“You sold my daughter to a brothel?” Melanie’s father asked. There wasn’t anger in his voice—not really. Just disappointment.
“I wasn’t really going to do it,” her mother insisted. Red hair, green eyes, tall and robust—minus the scars, she was a mirror to Melanie today. “But you never visit me anymore! What else was I supposed to do?”
“But you accepted money from them, didn’t you? And I imagine you’ve already spent this money.”
Melanie looked upon this scene with a humorous smile on her face. For her mother, Melanie’s only worth had been attention from her father. For her father… she wasn’t quite sure what she was worth. It felt like he sent money only so that others couldn’t disparage him. In the end, her mother had spent most of it on gaudy dresses, jewels, and expensive perfume.
Until today, that was.
“You’ve made your bed,” her father said. “Sleep in it.”
He made to leave, but her mother threw herself at him. She clawed at him with her long, painted nails, and he cast her to the ground. She fell into a vase, shattering it. He looked down at her contemptuously, while she had the look of a wounded animal on her face. There was brief indecision—pity, almost—before he made to leave without another word. In hysteric rage, Melanie’s mother grabbed a shard of the broken vase and lunged, stabbing him in the calf.
With a shout, her father fell on her mother. He bludgeoned her face again and again until she stopped moving, then wrapped his fingers around her neck. She was so badly beaten she could barely offer resistance, and she breathed her last after a few minutes. When she finally died, he fell away from her, examining his calf and grimacing. He muttered foul curses, and it was only after about half a minute that he spotted Melanie.
Melanie’s father rose up and walked over to her, limping. He could see the child version of her, but Melanie herself seemed to be a spectator in this memory. The dead-eyed girl looked up at her father, not saying a word.
Even though she had no memory of this event, Melanie knew how this ended. She remembered this place well, after all, and it occupied much of her earlier life.
Without saying a thing, her father left, shaking his head. On his way past, as he winced with pain from his leg, he kicked her mother once again. Melanie couldn’t help but laugh, and the little girl that she’d once been looked over.
Feeling guilty from that silent stare, Melanie said, “Come on. Sometimes, things are just so colossally wrong you have to laugh.”
The child continued to stare.
“Brothel owner made a fat stack of coins for this little event. Blackmailed my granddad. Ruined his whole damned business. Then my dad drank himself to death.” She patted the little kid on the head. “But take it easy, kid. Life gets a lot better from here.”
Those green eyes never stopped staring.
Melanie finally looked away, and rose to her feet. She walked to her mother’s body and looked down on it. The little Melanie walked up, too, staring up at her as she watched.
“There’s a lot you can learn from whores,” Melanie reflected, rambling to distract her thoughts. “And it’s not just ‘where not to end up in life.’ You learn how to talk to people. You learn how to size up someone’s worth. You learn how to shake people down, too. Well, I guess I learned that from the owner.” She laughed, then pulled up a chair. “You learn what someone can sell themselves for. And you learn how to laugh at stuff like this.” Melanie prodded her dead mother’s stiff leg with her boot.
Melanie rubbed her palms together. “You’ll meet a mercenary. He guards the place. He’ll teach you a thing or two, finally get you the hell out of this place. In the end, he’d prefer you fight in the bedroom rather than a battlefield. He’s not exactly the asking type, either.”
Melanie took a deep breath and sighed, leaning back in the chair. “He’s the first one you kill. Not sure what count we’re at, now, but there you go. After all that stuff, you’re free. Maybe that’s what you want hear.”
Silence followed, with the little girl still watching. Judging.
Melanie started laughing. “You’re still here. Looks like that’s not my ticket out.” She stared at her mother’s dead body. “I’ll admit, I don’t remember this memory, so the White Planes have got me there.” She shook her head. “But all this, all of this,” she said, anger finally seeping into her tone. “It made me tough, made me strong. I learned how to fight, how to struggle, how to earn. If we had been accepted into the family, started living in that peachy estate of my grandfather’s back in Relize, sucking down caviar and slurping wine—we would’ve been just like all the rest, walking around in high heels, wearing a tightly-drawn corset and fainting because the weather’s hot.”
No answer came from the little girl, even now.
“All of this happened to me for a reason,” Melanie pointed down at the ground. “Now, I’m with the king. Most powerful man in the world. And once I’m done with this stroll through shitty memory lane, I’ll be talking to gods. And because of the things I’ve been through, I’ll keep going up, and up. Power, money, I can get it all. We’re worth something,” she tapped her chest.
“Are we happy?”
“Happy? That doesn’t even…” Melanie lost all her momentum, looking down at the ground. She caressed her forehead as a headache erupted.
“Because that’s all I want,” the little Melanie said.
And that was the thing that Melanie knew she needed to answer, then. What did she want, henceforth?
#####
Melanie walked out into the White Planes, carrying her zweihander on her shoulder. She had been walking for a long, long time, her thoughts still on what she’d just experienced. She stopped when she noticed someone.
Sataistador, god of war, chaos, and ruthless destruction stood looking down on her, his arms crossed. His shoulders were as broad as a bear’s, and his arms were as thick as Melanie’s torso. He bore countless scars all over his body, and sported a giant mane of red hair. The largest scar—a huge gouge in his stomach—was partially concealed by his long beard. His green eyes carried a madness in them… and they were fixed firmly on Melanie.
“You’re an aspect of Sataistador?” she questioned at once, her voice calm.
“Your companions tell me that you intend to steal from Erlebnis,” he said without answering her question. His voice was deep and smooth. “And you… I’ve seen you.”
“That’s nice. What do you have for me?” Melanie asked, examining him.
He stepped forward, all of the weapons on his body clanging as he did so. He bore an axe on his left waist, two daggers strapped to his chest and one to his calf. He had a bow on his back, and two scimitars on the right side of his waist. And his posture… even like this, he looked ready to use them in a second.
“You walk through life alone, using war as an instrument to enrich yourself.” He nodded. “You fight for your benefit, flitting from side to side or betraying people when doing so outweighs staying true.” He raised his fist up and pounded it against his chest. “This is my way.”
“I assume you didn’t come to share a drink and discuss our commonalities,” Melanie answered back, dead-pan.
“I have no love for Erlebnis. But I stand to benefit much more from protecting his interests.” He held his gigantic hand up. “A problem persists. Unless I make a deal with someone, I cannot take this knowledge out of the White Planes.”
Melanie’s eyes widened in surprise. “Argrave mentioned there were measures to protect us, but… so we’re on the same page, what are you talking about?”
“The White Planes are more than a place for mortals to link with the divine. This is a cowardly realm to avoid the consequences of one’s loose tongue.” He crossed his arms again. “Gods are petty things. Do you think your king—or the Alchemist behind him—would risk disclosing his plans of a heist so blatantly, were there not certain guarantees in place? Not even my memories are exempt from this place’s meddling.”
“Does the same hold true for mortals?” Melanie questioned.
“Yes,” Sataisdor answered. “You will remember only those you dealt with. Some mortals enter this place and leave with only the experience you just endured, and think that is all there is to those doors. This place was built by gods in the distant past to have some advantage against Gerechtigkeit. It was advantageous to have points of contact, for not all deities could control where they descend. Along the way, mortals were added to that mix. And measures were taken for this to be a neutral ground. White, and weak.”
“Yet you’re using it, now,” Melanie pointed out. “Alright, whatever. You need a traitor. What are you offering?”
“I have never before consorted with mortals,” Sataistador looked off to the side. “But in so doing, I have never before shared my power with another. I have no divine servants, no mortal champions. But I can promise you two things. The first: an eternal alliance with myself. The second: godhood.”
“Godhood?” Melanie said in surprise.
“Mortals can become gods. The methods are manifold, but I have done it before.” He held one of his hands up, explaining, “You must be far from Gerechtigkeit—he hampers with the process. The rest… I can take it from there.”
“Just like that,” Melanie pressed.
“Just so,” Sataistador nodded. “I am the last surviving god from the first cycle of judgment. I know more of divinity and ascendency than any other. You would be weak these first few cycles, but as I said, you would be my ally. There is no higher honor. As you kill other deities you will strengthen your divinity to be worthy of the position. I know this to be true, as you are just like me.”
“You witnessed the first cycle?” Melanie repeated.
“I will say no more,” Sataistador crossed his arms. “Accept my deal.”
“A blessing is one thing, but how do I know you’ll keep this deal?” Melanie stepped forward and looked up at the giant god.
“The White Planes leave their mark. Both of us must abide by these scriptures absolutely, or face a devastating retribution.”
“Not good enough,” Melanie disagreed. “I don’t trust it.”
“Hmph. Nor do I. Then… I shall give you my symbol of authority. I have made no blessings, for I have no need of lesser beings. And more than that…” the deity reached for the scimitars on his waist, pulling one free. He held it out before him, and then… it changed. She’d not for a moment doubted the solidity of Sataistador, but his scimitar gained a tangibility to it, and she felt the unmistakable presence of the divine.
“You may hold onto this. It bears one fragment of my divinity. Take it, and sign our pact. Wield it in my name.”
Melanie slowly reached out, but her hand paused near the handle. She looked up. “Argrave’s heist against Erlebnis isn’t the whole of the story.”
“I am aware of his plan to fight this Ebon Cult. It matters not.”
“No,” Melanie shook her head. “It’s more than that—more than what he shared with me. Argrave has knowledge beyond the ken of the gods, even. It’s why the Alchemist is cooperating with him.”
Sataistador narrowed his eyes. “And why is this pertinent?”
“Argrave wouldn’t share with me… but he was very interested in earning your support,” Melanie said, taking her hand away from the scimitar. “If you come with me, he might be willing to divulge these plans.”
Sataistador narrowed his eyes even further, distrust forming.
“…and I’m not so sure about this whole ‘fragment of divinity’ nonsense,” Melanie added. “I need assurance, don’t I? From an unwitting party.”
“My word alone should be enough.” Sataistador sheathed his scimitar. “But as you wish. We shall meet him.”
#####
When Melanie returned with a hulking god of war in tow, it silenced all conversation between Argrave, Anneliese, and Galamon.
“Melanie, you—”
“That’s right, I brought him,” Melanie nodded. “When I first met him, I thought, ‘hey, isn’t this the guy that Argrave said would be the most valuable to have on our side? He thought his favorite wife would entice him, but actually, it was me.’ I was pleased as I could be. Thought I was going to get a nice little package of leverage.” She looked over to him. “But as it turns out, he’s a scheming little twit.”
Sataistador slowly turned his head to look down at the mercenary woman by his side, brows raised in surprise.
“This battle bastard wanted me to turn on you guys, have him help Erlebnis—promised me godhood in return. Funnily enough, he said the Ebon Cult wasn’t a problem, even when I’m sure I heard you claim Mozzahr beat his ass,” she gestured toward Argrave.
Argrave stayed still, flabbergasted, and glanced at Anneliese. She nodded in confirmation—Melanie was being truthful.
“Here’s how this works,” Melanie said. “I’m out of the loop, Argrave, but I know you know things about the future, about the present. I’d like you to catch me up to speed. In return…” she looked at Sataistador. “I brought this guy. He claims to have endured the first cycle of judgment. And even failing that… let’s work some magic, Argrave.”
“You refuse me?” Sataistador said, eyes full of wrath.
“I chose the side that benefits me most,” Melanie smiled.
“He can make you a god?” Sataistador said, voice low. “Are you sure about that?”
“Maybe not. But you can’t give me what I really want—I see that, talking to you.” Melanie shook her head. “And besides, it’s like you said. You won’t remember this even if it doesn’t work out. But if you’re interested in hearing how Mozzahr, the Castellan of the Empty, beat your sorry ass, you’ll perk those ears up. And if you really are like me, you’ll choose the winning side.” She gestured toward Argrave with her thumb. “So—what was it you said, so arrogantly? Accept my deal.”
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