“A long time ago,” he said, “when I was a child, and then a young man, I had dreamed that maybe one day, it could have been. Instead, I left it worse than I found it. And that version of myself mourns what I have done. Even if I don’t regret it.” I understood this. It was the part of me that still mourned what died when I thrust that arrow into Atroxus’s throat. The belief, the faith, the dream. Not the god. Another loop. Almost done. He said, wryly, “Are you going to tell me it’s not my fault?” I shook my head. “No. I’ve learned over the years that people think they want absolution. But
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