Death returned to where endings gathered.
It was not a place, not truly. More like a convergence where conclusions waited to be assigned. High gods lingered there, vast and quiet, their forms layered with authority. Lower gods clustered farther away, careful not to intrude, careful not to be noticed.
Death drifted through them, small and wrapped in an oversized robe, scythe balanced awkwardly against its shoulder.
No one blocked its path.
They never did.
gods were not afraid of Death.
Fear required the possibility of escape.
They respected it instead.
After all, no matter how vast they were, no matter how long they endured, each of them had an END. Not destruction. Not erasure. An END. A point where continuation ceased to be permitted.
That rule applied to all of them.
Without exception.
Death adjusted its grip on the scythe and tried not to think about the interruption. Tried not to think about the way the darkness had folded. Tried not to think about the presence that had made even it stop mid-task.
Extra work, it told itself.
Annoying, but manageable.
A high god drifted closer, form bright and layered, voice smooth with practiced authority.
"You seem… unsettled," the god said. "That is unusual for you."
Death waved a small hand dismissively. "Just an annoying thing. Gave me extra work."
The god tilted its head. "Extra work from where?"
Death did not answer. It did not want to.
Some things were better left unspoken. Especially things that even Death could not cross. Things that did not belong to the flow of endings at all.
Things it recognized.
Things it did not want the others to notice.
Especially not now.
Death floated onward, robe brushing against nothing, scythe dragging lightly through the air. It told itself it was tired. Overworked. That was explanation enough.
Then it stopped.
Someone stood ahead.
Not imposing. Not loud. Just present in a way that bent attention without demanding it.
The goddess of luck.
She noticed Death immediately. Of course she did.
Death stared.
Not briefly.
Not casually.
It studied her, mask angled, hollow sockets fixed on her form. It counted probabilities without meaning to. Traced invisible lines of chance that twisted and knotted around her existence.
Too many coincidences.
Too many near-misses.
Too many anomalies clustered too tightly to be coincidence at all.
Luck smiled faintly, unreadable.
Death felt a faint itch crawl up its spine.
It looked away.
"No," Death muttered quietly to itself. "Not dealing with that today."
It drifted past without another word, pretending disinterest, pretending the ledger wasn't already heavier than it should be.
One hundred was not a large number.
But it was not normal.
Death tightened its grip on the scythe and continued on, mind deliberately blank, refusing to follow the thread further.
Some patterns were inconvenient.
Some were dangerous.
And some belonged to its Mistress.
Those, Death had learned long ago, were best left alone.