Sa-cha is dead. No shrine. No host. The loss of it is heavy, dragging Basuin toward the ground. Ren falls to her knees. Sa-cha, who arose from the Winter River, died here. And from the godrealm, he has no power. No one protects the River now.
No one but Basuin and Ren.
“I’ll kill all the gods,” Kensy spits. “I won’t stop with Grimmalia and Xalkhir. I’ll go straight to the godrealm and kill them, too. I’ll begin anew, everything new, at my hand.” He smiles. “Glory to the gods.”
Basuin draws his sword from his back, gritting his teeth. “I won’t let that happen.” Not if it means putting the world in Kensy’s hand—and not if it means Ren’s death. A godless, evil world. A world, empty, without Ren. “If you thought me weak, you were wrong.”
“You’re nothing but a dead man,” Kensy snarls. “I’m going to rip that god right out of you and watch you die thrice over.”
Then, Kensy points his loaded rifle at Ren. “And you’re next.”
Bass rushes him without another thought. Not Ren. In the same moment, Kensy’s drawn the sword at his hip and their blades clash in a crack of steel that rings out across the clearing. Bass pushes and Kensy relents, their swords singing against one another as Bass grapples to get the upper hand. He yanks the dagger from his hip—it’s gone, laid at Yaelic’s side while he slept. Instead, he reaches for the dagger he knows Kensy wears and slashes—Kensy blocks it with a pistol he whipped from another holster. But Basuin is backed by magic. There’s a wolf inside him raging and ready to take control.
With a grunt, Bass shoulders Kensy off him, red magic rising from his skin. The force of it sends Kensy staggering back, panting, still wearing that feral grin. He looks like he’s having fun. Like they’re in the training arena still, having a friendly spar, wagered and counted in mugs of ale after the sun set and the old commanders all went to bed.
Behind him, there’s movement. He hears the shuffle in the grass—Ren’s footsteps, all lithe and airy. Before he can turn, Kensy reacts first. With a flick of his wrist, a gun is back in his hand—no, not a gun. It’s the hand cannon that set Yaelic’s den aflame.
It clicks, spewing flames. Kensy hurls it toward them, across the space between Basuin and Ren, and as soon as it hits the forest floor everything ignites. A wall of fire spurts up and starts seizing ground. Ren jumps out of the way, but it creates a dangerous barrier around Kensy and Bass.
Good. He’s glad for it. She may burn for it, but at least the flames won’t kill her. Kensy will.
Anger and fear are turning into something fearsome inside of him. If Ren is wounded in any way, then only the gods will be able to help every man and animal in this forest. Only gods will save the rest of them from Basuin’s wrath. He’ll have nothing left.
“You’re weak,” Kensy shouts over the crackle of fire. Basuin lunges, sword hilt wrapped in both hands. Kensy unsheathes his blade and redirects Basuin’s with a fluid movement that reminds him—this isn’t just a man. This is a god killer.
“What will power matter when you’re at the top?” Basuin grunts and kicks at Kensy’s knees. Kensy falters but rolls to the left and outside Bass’ vision. Smoke fills the clearing, making it harder for Bass to see. “Not everything you destroy can be rebuilt.”
The thought of it—the image of his scarred hands beside small, graceful Ren’s as they weave Gyeosi’s ashes into thread to stitch the village he destroyed back together—prickles his skin for one singular moment and that moment is enough to throw him off. Kensy strikes with his pommel and Bass can’t dodge.
A shock of pain rams his shoulder blade. Bass stumbles and lands on his knees but Kensy grabs his armor and drags him in close. The gun’s barrel presses into Bass’ side.
“I built you,” Kensy snarls in his face. “You think I’ll let you win?”
Basuin remembers the stricken, incredulous look that darkened Kensy’s face after they stormed a Grimmalian church—a battle which Basuin asked him, not as a soldier, but as a human, to reconsider.
What of gods? Kensy asked, staring at his hand, covered in blood drawn from the priest who fought for his life in the name of Ke’the, the god of harvest. Do they bleed?
Basuin said, Does it matter?
And Kensy’s hand shook as blood dripped from his wrist. No, he said. All that matters is who stands at the end of it all.
Now, Kensy’s face leaves no room for doubt. Bass braces his blade against Kensy, struggling. “Then why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”
Kensy shoves the gun into Bass’ side so hard it makes him groan.
“You’ve always been stupid, but you’re a loser, too.” Kensy barks a laugh. “You’re the one that led me here. Only that heathen god inside you knew where Sa-cha was, and you took me right to him.”
The pain is sharp, but the knowledge of his mistakes is sharper. He’s the reason Kensy found the River. He’s the reason Sa-cha is dead.
But even before that, even before all this, Basuin is the reason Kensy’s cruelty has been allowed this long. Because Basuin always bowed his head to Kensy.
“You’re a disgrace,” Kensy says, “but you’re a damn fine soldier. I made sure of it.”
He enabled Kensy’s cruelty, year after grueling year. Battle after battle. Kensy wrote every war story and Basuin performed it, the last one left alive to tell it.
Kensy lodges a boot against Bass’ stomach and kicks him away. Bass rolls across the field before finding purchase and getting back up on his feet. Nothing aches more than those words. Kensy throwing everything back in his face. All his mistakes. All his failures.
“Why?” His sword hangs at his side. His grip is limp. But he tightens his fingers and readjusts, ready again. “I don’t get it. What did the gods do to you? This isn’t about winning—it’s more.”
