"Then you sent the wrong ones," Rathan muttered.
The woman god stepped forward now. Her cloak shimmered like it was wet, even though it didn't touch the ground.
"No more excuses," she said. "This world doesn't belong to you."
"I earned it."
"You ruined it."
"I warned them."
"You massacred them."
Rathan looked back at the fire.
Then: "Same difference."
The trees didn't move.
The gods didn't sigh.
But Merlin felt the tension, like even they didn't know how this was going to go.
"Your soul is breaking," the man said. "You can't carry this forever."
"Then take it."
A pause.
The god's brow lifted. "What?"
"Take it," Rathan repeated. "If you're here to judge me, do it. If you're here to kill me, try. But don't act like you care."
Merlin felt the memory spin for a moment. 'He means it. He doesn't want forgiveness. He wants to be erased.'
The third figure finally moved. Half-shrouded. Its face never showed.
But its voice did.
Flat. Cold. Young and old at once.
