There’s a little voice that whispers through his bones, haunting him. Betrayer.
He had been a Good Dog, enjoyed being a good Dog, until Verene. Until he lost his faith.
Now he was a Bad Dog, cuffed against a cold wall on a dark and foggy night, heavy wrists branding him as a rusher, a feeling too familiar from before, in a position reversed.
He had been a Good Dog. He had protected his people. He had been a Good Dog. He had failed.
He had become a Bad Dog. Looked to a life that was more ruthless and bloodthirsty and maybe that still wouldn’t change anything. He’d be knifed in the back by the person he’d become, but that was surely better than being knifed and betrayed by one of your own. He had become a Bad Dog. He had turned to Rosto because if the Dogs couldn’t protect their own they didn’t have a hope for the people. Being a rusher for Rosto gave him some hope back that things could change for the better.
Maybe for Beka the line was heavy charcoal, splitting black shadows as dark as the Black God’s realm and the sparkles of life. For him it was only the split between him and the shadow from the sun, darkening the cobblestones. Maybe she had more justice, running through her blood then he did, but all he wanted to do was to protect the people.
And that was his line. Good Dog. Bad Dog.