“Or maybe you want it the other way?” MeLaan snapped. “Leave us alone completely? Not intervene at all?”

“No, I—”

“Can you imagine what it must be like? Knowing that any action you take is going to help some, but hurt others? Save a man’s life now, let him spread a disease that kills a child later in his life. Harmony does the best He can—the best possible, by the very definition. Yes, He hurt Wax. He hurt him badly. But He put the pain where He knew it could be borne.”

Marasi blushed, then—annoyed at herself—dug in her purse and brought out the strange spike. “And this?”

“It’s not a metal we know.”

“That’s what TenSoon said. But Harmony—”

“It’s not a metal Harmony knows,” MeLaan said.

Marasi felt a chill. “Then… it’s not His? Not from His form, like the old stories of atium and lerasium?”

“No,” MeLaan said. “It’s from somewhere else. She used these strange spikes to steal attributes, instead of the ones we’re familiar with. Maybe that’s why she could use stolen Allomancy and Feruchemy, when other kandra can’t. Either way, didn’t you wonder why Harmony couldn’t see Bleeder? Couldn’t track her, couldn’t predict her? What could stop a god, Marasi Colms? Any guesses?”

“Another god,” Marasi whispered.

“Congratulations,” MeLaan said, pulling open the door. “You’ve found proof of something that terrifies us. Think on that for a while, before you go around accusing Harmony—or the kandra—of anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go try to hang myself properly.”

She slipped away, closing the door behind her.

Another god, Marasi thought, standing in the darkness. Not Harmony, not Ruin, not Preservation.

She looked down at the small spike in her hands, and heard a name from a year ago, spoken by Miles Hundredlives as he died. The name of a god from the old days. Marasi had researched the name halfheartedly, far more distracted by her interaction with Ironeyes.

Now, however, she determined to dig back into the records and find the answers.

Who, or what, was Trell?

The room had probably grown silent long before Wax noticed he was alone. The fire was dying. He should do something about that.

He didn’t.

Steris stepped over and set a new log on, then stirred the embers. So he hadn’t been alone. She set the poker beside the fireplace, then regarded him. He awaited her words.

None came. Instead, she scooted the footstool around until it was beside his chair. She sat down, legs crossed neatly, hands in her lap.

The two of them remained there, not saying a word, though she did eventually rest her hand on top of his. The fire had felt cold to him, the air frozen, but that hand was warm.

Finally, he turned to the side, rested his head on her shoulder, and wept.