It's all right. He's here because death is his domain. No safety can be brokered without bloodshed; he understood that well before their ascension (if that's what they're to call it), and he doesn't hesitate over it now.

Not once he's decided to emerge.

A wolf's shadow trails behind him. He carries only one sword now, steel and silver fused together in a manner that should be impossible. The runes glimmer beneath the sliver of moonlight struggling to pierce through the clouds. His expression flickers at her description—a split second flurry of emotions that vanish as quickly as they come.

"We'll find him."

What was it? A sacrifice? Petty cruelty? They are not the only so-called gods who walk the land; more than that, what the gods demand and what people claim they desire are not necessarily the same. It makes for a righteous cause to do unspeakable things, doesn't it? When you can invoke the name of a god? He knows better than to think themselves responsible. People will always find a reason one way or another.

He follows Vēnāta. She heard the Echo; she knows where to go. The closer they get, the heavier the smell. An uneasy silence begins to warp the air. There are no birds or scurrying rodents. Never a good sign when the animals flee first. Through the layers of mud and grime, he can see footprints edged with blood. They travel around a bend, up an unkempt hill of grass and dying wildflowers.

The door stands at the top. He waits—letting her choose how she wants to confront what's behind it.