Kensy barks a laugh. His blond locks have grown out just enough to hang over his forehead, dampened with sweat. In his hands, a cocked rifle waits. This is a different man. Not the same Kensy whom he fought with on the front lines. Basuin can’t breathe. Whatever panic he tried to stave off starts to build again, swirling inside him on the brink of disaster and devastation.
“I’m not surprised,” Kensy says, mirth and mistrust in his easy smile. “If anyone would escape death, it would be you.”
Basuin can’t hide the shock that widens his eyes, restricts his body. No, this isn’t the same Kensy at all.
Kensy should be in Shaelstorm. Not with him, not in the forest. Not this close to Gyeosi. Basuin chokes on his own spit, all thick in his throat. If Kensy is this far into the forest, then he’s still searching for the artifact. But alone? Kensy wouldn’t think of sullying his own hands with god-things.
And if he is still searching for the artifact—what of it? Is the artifact he’s been after at the Crying Trees, where the elder tree lives?
“What are you doing here?” he shouts across their distance, steadying his voice.
“Didn’t you see the fireworks?” Kensy asks. “You should have stayed dead, old friend.”
He coughs, a laugh caught in his chest. “That would’ve been easier for you, Commander? I thought we didn’t leave soldiers behind.”
Kensy grins. “Come on, Bass. You’re useless now.” It stings more than it should, coming from Kensy. “Face it—the gods abandoned you long ago. You were getting in my way.”
Something in his chest aches. Ren would agree with Kensy, if she was here. That Basuin is getting in her way. He tries to hide the shake in his hands at his sides.
“They didn’t.” As soon as the words leave his lips, he knows he shouldn’t have said it. “You might not be a believer, but I am the one who escaped death. Why bring me to this island just to leave me for dead?”
There’s the slightest twitch in Kensy’s eye. Something wicked. But Kensy doesn’t advance; he slings his rifle over his shoulder and out of the way. A surrender, but a show of power. Of control. Kensy knows something; he has the upper hand. But Basuin doesn’t know what. It feels like he’s being eaten alive. As though Kensy can see everything inside of him—even the wolf-man.
And the wolf-man growls, muzzle pointed at Kensy, watching with beady red eyes.
“You think me cruel, but let me show you how kind I am,” Kensy says, and he takes a step to the right, and right again, moving slow and circular to Bass. In turn, Bass moves to the left, keeping their distance. A careful, but unyielding dance. “Come back with me, to Shaelstorm.”
Basuin stops. Kensy moves three steps closer. “What?” His mouth is dry, his throat tight.
“Forget and forgive,” Kensy says, like it’s easy. “We can still do this together, Bass. You can go down with honor.”
Now, he understands. His mother’s godstone feels so heavy around his neck, like cattle rattling their chains as they head toward slaughter. Kensy stills needs him. Kensy needs a god speaker—and Basuin is all he has.
It’s familiar. Basuin’s washed Kensy’s dirty laundry for the last five years—broken necks and bled bodies and bludgeoned heads. Basuin was good at it. Of course Kensy wants him back.
“No.” It comes out like a laugh. “I won’t do that, Commander.” It’s the first time he’s ever said no to Kensy. It’ll be the last time, too.
Kensy nods, looking toward the trees. But a strange, tense silence closes in on them. “You remember what happened at Ulenski, don’t you?”
Ulenski—his greatest victory. Right before his greatest failure in Valkesta. A whole city, razed to the ground, burned to nothing but black char beneath his boots.
A black wolf, a mother cried, praying to the moon and then praying to him. Black Wolf, she sobbed as she ran, as soot and ash stuck to his skin, don’t hurt us, please.
This is a threat.
“I will do whatever is necessary to get what I want, Bass.” Kensy bares his teeth in some perverse version of a smile. A sort of recklessness, so unlike Kensy, oozes from the corner of his lips. “And I won’t be stopped. You’re no stranger to that, Black Wolf.”
The whole world is cold again. It isn’t because he’s in Valkesta. It isn’t a memory, a flashback. Basuin’s body floods with icy water, charging through his veins, as a pit of fear settles inside him. His teeth ache in his head. He knows. Basuin knows Kensy will do whatever is necessary—because it was Basuin who always did the necessitating.
There’s blood in his mouth.
“Now.” Kensy holds his hands out in a shrug. “I’m not so cruel, am I?”
No, not at all. Kensy is the cruelest.
Basuin takes a step back, and then two, and then three. Toward Gyeosi. Kensy sighs, shaking his head.
“I always knew I’d have to kill you,” Kensy muses. “But I really wish I didn’t have to, old friend.”
