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ARREN SAW THE GOD RISE FROM THE WATER.

This would be the end of them if he did not face her. The veiga had already half-retreated, and too few cavalry had come to help Elo. Far too few to fight a god. It seemed many Middrenites had fled before they had come to join the battle.

But Arren still had his heart. His body. The faith of his people. He could feel it, surging in his blood. His skin glowed with it, warm, bright, welcome. Shining with his and Hestra’s power.

‘Raise your spears!’ he commanded.

The king’s knights did so, lifting their spears and pointing them at the god, steadfast. Their colours vivid, their love immaculate.

It filled him. Them. He and Hestra. One will. One purpose.

‘ Die, flame of terror!’ he cried towards Hseth as she turned down on him. He drew his sword. ‘Die fire of death!’

Die, said Hestra with him, god of war and madness. I was weak for you.

‘ I was weak for you ,’ whispered Arren.

‘ I let you guide my heart ,’ they spoke together, ‘ and choose my ways .’

I let you turn me cruel, said Hestra, and lose my faith.

Arren had lost his faith. He had lost it in his people. He had lost it in his land. His loves.

No more.

The fire god rose, a burning pillar of flame, and Arren dismounted.

‘Sunbringer?’ said Peta, but he ignored her, moving across the hillock to stand before his knights.

‘ I have found my faith again, fire god! ’ he roared. ‘ And you cannot break it in me. ’

The god moved closer. She was larger again, fuelled by her martyred priests, and he could hear the flames of her body, roaring and wild with fury. Beneath her floating feet, the river broiled, and steam billowed up in great clouds.

‘Fear me,’ she hissed, ‘and beg for your life.’

We can fight her, said Hestra, burning in his heart of hearts. She poured flame out of his chest, across his armour. It did not burn. It was his.

He tore off his helmet. He needed to be light. To be free. As he did so, he felt the nubs of antlers on his head, beneath his hair.

‘I fear no gods,’ Arren snarled. ‘I am the only god this nation needs.’

‘Not yet.’

He heard Methsme’s voice before he felt it. A strike, burning through his back, breaking through his armour, striking out from his chest. Dull metal. A knight’s sword.

Briddite.

Hestra screamed. Arren turned back, and saw Peta staring at him. Her sword was through his chest, where his heart had been. She and Methsme watched, expectant. Waiting.

‘Become a god, Sunbringer,’ the cleric whispered. ‘Show us your power!’

Then her face fell. In Arren’s chest, his fireheart faded, and he felt his flame go out.