Every interminable hour down here in the dark — hungry days spent scrabbling to survive, restless nights knocked awake by every sound — has already chipped away at his mood. What's left is like kindling. The madness growing wild in his thoughts makes everything more volatile, ready to catch fire. As Istredd tries to tell him that he's wrong, tries to take away the one goddamn thing that's given him any hope, Wilhelm's expression flares from annoyance to fullblown rage. His glare stabs into Istredd. His fists clench so tightly that they shake at his sides.

"I know Erik's not here! I'm not stupid. He's...he's dead."

He's never been able to say it so easily. It was always a wound he cradled carefully, because it never did heal right. Now it's a knife he wields, hoping to cut through Istredd's arguments. Hoping to twist it sharp, make him feel sorry that he ever brought it up. He breathes in and pushes it out through his nose.

"You can't tell me there isn't an afterlife, Istredd. Heaven and hell, or whatever. Your best friend is the fucking devil!"