Beiren believed that victory would heal his mind. He knew Roselle could never provide solace for her betrayal; he had spent the nights of many years writhing to overcome his grief. His war against her newfound lover was absolution, and the sword, his gavel of justice. The oddity in the direction of his hatred was that it was toward another who bore his face, save for the slight differences a mortal eye could never notice. He had learned he was of a different world—a god with the face of a man.

Beiren seethed with hatred remembering Roselle’s words when he learned of their affair—a mortal could not satisfy the quench of her thirst. Her mortal love was only a king—not a god. Such a station was low in the eyes of Roselle when she learned of such that was greater.

But woe to that woman now, Beiren thought as he made his way closer to the wounded god, oozing colors Roselle could never have imagined possible. He had proved himself better at a skill pleasure never troubled itself to learn—war and killing. Beiren blotted out the sun as he drifted over his doppelgänger, a shadow swallowing him in shade. Paralyzed by defeat, the god awaited Beiren’s final strike of fatal judgement.