Gold streaks of the evening sun streamed in through the single window, a perfect square of light in an otherwise dark room. Warwick stood on the edge of sunlight, feet bare and cold against the limestone floor, dropped his arms to his sides and opened his palms. Closed his eyes. The gods did not come unless their worshippers made themselves vulnerable, like an animal exposing its belly to the hand that could kill it. And the gods could certainly kill him.

“Goddess,” he said. “Why are you silent?” The square of light shifted closer toward him as the sun approached the horizon. “Why are all the gods silent?”