Moonlight clings to the palace long after the council chambers fall silent.
Kelsey sits on the edge of a low marble bench in one of the inner gardens, knees drawn close, hands clasped tightly in her lap. The air smells faintly of night-blooming flowers and scorched incense, lingering traces of power that never quite leave Maymun's halls. Somewhere beyond the walls, the desert hums, alive with unseen currents.
Mr. Johns stands nearby, cane resting against his leg, watching the way the light catches the tension in her shoulders.
"So," he says gently, breaking the quiet. "The council convenes again."
She doesn't look up. "They never stop convening. They just rotate who gets blamed."
Johns smiles faintly. "A remarkably accurate summary of divine governance."
Her fingers tighten. "They're circling him. I can feel it. Every word they speak is about balance and necessity, but what they really mean is whether Mike is still… useful."
"Or containable," Johns adds.
That earns him a sharp look. "They can't control him anymore. That scares them."
"Yes," Johns agrees softly. "And frightened beings with power tend to make the messiest decisions."
Kelsey exhales, pressing her palms against her eyes for a moment. "I heard the way they talked about him. Like he's already halfway gone. Like the man I married is just… a monster destroying the world."
Johns shifts his weight. "Maymun is trying to buy time. Hamza too, in his own way. But the others—" He shakes his head. "They see storms and start sharpening knives."
She lowers her hands. Her eyes glint faintly in the moonlight, something colder than fear settling behind them. "Then I need to see him. Not later. Not after another fake trial or another war council. Now."
Johns studies her for a long moment. "You're thinking dangerously."
"I'm thinking desperately," she replies. "There's a difference and I will help the man I love just as he helped me."
She stands.
The garden darkens, not suddenly, not violently, but as if the light itself is being politely asked to step aside. The air cools. The scent of flowers fades, replaced by something older: stone, still water, the quiet certainty of endings.
A presence forms behind her without sound.
Thanatos slowly appears. Tall, robed in pale shadow, his face indistinct, not hidden, just unimportant. His eyes are calm, endless, without hunger or judgment. Death, unadorned.
Kelsey turns and faces him without flinching.
"I need your help," she says. No ceremony. No reverence. Just truth. "I need to get to Mike."
Thanatos regards her.
Silence stretches.
Mr. Johns does not speak. He knows better.
At last, Thanatos answers, his voice quiet enough that it barely disturbs the air.
"I cannot."
Her jaw tightens. "Why?"
"I swore," he says simply. "To Michael."
The words land heavier than any threat.
She swallows. "You swore what?"
"That you would be protected," Thanatos replies. "Here. Beyond reach."
Kelsey's hands curl into fists. "Protected from what? Him?"
Thanatos does not respond immediately. When he does, it is with only two words.
"From everyone."
Understanding stings sharper than anger. "So I'm a prisoner."
"No," he says, gently. "You are alive."
She laughs once, bitter. "That's what Hecate said too."
The god of death does not react. He only inclines his head slightly.
"You are bound by choice," he says. "So is he."
Then the darkness recedes. The garden breathes again. Thanatos is gone as if he never stood there at all.
Kelsey stares at the empty space he left behind.
Johns clears his throat softly. "Well. That went about as well as conversations with inevitability usually do."
She turns away sharply. "I'm not giving up."
"I assumed you wouldn't," he says mildly.
She walks.
Not toward the palace interior.
Toward fire.
Hamza stands alone in a training courtyard carved from obsidian and brass, crimson light rolling off his aura in slow, controlled pulses. He moves, each strike cutting the air with disciplined precision. Every motion is restrained violence, every breath measured.
He stops the moment she steps into the space.
"Kelsey," he says, straightening. "You shouldn't be here."
"I know," she replies. "That's why I came."
His eyes narrow slightly not hostile, just wary. "The palace wards—"
"—won't stop me," she interrupts. "Thanatos made sure of that. I just can't leave."
That gives him pause.
She takes a step closer. Then another.
"I need you to talk to him," she says, voice steady but tight. "Please."
Hamza's jaw sets. "Mike is not… receptive right now. He is planning to fight gods with Abbadon."
"I don't need him receptive," she snaps. Then softer, "I need him reminded."
Hamza looks away, crimson chains shifting faintly along his arms. "You don't understand what he's carrying."
"I do," she says. "I carried a god inside me too. I know what it costs."
That makes him look back at her.
Really look.
She steps closer until the heat of his aura presses against her skin. "You're the only one he'll listen to without assuming an agenda. You trained and fought with him. You pulled him back when he lost control. When Hunter died—"
His expression tightens.
"—you were there," she finishes. "So please. Not as a councilor. Not as an executioner. As the djinn who believes in him."
Silence stretches between them, heavy and raw.
Finally, Hamza exhales slowly. "If he breaks the line again—"
"I know," she says immediately. "You'll have to fight him. I'm not asking you to spare him. I'm asking you to reach him."
The chains around Hamza's arms glow brighter, then dim.
"I will speak to him," he says at last. "Once."
Relief nearly buckles her knees.
"Thank you," she whispers.
He meets her gaze, unflinching. "Do not thank me yet. Words may not be enough anymore."
Kelsey nods. "Then make them count."
Hamza turns toward the inner halls, already bracing himself.
Behind them, unseen and uninvited, fate shifts its weight. And far beyond the palace walls, something ancient continues to move toward the gods' temple, step by step, scent locked, patient as death itself.