The sky bled the fifth time Silas came back to life.

He awoke in a still room, the red rain pattering against the stained windows. He laid in bed there, dazed, trying to recollect his memories. The room felt familiar, a small cramped study with maps and papers pasted everywhere like a wallpaper of clues. Faint whispers echoed off the rough stone walls, punctuated by the occasional scurrying of creatures. The smell of metal and rain burned his nostrils, and that’s when he knew exactly who’s bed he occupied.

Silas sat up, looking around until his eye caught a shadow curled up in a chair, reading a small book he had no doubt was as cursed as her.

“Well, look who’s decided to join the land of the living.” Vanya sighed, slamming the book shut. She stood up and sat at the edge of the divan Silas was crammed in, her head cocked as she curiously inspected him.

“Not by choice” Silas said, teeth clenched and mouth dry.

Of course it was Vanya fucking Lace.

She was a small and scrawny woman with a kind looking face, but she was also one of, if not the most terrifying person in his life. And for good reasons to.

It was generally a rule of thumb to fear all necromancers, especially those in the favor of Mazik, the God of Death. And Vanya was his favorite mortal out of the lot, in charge of making sure Silas would not leave their plane of existence until he completed Mazik’s impossible request.

“Did you honestly believe hurling yourself in front of a carriage to be trampled by horses is a clever way to go?” Vanya asked. “If anything, you just amused me.”

Silas frowned, already weary of their exchange. "Anything to escape your company.”

It wasn't accurate to say he attempted to end his own life this time. The first three attempts ended with Vanya painstakingly reconstructing him, piece by piece, until he realized all it did was wear his body down. Yet, it suited him for her to believe it was intentional. The thought of enduring her relentless torment, reminded every day if she knew he perished beneath a horse's hooves accidentally, was unbearable.

Vanya reached for the binding on Silas’s torso, slowly unwrapping it. His blood soaked through the cotton and onto the bed, but he was too bitter to apologize for it. Instead, he quietly took deep breaths, which proved difficult because of his recently trampled lungs.

“Ah, by the end of the week, you'll be good as new,” Vanya said, two cold fingers gliding over a bruise on his ribs. He shivered. “But until then, I'd suggest keeping a safe distance from any horses.”

Silas nodded, though his mind wandered far from Vanya's words. Exhaustion gnawed at his bones, begging for peace he did not have. He was tired of living, and he was tired of dying. He was tired of the gods and Vanya, and the empire who couldn’t care less about folk like him. He was tired of the fact that he was almost thirty, and his life was reduced to this. He was simply too weary, bone-deep tired.

“How do you do it?” Silas asked, long fingers covering his face.

“Do what?”

“Wake up every day knowing your just a pawn in a game you’ll never be a part of.”

Vanya hummed, tugging on the tips of her auburn hair as though she could shake an answer out of her head. “When the gods return—“

“If”, Silas interrupted.

"When. Because you'll prevail one day. So when they do return, I aim to align myself with those destined to reshape our world."

Silas hated that she kept reminding him of that. Years ago, when he was barely old enough to court someone, he had found out the chemicals in his lungs would kill him very soon. So when Mazik appeared in the mist, telling him the stars promised him a far greater destiny, Silas was inclined to believe.

Now looking back he was sure there were no stars. No prophesy. Only a god bullshitting his way into the mortal realm.

The gods banishment from the planet centuries ago wrought change. Seasons reversed, the sky rained acid, and fog was a sign that they were not happy. There was almost always fog.

So the deal was, Silas would find and rid of the stone that banished the gods, and until then death would elude him.

It was an awful deal, as now death seemed like a blessing, and the stone was impossible to find.

Vanya rose from the divan, striding over to the bin and throwing away his bloodied bandages. “There’s some clothes over there” she said, pointing to a small wooden wrack near the window. Freshen up and meet me for supper. I got a clue on where the stone may be.”

When she closed the door, Silas found himself repeating her words.

You’ll prevail one day.

But what if he didn’t want to?