My hands are shaking.
He's not moving.
He's not—
A cough. Wet and harsh.
He coughs again. Moves. Tries to push himself up and there's blood on his face and his arm isn't working right, but he's conscious. He's alive. He's trying to stand up and keep working.
"Sir—" One of the elites reaches for him.
"I'm fine."
He's not fine. I can see from here that he's not fine—his left arm hangs wrong and there's a gash on his temple dripping blood into his eye and he's swaying.
But sure.
Fine.
Totally fine.
Men and their bullshit.
He tries to take a step. Staggers.
Renan catches him. "You're not fine."
"The woman—"
"Alive. Both of them. Medical has them." Renan's voice sounds like it's being held together with wire. "You need to sit down."
Koshin's shoulders tighten. For a second I think he's going to argue, going to pull free and keep going because stubborn bastards don't stop being stubborn just because their bones are in the wrong places. He doesn't. He lets Renan guide him to a chunk of rubble and sits.
I watch him breathe. In. Out. Blood dripping down his face.
Great. Apparently I give a shit if the psychotic god dies. That's going to be inconvenient.
I turn back to the debris and keep digging because if I stand here watching him bleed, I'm going to have to think about why my chest feels tight, and I refuse to do that. My hands are bleeding now—shallow cuts, nothing serious—and the sting helps. Gives me somewhere to put my attention.
The Discord elites work in silence around me, and I fit myself into the gaps where I can be useful. I'm not strong enough to move the heavy pieces, but I can clear the smaller stuff, make space for the people who know what they're doing. Former debt payment, current rubble-hauler. At least my resume is getting interesting.
Renan joins me after Koshin waves him off. We work side by side without talking until his hand closes on my arm.
"Here." His voice is flat.
Metal in the rubble—not structural. Marked with symbols I don't recognize. He pulls it free and his whole face goes tight, the muscle jumping under his eye. I've seen Renan laugh at a man's throat getting cut. Whatever this is, it's worse.
"What is it?"
He doesn't answer, just reaches deeper and pulls out more—remnants of something, materials that don't belong in a building. His mouth presses thinner with each piece.
"Renan. What is it?"
"Faith-marked." The words come out rough. "These materials, the symbols—this is Faith ritual work."
My gut clenches.
Around us, voices die mid-sentence. Hands freeze on rubble, then reach for weapons instead. I watch it spread—the realization, the fury—and I can read the room well enough to know what this means. Coin didn't do this alone. Faith helped.
