No one likes death.

The heart stops, the chest stops rising, air stops moving through the nose; that’s death. They ring bells when it comes. They paint the corpse in sandalwood and turmeric paste, tie the big toes together, and dress them in new clothes before burning it all.

It’s no wonder they didn’t like her, the Lord of Souls.

“A ruthless criminal.” 

“A vindictive vixen” 

“An ill-tempered prig”

She thought she had heard everything: the panicked prayers of a dying man, the heartbroken wails of a mourner, the annoyed snaps of a fellow god. She did not pay it any mind, though, for she only cared for one thing:

That souls would find their way through the afterlife, Mritaloka, and that curses and spirits wouldn’t hurt the mortals still alive.

But she was just one god, after all.

Souls escaping, demonic entities, ghosts, curses, other gods laying claim on spirits for their own sake… it was too much. So, from the desperate need for harmony, she formed the Order of Spiritual Heralds, a faction of reapers responsible for overlooking any problems arising from spirits. 

Not powerful enough to challenge the gods, but able to handle beings above the capabilities of a mortal. The order was considered more pest-control than anything else—underappreciated at best.

Every few centuries, a reaper—someone exceptionally powerful, skillful, strategic or compassionate—became the stuff of legends. But it seemed this generation wasn't a fortunate one. The most famous, or rather infamous, reaper to have been found in this cycle was the ‘dead-eyed freak’, Aarin.

No one knew how he’d died. His records had been suspiciously locked away from the public, he didn’t have any obvious scars, and he wasn’t much of a talker. Young by immortal standards, a mere six-hundred or something years old, his demeanour added a few centuries to his age.  He looked frail, spoke little, and did not seem to care for others’ emotions. But he had the favor of  Niryati, the Lord of Souls.

Perhaps he had her bias because he had a hindrance that the other reapers didn’t.

Exorcisms were one of the hardest things to perform for reapers; the soul’s memories, experiences, emotions, and an entire lifetime were compressed into one agonizing moment. 

Recovering from the ordeal usually meant taking ‘medicine’ made from Niryati’s diluted blood. Some souls were immune to this medicine, though no one knew why. Such reapers would retire after a few missions, or they’d simply lose their minds. Aarin, however, had been an active member on the field for about five hundred years…

Maybe he’d already gone insane, because only a madman would keep putting themselves through such hell.

As a god, especially one as old as herself, Niryati found it hard to get attached to anything. They come and they go, and that was the beauty of life. Aarin, however… he intrigued her. She hadn’t seen such a glutton for punishment before. Nor had she ever seen such unwavering dedication—almost enough to rival her own.

But even gods reached their limits eventually. Niryati could tell her mask of cold detachment had begun to slip. For the first time in a long time, she had started to consider a future where she might not exist. If the crack that had appeared in Mritalok was anything to go by, she was right to assess her chances. 

“If I am to die…” she murmured softly, the bookkeeper looking over at her, “someone like him would be a good successor, don’t you think?” “Perhaps,” the bookkeeper responded, her voice pleasant, “if he manages to retain his sanity till that day comes, why not?”