One of us, Kyle says, and Wilhelm takes it as a direct strike at his own failures, which lie like scars beneath his skin. He's sharply aware that he hasn't always been the most reliable god — but at least he's trying. He doesn't need anybody to worship him. In fact, the reaction that gods-made-flesh usually invoke in mortals makes him shy away from appearing before any of his followers. But he feels in his ribs that he needs to do the right thing.

"You aren't any different from them. You've given up too," he throws at Kyle. As if he hasn't given up over and over again, drowning only to thrash back to the surface only to slip under again.

Without waiting for a response, he flashes in a shadowy streak across the barren hills to the ridge of the chasm, which the vanguard of the exiles has reached.