined his brothers to help them. Because trapping Death was the only way. The only way to ensure their survival and escape that primal fear that had gripped him ever since Rainar's assassination.
"Fourcrux," Morbus said, his voice a low, guttural rasp, "is everything in place? To capture our dear brother?"
He paused, his gaze fixed on Fourcrux.
"We'll only get one chance at this, brother. If we miss well, let's just say we're fucked. Royally."
Fourcrux remained silent for a long moment, his skull-like face unreadable, his empty eye sockets staring into the distance. He was weighing the risks. This was a gamble. A big one. If they succeeded, they would have control over Death himself and be untouchable even by the God of Darkness.
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