“Then go,” he says.
“Will you let me?” Tehali stares into him with a gaze that burrows deep down inside of him. “Will you grace me with your mercy, Wolf God?”
Basuin flinches. More than ever, he doesn’t know who—or what—he is. He closes his eyes. The image of Ren, soft and a little sharp and so forgiving, paints across the back of his mind. Worst of all, if she could see all this, she would be sad. For him, for the burden of war he carries. At least it wasn’t her. He would do it thousands of times over, as long as she wouldn’t have to bear this sin.
“I’ve done enough harm. To you, and to this forest.” To Ren. He’s done enough. Basuin waves his hand out at the bastion. “Good night, Tali. Be well.”
He doesn’t turn to watch her leave. It isn’t fair of him, but Tehali is the only friend he’s ever had. The only person who’s truly cared for him as if they were family. And it hurts too badly to say goodbye to her.
But Tehali reaches and grabs Basuin’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze.
“Good night, Bass,” she says. Then, her steps start back down the ladder and fade down the stairs as Tehali descends.
If he’s ever to move on, ever to rebuild this place, ever to go back home again, he needs to let go. The blinding, howling winds of Valkesta. The death of his squad. The death of his mother. The death of Ren.
Forgiveness is so hard. The thing in his breast aches. He clutches at it, wishing he could wrench it out and destroy it the way he’s destroyed everything else. But all he can do is live with it.
Once, Basuin wanted to throw himself off this watchtower and find the death he felt was all he had left. Now, he jumps from the watchtower and lands in the center of Shaelstorm, right atop Kensy’s office with a slam. It draws shouts and shrieks from the remaining soldiers still scrambling to get out of Shaelstorm alive.
When he stands to full height, he’s different. His skin has gone black, red lines of magic running up and down his bones like tattoos. Like the wolf-man. He can feel it, see his black snout in his watery vision. He’s become the very thing he tried to escape from.
“I will give you a choice,” he shouts above the bray of the destruction. His voice sounds like a growl, archaic and consuming. Some soldiers flee, but others stay to look up at him. “You are free to stay and fight and die.”
Freedom. He used to pray that someone would give him a choice. But now, he makes his own. It’s his choice, war or peace.
“Or you can leave and never return.” His voice reaches across Shaelstorm. “Send word to Xalkhir of us—of powerful gods, of what destruction we can bring. Tell them that we’re here, and that we live, and to never set foot in our forest ever again.”
Basuin holds out a hand and gathers magic on his god mark. Then, something materializes, the Wolf God’s black staff of red crystals, glimmering in the light of the flames. It pulses with his anger, his fury, his scalding wrath. It’s made of him. He points it at the crowding soldiers.
“Choose what you will,” he tells them. “Be free of this place.”
The soldiers scatter and scurry off, grabbing what they can. Grabbing the bodies of their friends, dragging them to the docks and the beach. They’ll save who they can. They’ll bury who they can recover. The rest will burn with Shaelstorm and their ash will turn to fodder for the new forest Basuin will grow.
His new duty still belongs to Ren. He’ll rebuild their island, heal the scars and burns and bruises he left here.
The deer-girl appears in a blink, sitting on the end of his staff with her tilted head and her white hair tangled in her antlers.
Is it over? she asks him.
Almost. Basuin reaches out his hand to her, and when she slips her fingers into his, it’s a ghost of a touch. Nothing real. But he pulls her from his staff and she takes flight, disappearing in a blink. Almost over.
Basuin raises his staff high above his head and stakes it straight through the roof of Kensy’s bunk and into the ground. Fire bursts forth from it, setting the building aflame. A crack runs through the stone-bricked streets of Shaelstorm, running through the earth in lines of lightning. A fissure in the earth. A split in bones.
The Wolf God fractures Yesua, the earth quaking beneath his feet. In a thunder, the island snaps at the breach, ground collapsing and sinking into the ocean which once belonged to Ithika. The ocean he sailed here on. Hungry waves devour the war that was wrought, gobble up anyone who is left. The Shaelstorm bastion finally falls at his hand.
Basuin shuts his eyes tight, his scar aching. No longer will this land belong to anyone but the gods and the spirits who roam here. No longer will death and destruction place its flag here. Let them know—let them know that the Wolf God protects this land again. Let them know that he kills in the name of peace, and peace only. But that he kills.
“Now, it’s over,” he says, standing at the precipice. It ended with fire and with blood, just like he said it would.
It’s time to come home. Ren’s voice is sweet in his ear. Basuin closes his eyes, breathing in. Come home, Basuin.
Chapter 36
Four feet on the ground, Basuin slinks back through the forest. He’s weary and worn, guilty and ashamed. Grieving. He has to go back. She’s waiting for him, but he’d kill again if it meant he wouldn’t have to drag himself back to see her dead. It aches, even from this far away.
The land aches, too. Where the legion has sawed trees down and burned brush to make room for their construction, it hurts as he walks along it. Most of the spirits are gone from here, dead or having fled already. He doesn’t blame them. He blames himself for letting the army get this far.
He blames himself for Ren’s death. She shouldn’t have taken the shot meant for him.
