Dawn unmasks the desert.

“Come on!” the lead calls, tugging his second along the dusty road. They’re not flying, not now, not when pikes and spears are close enough to pierce their wings. “Priest, hurry up!”

The priest murmurs over his bones, following obediently behind a bloodied body carried by the third.

The pack of wildclaws flee over the rocky cliffs and across the plains, dodging cacti as they go. There aren’t many gods out here in the waste, but the priest keeps praying on and on, as if someone will answer him. But the gore keeps falling despite him.

A heaving, armored imperial lands before them, wings outstretched and maw roaring, pike lashing out at the first.

Dead-eye, first of the Clawed Snakes, pulls free his bow and takes one single shot.

The imperial falls, howling, pierced in one eye. The team race around the falling dragon toward the rising sun. The glare blinds their pursuers as they make their way to the safety of their lair. Miles to go, miles to run, and Lockjaw’s half dead.

“Heimenia!” the priest whispers, “Heimenia! Heimenia! Save our souls, save this poor one from coming death! Forgive his crimes and bless his body!”

The townsfolk begin to peel off, one by one, outrun by the Wildclaws. Always, always outrun. Their hasty flying is nothing compared to a Wildclaw when it’s fleeing from justice.

There aren’t many gods out here in the waste.

But there are a few.

The wildclaws halt, their passage through the rifting canyons blocked by a single one of their own kind. A skull rests over his face, obscuring his expression, but his bow is drawn and ready.

Dead-eye raises a hand to stop his band from firing. He steps forward with his wings settled back, meeting the stranger with his head lifted and proud.

“Ace, god of Catharsis,” Dead-eye says. “We invoke the ancient rite of cleansing. By blood and water, we ask that you purge us of evil.”

Ace lowers his bow. The ancient rite prevented him from asking about their crimes and the source of the blackness over their hearts. He nods once, and the wildclaws kneel before him.

The priest pays no mind to the kneeling. He hovers over the body, praying still.

“Heimenia, Heimenia…”

A gentle hand rests on his shoulder. The priest turns, eyes wide, but a gesture silences him. He falls to his knees before her. She spreads her wings around him, shielding him from what was to come.

“The rite begs a price of you,” Ace intones. “Will you pay?”

“Whatever it is, we’ll pay,” Dead-eye responds with a slight smirk.

The priest curls into himself and begins to sob. His duty to save is done. The man he prays for has passed beyond, and even the presence of his Goddess cannot comfort his loss.

“Have hope,” she says, voice low and soothing, “for you have not failed in your duty. You never will, I know it.”

The priest stares up at her, failing to understand.

Ace unsheathes his belt and draws his own blood. It spills out onto the rocks before him. The wildclaw band rushes forward to drink and be cleansed, be saved from their crimes.

They drink and drink until they pause and begin to scream.

Dead-eye looks to Ace, clawing at his own belly as it riots. God-blood is not made for mortals. “You are a God, bound by Ancient Rites.”

“You asked for cleansing, and you will be cleansed.”

“Not like this!” He demands. “Cleanse us through our words, let us spill our crimes onto the sand and let them be forgiven!”

“You forget your place, mortal.” Ace lifts his head with finality. “I am also the God of Justice. And do not fear. You are cleansed by the Goddess of Hope and Inspiration, of Regeneration and New Life. Do you not feel blessed?”

And the band of wildclaws rose one by one, speared in place as their feet grow roots and their arms grow branches. Their canopy stretches over the waste, twisted and filled with impossible, brilliant leaves. All at once, there exists a forest within the desert.

Heimenia lets her wings fall away from the priest. He stumbles forward, wordless, and places his claws upon the bark of his former kin.

“Tender of the grove,” Heimenia says, “You are the blessed of this waste. Keep the secrets of these trees as you allow the townspeople to rest beneath their boughs and drink of the spring.”

Heimenia lifts one hand and a spring erupts from the rock, flowing endlessly on and on.

The priest nods and turns, but she is gone, and so is Ace.

There aren’t many gods out here in the waste.

But there are two.