Even for a god, the travel from world to world took its toll. Thulos closed his eyes, focused his breath, and then reopened them. Every muscle in his body coiled ready for action. He kept his hand on his sword as he surveyed what appeared to be a throne room, and was bewildered by what he saw. At the door, two identical men gazed at him with open-mouthed horror. In the corner by the door lay a black-robed man, his hands above his head, his face thin and bony. His maniacal laugh flooded the sudden silence. And then Thulos saw the goddess.

“Celestia,” he said, drawing his sword.

The woman stared up at him with pure black eyes, her arms clutching her worn red dress that at one point must have been beautiful. Her long black hair settled against her back as the wind died. A tiny smile curled a side of her mouth, even as tears ran down her cheeks.

“That's my mother's name,” she said, and the smile vanished. She turned toward the two at the door, their gray skin and odd ears vaguely familiar to him. “Go now, before he kills you.”

“Your name?” Thulos said as he breathed in the foreign air. Even its taste was familiar. The presence of two of his brethren throbbed in his head-his other god-pieces. Karak and Ashhur were near, and they both had their eyes upon him, whether in fear or elation he did not know.

“Tessanna,” she said, though she did not turn to look at him. She remained staring at the giant doors. All the while, the fool in the corner laughed.

“Praise be,” Thulos heard the man shout. “Praise be, my glorious Karak, we have won!”

Thulos flinched at the name, as if an arrow had poked through his heavy, elaborate armor. Four players here in this game, and he did not know upon which side they stood on. It was time he knew.