When they were younger gods, and they traveled the world with the hunger of those who'd been caged for too many years, they'd come through here. The forest was just forming then; the Maw was unfed. Wilhelm used to think the tangled trees could become a haven, an extension of their godly protection. He didn't realize it was always meant to be a labyrinth to trap the unfaithful.

Every few years, he gets so haunted by this place that he can't keep away. Maybe there is someone he can reach. Maybe there is someone in whose doubts remains space for hope, just the smallest crack, and they just need some prodding to choose another path.

Wilhelm shadows a file of exiles as they approach the chasm amid the hills, like the world's ribcage has been split open and its beating heart and lungs and guts are spilling out. In this place, the wings at his back transform into inky shadow. When he looks to the horizon, he sees that he's not the only one cloaked in shadow, tucked away from mortal eyes.

"Kyle," he greets, still clinging to an old name that the rest of the world has forgotten. His eyes return to the travelers below as he answers the question. "No, nobody called me. I came because they're not calling out for help."