He stands there for a few more seconds, and then pads forward. His teeth slowly disappearing. I keep my hand outstretched, but otherwise don’t move. He reaches me, and nuzzles his head beneath my palm. “Hello, Diago.” I gently stroke his massive head. “Rotting gods.” It’s Aequa again, relief palpable. My sense of her Will—unavoidably noticeable, this powerful and this close—vanishes. “You gave it a name?” Diago glances at her and gives a low rumble. “Diago it is,” Aequa mutters.
