“You’re our god,” they say, and it weighs Bam down, hanging heavy on his soul because he never asked to be their god. He never asked to be the one to kill Jahad.
“Bam,” Khun whispers, naming him, tugging him close with confident fingers and murmuring it again, “Bam.”
Not Jyue Viole Grace, not Slayer nominee, not the god he doesn’t believe in—Bam, the boy he’d hunt through the whole Tower for, the boy he’d climb for, the boy he’d die for. He calls the name loudly whenever needed. Now he whispers it.
He doesn’t believe in gods.