Rayan had been mere feet away when the first of the ritual blades sank into the flesh of the magnificent Lycaena. More had followed, but that first knife had been the worst. His beloved goddess had screamed in pain he’d never known she could feel. Despite the sharpness of his sword and the strength of his shield, he could not protect her. He could not save her. Yet for the past months he had clung to hope. He had believed his goddess a survivor. The faith of her followers would keep her strong, no matter the damning words of the Everlorn Empire’s Anointed One.

Or perhaps it had all been a self-serving lie. He’d fooled no one but himself as he wrapped his colorful cloak about his shoulders and prayed to a god as dead as the royal family he’d failed to protect.

Damn you, paladin. What good are you, then?

“Is this… is this it?” Rayan asked. He pressed his forehead to his clenched fists. He let his tears flow unimpeded. “Is this what’s left to us, goddess? Do emptiness and silence await instead of eternal green fields? Do you hear me, Lycaena? Did you ever hear me?”

Questions, questions, always questions, never answers. Fury bubbled in his stomach. Despair lashed his soul with open wounds.

“Or are we alone?” he whispered. “Has this world abandoned us with the same cruelty that took the life from your splendid body?”

In his nightmares he still saw the sacrifice. Curved knives cutting holes into her black flesh. Brutal hands ripping the rainbow wings from her back. The Usurper King had cut and carved her like a butchered pig. Anointed Sinshei vin Lucavi had flung what was left of her ruby and emerald hair to the crowd like trophies. Together, they’d splashed blue blood across the faces of an imprisoned crowd, and they’d done so while singing a song of worship on their tongues and proclaiming glory from the deepest depths of their hearts.

Alone. The answer was the only viable one. How could he pretend otherwise as he held the hands of a dead woman he lacked the strength to save?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Alliya. “I’m so sorry. I could have helped you, once.”

What did his devotion matter if he could not save the lives of those who needed him? What use was beauty to a world whose masters would burn it with purifying torches? Thorda placed the burden of Vallessau’s faith in Lycaena upon his shoulders. He was to keep it alive, a bulwark against the hate the Uplifted Church would spread. Yet how could he maintain the people’s faith in Lycaena when his own faith was brittle and crumbling?

Silence. The only answer to greet his prayers.

“You deserved better,” Rayan said as he rose to his feet. He let go of Alliya’s hands and carefully lowered her eyelids.