A man, he thinks.
Before he can say anything, Ren turns her gaze to the assailant.
“And what of a sparrow who flies toward the sun in hunt of its god?” she asks, voice breezy and nonchalant. “What of a bird who is pushed from its nest and builds a new one with blood as paste?”
They lunge at Ren, and before he can even breathe, the wolf-man howls something fierce and broken and Basuin is moving—he doesn’t know who forced his feet on the ground. He plants himself, a rooted tree grown from his body, in front of Ren and blocks the incoming blow, arms held defensively in front of him and eyes raging mad.
But the blow never comes. A shadowed figure from the forest wraps itself around the assailant—a flash of pale skin bared from a wide sleeve of black.
“Haaman,” a deep, slow-crawling voice calls. “You traitorous thing.”
Behind the assailant stands a tall, tall man—the man who Basuin lashed out at and burned. His eyes are closed as if he were asleep, long swathes of dark hair falling over his shoulder to hide his red-marked arm. Still, he looks at ease as he holds the assailant, Haaman, from attacking Ren.
Haaman slumps in the man’s grasp, a look of shame crossing their face. Then, that shame turns to a boiling anger, head snapping up to look at Basuin.
“You tried to kill him,” Haaman spits raggedly, voice shattered by rage. “Ko could’ve died at the hands of a careless god.”
Basuin can’t find the right words to counter. Though he hasn’t drawn his sword against anyone since Valkesta, the wild magic that erupted in chaos had done the job for him. Magic he didn’t even know he had.
“Little bird,” the man murmurs, his head ducking toward Haaman’s shoulder. “You tried to kill a god. Two, even. Are you any better?”
“Shut up,” they bite back, bristling.
Ren holds her hand out to Haaman, halting him. “I understand your anger, Haaman. But it was an accident. The Wolf God did not intend to harm anyone, though he did.”
“Intention is shit!” Haaman shouts back, anger foaming in their mouth. “The Wolf God was sworn to protect our forest, not hurt it!”
Ko snakes his hand around Haaman, covering their mouth. “Hush, little bird. I can speak for myself. Now, be quiet before Am-sa decides you’ve committed treason against her.”
With that, he slinks forward, pushing Haaman behind him. Risen to full height, he is taller than Bass, but much less heavy and bulky. He sways when he moves, sleepy but somehow confident. Unlike Haaman’s ripped-hem trousers and black shirt, he wears an elaborate set of robes that drape long and glide over the forest floor, his hair following it.
Of course, his left sleeve is torn at the seam, leaving bare and burned flesh. It’s a dark wound, colored in bark-tones but already healing to a pink at the edges.
“My name is Ko,” he says, bowing his head—first to Ren, deeply, and then to Basuin. “I am of the many oaks who make up this forest. I beg your pardon that I’ve yet to introduce myself to you, Wolf God. And for startling you this morning.”
Yaelic kneels to the forest floor, bowing his head. “I am so sorry, Ko. My master—he’s new to our way, our life.”
Shame stabs through him like his own goddamn blade. He caused this, as he’s always caused pain. Basuin curls his fingers into tight fists at his side. These hands are scarred from war. Soldier’s hands. It’s all they know anymore.
Haaman darts from behind Ko, snarling at Bass. “Bow to him,” with a snap of their teeth. “You disgrace of a god.”
The wolf-man cracks bones in Basuin’s body, the force of it making him hunch over as his spine curves and his shoulders curl inward. Inside him, it snarls and snaps its maw like Haaman until there’s foam on its snout and Basuin has a taste for blood. It brings a fever that makes him desperate to sink his teeth into a bloody steak and tear it into shreds.
Basuin sets his hand where his heart should be, shoving the wolf-man back. He straightens his spine, rolls his shoulders back, and draws to full height again. Not like this. He won’t let the wolf-man puppet him like this.
“Haaman,” Ren calls, her words with more bite than he imagines. “Your anger is heard.” Basuin hates her words. He hates that she speaks for him, hates that she wears this constant countenance of calm as if nothing can touch her.
Under Ren’s gaze, Haaman wilts. Their eyes fall to the ground as they shift from foot to foot.
“Would you have me bow, too?” Ren asks as the winds of the forest ruffle her shirt.
Haaman’s eyes widen to black moons and they fall to their knees in the dirt. They bow their head, a display of submission and worship.
But Basuin doesn’t stare at them. He stares at Ren, whose eyes aren’t cold, but knowing. She waits, watching Haaman, the smallest movement of her throat as she swallows.
“Forgive me, Am-sa,” Haaman pleads. “I meant no disrespect toward you.”
“Disrespect to any god in this forest—to any spirit here—is disrespect toward me,” Ren says, as easy as if it were but a conversation. “What would you have done?” she asks. “If you had killed me?”
