Neiss crafted the perfect heir, and Beliphor’s is near perfect. Saltira is still in the process, but I’m beginning to see why she chose the girl. Leviathan’s and Tikkoh’s are adequate. But you—you have yet to prove what you will be.”
“Then why me?” Risk asked again, because after the months she’d spent here, that was the question she returned to every time.
“Do you know why the raksasa cannot be my heir? Or anyone’s heir, for that matter?” Mazzulah said, pivoting in the conversation.
“No,” Risk said, holding in her frustration. As her nails turned to talons, she fisted her hands in her shirt, still holding it closed as much as she could.
“Because the raksasa have no true power. Not in a world of gods. They have our speed, our strength, they are near impossible to kill, and they live immortal as we do . . . but we gods are beings made of magic, and the raksasa cannot even harness it. They are our children, mine and all the other gods, light and dark—though the light gods would not have you believe it. They’re children we’ve had with each other, and with humans . . . when the mood was right.” Mazzulah smiled deviously, and Risk’s stomach turned, though there was no food for it to turn.
“We could pit the raksasa together for an eternity and it would be the same as smashing rocks together until one of them yields.” The god did that thing again, where she waved her hand as if what she spoke about was as inconsequential as the weather.
And while Risk was no lover of the raksasa, it didn’t sit right with her that the god cared so little for them. That Mazzulah would equate them to rocks and not people.
“Thousands of years ago, we created the Maji by picking people who had traits that we valued and whose soul could withstand our magic. We took a piece of ourselves and each of us gifted it to one person. Our first champions.” Mazzulah leaned forward and then stood. Her height matching that of her throne. Her sable hair hung in long, wild locks that blew in the wind.
Risk locked her spine and her knees, forcing herself to remain on her feet this time.
“You said the champions of the dark were too weak,” Risk said.
“They were. In the beginning, they held up well. Long enough to have children and wage war, but the madness crept in. Our power was too strong for their wills, and most of the children down those lines. It was only after hundreds of years and just as many heirs that we started to see a pattern. Those that suffered before the magic grew were the strongest at withstanding its seductive call.” Mazzulah smiled, and it reminded Risk of another whose eyes were also cruel.
“You, my girl, my little bird . . . are a perfect storm. You have enough strength from your raksasa blood to not fall to the madness. You can control the magic because you are Maji. What’s more, you’ve suffered more than any other beast tamer—and you are stronger for it.”
Risk blinked, her lips parting. “If the madness is a problem, how is it that Quinn is perfection to you?”
Mazzulah chuckled. “With time, it might have been an issue before. But Quinn died. She is frozen in her most powerful state. The madness can’t reach her anymore than it already does, and with her, the dark king will learn to navigate it.”
“I don’t see how me being raksasa exempts me from this,” Risk said.
“You care for them. You care for all living things.” Mazzulah looked at her with pity, and it was a strange thing to see on a god’s face. Stranger still when she walked forward and ran her gentle claws down Risk’s cheek. “You have the strength that runs in a god. Your soul is made of magic, the same as mine. But unlike the raksasa, you also have my power. You’re as close to a god as a mortal can be. In truth, I don’t even know if you’re truly mortal. While I am old and have seen much, I haven’t ever seen this. You’re one of a kind, and that’s what makes you so special. That’s why you are my heir, and not the raksasa or another beast tamer. You are a true heir, one that could remake this world and any other if you wished.”
“I don’t want to remake anything,” Risk said. “I just want