“The Last Prophet abandoned us, as did you!” Yarik roared. “Or have you forgotten what you did? Stranded your Guard in a foreign land—the land of my ancestors’ enemies—and disappeared. And who was punished for your cowardice? The people of Behezda! Pallas the Faithful was the one who tamed the god. Pallas is the only one who can save us now!”

In his desperation to convince Yarik, Jude had allowed himself to be separated from Hector. They were effectively surrounded, with Jude cut off from Hector, hemmed in against the water by Yarik’s relentless assault.

“I will never follow you, Jude Weatherbourne,” Yarik snarled, charging forward. Jude leapt back, sloshing into the water. “You have made a mockery of the Paladin and everything we stand for. You broke our oaths, and now you have the gall to speak to me of our mission? You should never have been Keeper of the Word. You have sullied yourself and the Last Prophet!”

Fury cracked through Jude like lightning. Lazaros’s crude words in the Archon’s villa flashed back to him. This was what the Paladin thought of Jude—what they all thought, even the ones who hadn’t joined Pallas. That Jude had been led astray by some base instinct, that he was weak, corrupted by desire. That he had spread that corruption to the Last Prophet.

Let them. Jude knew the truth. In nineteen years of koahs, meditation, and rigorous adherence to every rule of the Order of the Last Light, Jude had never once come close to the divine harmony he felt when Anton touched him. Anton’s love was sacred, his kiss a revelation, and Jude’s purpose had never been clearer to him than it was when he was beside him. Even now, with Anton leagues away, the mere thought of him—his teasing smile, how his forehead crinkled in concentration when he played cards, the way his hand fit perfectly in Jude’s—was enough for Jude’s Grace to flood through him like a storm.

The surface of the pool shivered with Jude’s power, a tremor that built until it shook the entire cavern. Jude stood perfectly still in the center, hand hovering over the pommel of his sheathed blade, the eye of the storm.

“W-what’s happening?” Yarik demanded, ankle-deep in the churning water, the cavern rumbling around him. “How are you doing this?”

The other Paladin, too, had ceased their attack on Hector, pulling into a defensive formation, eyes darting nervously around the cave walls as the shaking grew more violent.

“Jude?” Hector called, apprehension trembling through his voice. “Is that you?”

“Yarik,” Jude said steadily, his Grace building like a thunderhead. “Put down your sword. All of you, put down your swords! You are better than this. Please. Before it’s too late.”

No one moved, except the cave itself, quaking with the pent-up force of Jude’s Grace, showering them with shards of rock and dust.