Let it understand what permanence feels like from the other side.
We makecamp as darkness claims the blighted landscape. A structure that might have been a granary offers walls solid enough to block wind and roof intact enough to shelter from weather that probably won’t come.
Kaster secures the perimeter with his usual thoroughness while I inventory our supplies. Enough provisions for another two days. Water enough if we ration. Weapons that don’t need replenishment—his claws and my magic serve us better than any manufactured tools.
He returns to find me laying out bedding—such as it is—against the granary’s back wall.
“Perimeter clear. The constructs won’t approach tonight.” He settles beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. “Their fear reaches me from here.”
“Fear of you, or fear of the god’s punishment for failure?”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably not.” I lean into him, letting the warmth settle into bones that have worked hard today. “Either way, they won’t attack.”
His arm comes around me. Draws me against his side with the easy confidence I’ve grown accustomed to. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Simply... taking what he wants.
I let him take.
In the dark, with his arm heavy across my waist, I listen to his breathing slow toward sleep.
He doesn’t quite get there. The predator in him won’t rest completely, not with threats still active in the territory around us. But he relaxes against me in a way that feels like trust. Lets his guard down far enough to be vulnerable.
For him, that’s more significant than words.
For me, it’s enough.
THIRTY-ONE
KASTER
The terrain lies.
I plant my foot on solid ground and feel it shift—not physically, but conceptually. The slope that measured uphill a moment ago now angles sideways. Colors bleed toward spectrums my eyes don’t have names for. Purple that burns to look at. Green that leaves the taste of copper on my tongue.
Spillover. The god has bled power into this place for so long that reality itself has developed fractures.
The Failed God-Beast charges from behind a rock formation that wasn’t there three heartbeats ago. Massive, overpowered, incandescent with energy it can barely contain. The creature’s flesh burns as it moves—consuming itself to fuel the attack.
I’ve killed three of these variants in the past hour. This one is smaller than the others. Rushed. Incomplete.
Running out of materials.
The thought registers as I sidestep the creature’s lunge and let momentum carry it past me. My claws rake through its flank—divine flesh parting like wet paper, ichor spraying across stone that might be stone or might be condensed time. The God-Beast screams in frequencies and spins for another attack.
Too slow. I’m already moving.
I hit the creature’s exposed side with the full weight of a partial shift—arms elongated, scales emerging across forearms and shoulders, heat building in my throat. The impact shatters ribs that glow with failing light. I follow the advantage, tearing into the wound, widening it, reaching for the burning core that keeps the construct moving.
My fingers close around concentrated godhood.
I rip it free.
The God-Beast collapses in stages—limbs going slack, fire guttering, the massive body crumpling onto terrain that can’t decide what angle it wants to be. Ichor pools beneath the corpse, hissing where it contacts stone.
No regeneration. No shimmer of divine intervention reassembling the pieces. The body stays down.
Soreia’s magic brushes against my awareness—her anchoring reaching into the fallen construct and sealing the ending. I sense her power lock the death in place with the same finality she brings to every kill we’ve made since the mating.
