Shadow Mountain i had walked my entire life as a dead man

Witches.

A bane upon most religions, but not to the Rhythm. His dogma was not threatened by or jealous of the prevailing of others. All wolves of the natural order had their place in his faith. Pagans and heathens and heretics alike. Lestan being a descendant of magick-users only made him more fascinating, and Wake’s infatuation could now be explained through enchantment.

Except… this Mayfair was not inclined to claim his own blood had any magick at all.

Which was just as well. For as a tangible being himself, Wake could stand in place of any god or myth or craft and be the thing worshipped by those bluesummer eyes. His gods would not mind the idolatry. Not so long as he paid homage to those ancients above and below.

Perhaps, came his warmfire voice. But it would bastardize my branch, he went on. I could not rightfully claim it as Rhythm. I have completed no rituals, taken neither vow nor lesson. The gods do not speak to me, as they would to our spiritual leaders— our Madonnas, our Directresses. If I live by new laws, I do so with the understanding that it will not be true to my faith.

He would have to make a willful choice to abandon Paradis. To abandon the halls of eternity that opened after this life. He was brave enough to endeavor it, but his desire for such a thing fell like sand through parted fingers.

The mountain seemed to shrink the higher they climbed, until there seemed nothing between them and the sky and the earthly miles beyond. The moon bathed them in glorious light, and Winter’s eyes could not leave the summerstar beside him.

Could you love a religious wolf? He spoke into the night. You of the practical mind, the tangible things?