Mist clings low over the road, swallowing sound. The horses’ hooves make dull thuds in the packed dirt, and every breath comes with a hint of cold damp. The drops of mist make drops on Alexis’ hat that never seem to actually fall.
After a stretch of silence, Alexis speaks to Ca’armine—low enough that the words barely rise over the muffled creak of leather and the steady rhythm of hooves.
“Since we left the ferryman, I’ve been thinking.”
He turns his head just enough for Ca’armine to hear him clearly. “You said you didn’t want to interfere with Raiden’s plan for Morwraith to be undead.” Alexis’s tone isn’t challenging, just curious—careful, like a man testing thin ice. “But it was my understanding that all the gods stand against the undead. The mantle”—he jerks his chin toward Gustav—“makes it pretty clear how Raiden feels about undeath.”
Alexis turns the Collegium ring around his finger. “I’m not sure Raiden made Morwraith what he is.”
He glances sidelong at Ca’armine, waiting a beat for a reply. When none comes, Alexis adjusts his hat and looks forward again, pace unbroken. The road bends into deeper mist.