The Alabaster Hall was a magnificent, lonely manor on the rocky southern cliffs of the Southern Sea, built right on the border between the sprawling Ajafe desert and the saline, unforgiving ocean. It was equal distance from both Malevtra and Rhajuvran, a week’s trip from both on land and too treacherous a journey on water. The seas nearest the Ajafe were rocky and tumultuous, leading sailors to simply navigate farther from the landmass, to avoid destroying their ships and killing everyone in them. What might’ve been a scenic tourist destination or bustling market town was left a barren desert wasteland, save for the ornate manor built on the cliffside. It was a perfect place to die, Sadihak thought.

As one of the Savant, they were able to travel out to a vacation manor in the middle of the desert without much questioning as to why. It was one of the benefits of power. The only major drawback to that power was that they weren’t allowed to go alone. Somehow, after twenty-five thousand years of life, they weren’t trusted to travel by themselves. So, after much debate with Jymaiyri, Sadihak agreed to travel with a small contingent of soldiers and advisors. They sent them away the minute they reached the steps of the Hall.

“Alright, we’re here now. Away with you all.” They said, from their elevated position at the top of the stairwell. What a silly thing Savanthood was, when they weren’t even allowed to walk behind an mortal creature! They gestured for the soldiers and scholars and mages to retrace their steps. “Go on. Shoo. I’d like to be alone.”

One of the braver, higher-ranking advisors dared approach them. “Uh, excuse me, your holiness,” He stammered, his words too scared to leave his lips. “But we just got here.”

“We did! I already said that. No need to point it out again.” Feigning ignorance was an easy, easy thing to do, yet it never got less fun.

“Yes, yes, I know… But are you sure? Shouldn’t we all take rest in the hall?”

Sadihak felt a smile grow over their face. “My dear, there’s a whole desert out there. Plenty of room to take rest in. Now, I’m going to go into the Hall and attend to my duties.” It wasn’t a request. It was a demand.

The advisor went pale, but nodded in understanding. He turned on his heels and went back to the gathered group of mortals. With a hurried tone of voice, he explained to them Sadihak’s demands. The group left, and Sadihak turned into the Hall.

At the heart of the Alabaster hall was a bedchamber, flanked on every side with water gardens. It was a room Sadihak had personally overseen the design for, the sheer curtains and open windows being crafted exactly to their liking. Over their too-long lifespan, they had spent pleasant days and passion-filled nights in the room, alone like they were now or with a countless number of partners. Now, they would use the room for a different purpose, one they never would’ve envisioned happening. Now, it was to be their deathbed.

The room was freshly clean, with crisp linens on the bed and pale curtains blowing in the open windows. A soft sea-desert wind blew in from the south side of the room to the north, lifting the drapery and Sadihak’s hair alike. Having heard of their arrival, the staff had cleaned it. They had cleaned the entire manor. What a shame on their part, Sadihak thought, all that work, when all I’m here for is my own death.

Deciding that lamenting wasted hours wasn’t doing them any favors, Sadihak got straight to work. They removed their traveling cloak and folded it neatly on the desk, then set their case beside it. Like nearly all of their possessions, it was a crisp, bluish white- Sadihak often wondered how they had retained their sight after looking so much at only one color, and ultimately decided it was because the Gods didn’t want two blind Savant. Inside the cloth case were two items- a loose, sheer robe, which they changed into, and a smaller leather case, which they removed. Inside the leather case was a tiny glass vial, secured in the case by straps and capped by a piece of cork, and inside the vial was a foggy, almost clear liquid. It almost looked like water, if they looked at it the right way.

It was poison- one of the deadliest they knew of. Known as moon’s tears on the black market and by anyone who appreciated dramatic flair, it was one-part snake venom and two-parts toxic jadeleaf. Ironic, given that they crafted it with Jymaiyri’s help. Sadihak didn’t consider themself especially knowledgeable about poisons, but even they knew it was one of the deadliest. One drop could kill a man, the rumor went. The dose they held in their hand should be enough to incapacitate a Savant, at least for a while.

It was the exact same as they and Jymaiyri had secretly administered to Hanishadria- the same poison, the same measure, the same potency. Hanishadria had survived intaking the liquid with his wine, but Sadihak doubted they would, even without the added effect of alcohol. Hanishadria was muscular and heavy where they were light and thin. Simply enough, he could withstand more than they could. Chosen by the Goddess of War, Hanishadria could burn through anything he consumed without too much of a drastic effect on his well being, but Sadihak’s patron was the deity of water. All they could do was drown in the venom.

Sadihak rolled the glass vial in their hand. They stalled for time. Time, time, what little time could do for them now. They cast their glance to the bed, then back to the poison, and wondered in what order to perform their suicide. To drink the poison first, and risk collapsing on the floor, or to drink it in bed and risk spilling it over themselves? Even as they thought over the minute dilemma, they recognized they were stalling. It didn’t matter in what order they performed the meticulous tasks of preparing for death. Death was coming for them, and they were to invite it.

Eventually, Sadihak settled on a compromise- sitting on the side of the bed to take the poison. Even then, when they sat, and uncorked the vial to partake of its contents, they hesitated. It wouldn’t take long to die, they knew- or at least, they hoped. In mortals, moon’s tears took almost immediate effect. In Hanishadria, it had taken a few minutes. Sadihak assumed their reaction would be somewhere in the middle- minutes of agony, minutes of nothing, they didn’t know. All they knew was that it would be a few minutes, and then it would be nothing. Nothing- what a terrible, terrible notion. Sadihak feared the nothing more than they feared anything else. Jymaiyri had described death as an absence. They couldn’t think of words that instilled more fear than that. An absence from what? Time? Reality? Personhood? They didn’t know how long it would take, if their traveling companions would return to find them dead before they woke. What would they think? Would they mourn? Would they search for a killer, not knowing the true circumstance of the event? Would they understand, even in the slightest? Would they wait for them to wake?

The idea of waking scared Sadihak more than the idea of dying did. They would pass, they would do something- heavens know what- in the ethereal plane, and they would wake. They would be reborn, Jymaiyri had said. Resurrected as a deity. In a sense, the death was permanent- it was the permanent passing of their mortal self. Little of it comforted Sadihak- the only facet that did was the fact Jymaiyri had undergone the process far before they had to.

“What will I do?” They had asked Jymairi, the thousandth time they had run through the ritual together. “After- after I pass. What will happen to me?”

“I can’t be certain.” She had replied. “It’s… hard to remember. It’s like falling asleep, a bit. My death was so violent, I’m sure I’m an exception. I imagine, for you, it’ll feel alot like being unconscious. You’ll wake up in the ethereal plane, and you’ll meet with your deity. I can’t help you past that, since I don’t know your god. By that point, it’s all up to you.”

Sadihak took in a breath to prepare themself, then exhaled it while still doing nothing. They couldn’t lift the vial any higher, couldn’t move it to their lips to drink. Some innate, human urge inside them prevented that- perhaps, what little mortality they had left.

“It’s not poison.” They lied to themself. “It’s not poison. I’ll be fine. I’ll get through this. I’m not going to die.” Somehow, the false narrative was more comforting than the real one. The flawed, mortal version of themself was comforted not by the notion that death was a temporary matter, but by the lie that they simply weren’t dying. It was ironic that they found relief in the old habits they were purging with poison.

Sadihak closed their eyes, hoping it would help, and gingerly lifted the vial to their lips. The poison slid down their throat like honey, and an odd taste of mint lingered on their tongue. Only once they opened their eyes and set the now-empty vial on their bedside table did the venom set in. It was a burning sensation in their stomach- first unnoticbale, then all to present. They clutched their stomach and collapsed over the bed. In an effort to maintain a sense of composure- if they were found dead, they didn’t want to look undignified while doing it- they lay on their back, hands clasped over their anguished stomach. They felt heavy, so fatigued that they were sinking into the bed, yet couldn’t stop their heart rate from quickening. They closed their eyes, and tried to clear their mind. At once, it overtook them, and all they felt was absence. It was close to euphoria.

Sadihak woke, though they couldn’t tell when. They were without senses, even without a sense of time or balance. All they could comprehend was existing.

Is this the ethereal plane, they thought. Is this what I’ve been searching for?

“Yes,” said the voice of their god, in their head. It was less of a sound and more of a thought. “Welcome home, my child.”

Home? How is this my home?

“This is the birthplace of all.”

There’s more to that, isn’t there. There was always more. The God of Masks was nothing, if not deceptive. Sadihak figured they would fill the role well.

“Clever child.” Their god imparted a smile to Sadihak’s mind, a sense of laughing pleasure. The sensation of being pushed out of their own mind was one they hadn’t felt in a long time, but one they weren’t unfamiliar with. “This is the homeplace of the gods. Your homeplace, one day.”

One day. Had that day come?

“Ah, you wonder. Of course, you know by now. I can’t think of any other reason you’d willingly dispose of that body of yours… that is, unless you were really unhappy with something, but you’re more mature than that, aren’t you. You know of your true nature, so it makes sense that you’d finally like to seek it. I do wonder though, if you’re ready…”

Ready? Am I ready? Can one truly be ready for godhood? What could prepare me?

“Your mind wanders. Stop that.” Their god directed, and suddenly, all Sadihak’s worries ceased. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it. You’re here. There’s only two things that can happen now.”

Two things. Two roads standing in front of me. One, a continuation of death- a return to nothing, a primal state of absence. Sadihak had sought that absence as soon as they realized they were exempt from it. The other road, godhood. Divinity. A new kind of absence. An absence from death, mortality, humanity. If they chose that path, they’d shed their mortal skin, and ascend. Wouldn’t that be nice, to be free of such horrid, mortal worries?

“Made a decision, have we?”

What will happen to you?

“If you choose the void, I will seek another like you. I will repeat this cycle until I have an heir willing to take my place, no matter how long it takes. If you choose divinity, then it is I who embraces the nothing. I, after so many years, will die. It will be pleasant, I think.”

It will. Sadihak’s ascent to divinity wasn’t a question- it was foretold. It was a set destiny, like the futures Petrai read for herself and the masses. They didn’t even have to fully agree. It was going to happen. This was what they were here for.

Despite remaining without senses, Sadihak could feel their mortality being ripped from their soul. It felt like shedding something- an unwanted article of clothing, a dead layer of skin. What was left of them, after? A being? A god? Were they still the same?

Suddenly, Sadihak realized they were alone. Their God had departed from them, from the world.

Suddenly, they had ascended.

Waking from death was similar to waking from sleep, Sadihak thought, though it was more painful. They were alone when they woke- something that pleased them- and, from what they could tell, had been gone for at least a day. The night was dark around them, the air sweet with the scent of the sea.

The changes in environment came second to the changes in them. They felt disconnected from their body- their vessel, they supposed. It was small, it was weak, it was painfully mortal and fragile, weak even to the likes of plants, or blades, or time. They became aware that the vessel they possessed, the one sitting on a bed and pitifully looking over its own hands, was not their true body. It was a vessel for them to pour a fraction of themself into, a small bowl to hold the fraction of their consciousness.

They looked to the sea, and became overwhelmed with the odd sensation of returning. That, they knew, was their true vessel. That was the only thing vast enough to contain the entirety of their power.

What a funny way to live, Sadihak thought to themself. What a strange new existence I find myself in. What strength, what power. It scared them, but they couldn’t help but feel excited by the concept.