Avery Hendrex

It’s actually the second chapter, but my beta reader, Veronika, suggested to share this chapter with you guys instead (it’s a much better continuation than the first chapter!). I had planned on posting this in another month or two, as we are still a ways away from the release. However, I was never good at practicing restraint 😉

I simply ask that you do not post this to other sites. Please and thank you!

Enjoy!

Chapter Two:
A Whispered Prayer

The first break of dawn crawled leisurely across Concordia, illuminating the sleeping capital streets and the battle-scarred forests to the north. A figure darted quickly between the trees at the base of the mountains, where the charred forest turned thicker and greener. He was a mere blur as he sprinted across the snow-covered ground, his steps nearly inaudible and his grace unmatched. A curtain of long black hair flailed behind him, enticing the predator at his heels to reach for the provocative strands. With each rapacious grab, the figure dodged swiftly, just barely escaping capture and prolonging the chase.

His lungs burned, and his legs felt like rubber, but his stubbornness drove him harder.

Once the pursuing footsteps quieted and turned silent, Ezra slowed with a futile glance over his shoulder. With the slow arrival of daylight, it was easier to perceive his surroundings, yet ample shadows remained to envelop his opponent.

Ezra tightened his hold around his sword’s hilt and struggled to control his breathing. His adrenaline heightened as he felt the eyes, and with slow, hunkering steps, he stalked through the forest of evergreens, coiled and ready for the ambush. Shuffling underneath a branch of unruly needles, he froze when his opponent sprang from the shadows with a vicious snarl and a lethal downward thrust of his blade.

With his stomach clenching with unrestrained glee, Ezra rocked to the balls of his feet before lunging to meet the strike. As their blades crossed, a face with a ghostly resemblance to Agni leered down at him. It made Ezra’s chest wrench painfully, as it always did, yet he smothered the sentiment under hot bloodlust. Pivoting in the snow, he maneuvered his blade away and shuffled back once, twice, forcibly pushed back by his opponent. The strikes were oppressive, his formidable opponent not holding back.

Ezra gritted his teeth, his body crying out with exhaustion. Ignoring his limitations, he threw himself into the battle, expertly matching his opponent’s strength and maintaining enough momentum to even the playing field.

His opponent’s eyes gradually turned half-lidded, not fooled—never fooled.

Much like his father.

“That’s enough for today.” Skanda withdrew his sword and stepped away, forcibly ending the duel.

“I’m not done,” Ezra persisted, feeling a throb of uncharacteristic anger. He pointed his sword at the atrin. “Raise your weapon. I have not submitted yet.”

Skanda’s colorless eyes traced the fine tremors coursing through Ezra’s arm. When the god eater remained stationary and inert, Ezra lunged. Before he could goad Skanda into reciprocating, the atrin’s form dissolved before reappearing at his side. He grabbed Ezra’s wrist, forcibly twisting his sword from his grasp. Seconds later, he had him on the ground with a strong forearm pressed against his neck.

Ezra clawed at the snow, a frustrated keen sounding from his throat as he was forced to bend backward at an unnatural angle and into the cold, hard body behind him. Above, the silhouette of a large raven circled, persistent in its protective proximity.

“I’m done. You’re done,” Skanda commanded with a low growl into Ezra’s ear. “It is not something to be ashamed of. You know the mortal realm is not friendly to gods.”

The arm around his throat loosened before releasing him.

Ezra pitched forward onto his hands and knees, seething. Dwelling in the mortal realm was supposed to become easier the longer he was here, not more challenging.

Raising into a crouch, Ezra stared unhappily into the distance. “I have to be ready,” he said stiffly, recalling that last humiliating loss and the accompanying shame.

Skanda lingered behind him before stepping at his side. “Not at the price of your health and sanity.” His eyes felt like weights as they settled on Ezra’s averted cheek. “You must look at your overall progress. You’ve come a long way since we’ve started.”

That was a gross understatement.

Ezra briefly considered their upsetting encounter that led to these training sessions. It had been two months after the crisis at the capital, and Ezra had naively believed he’d been ready to face new obstacles despite being rendered vulnerable from all his losses.

Four Months Ago

Ezra fell.

Considering his lofty overestimation and arrogance of his skills going into this confrontation, the fall was a long way down. The impact on the ground not only aggrieved his wounds, but it shook loose the fragile confidence he’d managed to construct since the devastation at the capital. Those barriers promptly shattered, and he was left traumatized by that same frightening sense of failure and isolation.

Usually accustomed to landing on his feet, the struggle to rise to his hands and knees felt uncoordinated and awkward—his body too heavy. Perched over his broken Igni sword, he raised a hand against the pelting rain to better see Kartikeya’s hulking figure. The God of War’s expression was pinched with unreadable intensity as he raised his glowing sword.

Ezra hunkered lower and extended his arm.

Would Kartikeya kill him? Or was his intent to capture and deliver him to Svarga? Ezra wasn’t going to wait and find out. He had to retreat with his tail between his legs.

Or…he tried to retreat.

As soon as he turned intangible, white-hot agony coursed through him, seemingly originating from the wound Kartikeya had inflicted across his chest. Ezra turned tangible with a bloodcurdling scream and collapsed over his sword, sweating and hyperventilating through the wave of nausea and dizziness.

As if sensing his despair, the puddles around Ezra rippled, and groping, ice-like hands reached from their depths to clutch at Kartikeya’s feet. The God of War stomped on them, shattering them as easily as he’d shattered their master.

Kartikeya’s sword descended, and Ezra lifted his chin to accept his fate.

But the strike never landed, having been thwarted by an equally fierce foe.

Ezra’s eyes widened upon recognizing the identity of his savior.

Skanda.

“Turn intangible,” the atrin ordered over his shoulder as he blocked Kartikeya’s refocused attacks.

Ezra didn’t know how long he lay there, clutching his broken sword until it cut through the fabric of his gloves and scraped bone. The pain was too much. His chest burned, and his blood was on fire. He couldn’t turn—

“Turn intangible.” 

Skanda was suddenly there, curling a hand around the back of his collar and picking him up like a wayward pup. Ezra barely noticed. Besides clutching at his broken sword, he hung limply in the grasp, his body growing scarily hot, his mind foggy and disoriented.

Ever the persistent bother, the hand shook him again. “Will you allow a meager cut to get the best of you, Reaper? Turn intangible. You need to shadow travel back to the palace.”

The mockery was enough for Ezra to open his eyes. Determinedly, he followed the order despite knowing it would cause another spasm of fire to course through his veins.

As his body turned incorporeal, he was pulled through the shadows again, but instead of Chitragupta guiding him this time, it was an untrustworthy ally. 

Ezra couldn’t recall what occurred after they arrived back in his quarters. There was feverish pain, difficulty breathing, and a mind-numbing weakness he hadn’t experienced since he’d become a god. A scent of potent herbs and two voices occasionally murmuring back and forth broke through his pained haze, but it was the sound of popping firewood that finally roused him from his unconsciousness.

He hadn’t lit a fire in his rooms since—

He blinked open tired eyes and stared at the ceiling of his sitting room. His head was near the fireplace, almost strategically placed, and there was a painful cramping in his hands. Adjusting his fingers, he realized he still clutched the two halves of his broken sword as if they were his lifeline. A part of him mourned the loss of the sword that inspired so many conflicting emotions, but most of all, he mourned yet another piece of his mortal life that could not follow him into immortality.

Ezra blinked again, watching the orange shadows dance across the ceiling.

He closed his eyes and withheld the sigh of dissatisfaction.

It was supposed to be a simple scouting mission. Chitragupta had been watching Eurus State since their declaration of war on Concordia, and when the atrin had noticed an array of unusual weapons, he’d informed Ezra. Having grown comfortable in his god form, Ezra insisted he was well enough to accompany him to Eurus.

They’d traveled through shadows—an experience Ezra wasn’t willing to attempt on his own just yet—and examined the peculiar crafts Eurus had invented. Before they could destroy them all, they’d been interrupted by Kartikeya’s unexpected appearance.

They hadn’t realized the God of War had been in the mortal realm.

After tasking Chitragupta with destroying the remaining warcrafts, Ezra had grandiose delusions that he could distract Kartikeya. After all, he was skilled with the sword, and since becoming a deity, his strength had amplified. But Kartikeya was no mortal opponent. He promptly demonstrated that there was a distinct line between newborns and full-fledged gods.

“Your first taste of phaṇin poison.”

The voice was gruff and hoarse from disuse, and it had Ezra promptly sitting up.

Skanda sat across from him with grey, contemplative eyes. Just over Skanda’s shoulder, Ezra was relieved to see Chitragupta perched on the divan beside a snoozing Sapta. While the atrin managed to return from Eurus unharmed, there was a distinct edge to his expression as he gazed sidelong at Skanda’s turned back.

“Phaṇin poison?” Ezra looked down, realizing his tunic was unbuttoned, and a bandage was placed against the wound he sustained from Kartikeya’s blade.

“It is a common, diluted poison originating from nagas.”

Skanda’s attention was not focused on his wound but rather on his shoulder. Belatedly, Ezra realized his tunic had slipped down to his elbow, displaying the inky serpent tattoo coiled possessively around his upper arm and resting near his collarbone. Under Skanda’s steely eyes, Ezra adjusted his tunic, covering the consort mark.

“What is a naga?” The term sounded vaguely familiar to Ezra, though he couldn’t pinpoint why.

“They are a race of divine, snake-like entities in Svarga.” Skanda finally tore his gaze from the serpent tattoo, but then that penetrating scrutiny focused on Ezra’s face. “The phaṇin poison slows the essence’s natural healing abilities. It allows for a higher chance of a lethal wound. Most warriors don’t bother poisoning their blades anymore.” Without looking away from Ezra, his fingers tapped the satchel beside him. “We have learned at a young age to identify herbs for an antidote—herbs also available in the mortal realm. Makes it pointless to use it against opponents…unless they are ignorant.”

Ezra’s expression hardened, and he nodded sharply.

He should get used to that.

Not knowing phrases. Not knowing poisons. Remedies. Traditions.

Ignorant. Newborn. Fledgling. Naive. All words to describe him now.

“Well. I must thank—”

“No need,” Skanda interrupted hastily. “It would not have been lethal. The wound was far too superficial. Your essence would have eventually burned through it.” He finally lowered his eyes from Ezra. “Unfortunately, your sword could not withstand the duel against a god-forged weapon. It was a handsomely crafted Igni blade. Do you mind?”

Ezra shook his head, watching Skanda move closer and lift the fractured blade. His fingers roved over the serpent crossguard and traced over the textured scales. His focus lingered on the mourning braids, recognizing what they stood for, for his touch was brief and solemn before he moved on to inspect the blade. Inky, dark hair veiled his masculine features as he tested its broken weight and balance.

“They’ve certainly improved their blacksmithing in the time I have been—away.”

Ezra looked at Skanda upon noticing the atrin’s faint, broken note. His lips pursed, willing to play along and speak of safe, mundane topics. “Igni swords are the envy of the other nations,” he agreed, recalling the previous debates with Kai about Igni swords.

Upon remembering his fiercest comrade, Ezra’s mood sank further.

Skanda’s fingers curled around the broken blade. “You fight well,” he said grudgingly. “My father imparted obvious impressions in your style, yet it’s different enough to stand on its own. You’re just weak.”

The flush on the back of Ezra’s neck was more intense now than during his fevered state.

Having been inclined to observe silently, Chitragupta suddenly shifted, his expression darkening on Skanda’s turned back. He looked to Ezra, standing down at the minuscule shake of his head.

“Your endurance is lacking,” Skanda continued. “You cannot reasonably exact the strength and brutality to keep up with minor war gods, let alone major gods. You may have been a remarkable warrior for a mortal, but you are nothing as you are now.”

Ezra chuckled darkly, a smokescreen to the brokenness and the humiliation. He’d never been told he was anything less than impressive—his skills were always admired and commended.

“I can train you to be better…stronger.”

Skanda’s offer had Ezra refocusing sharply. “Why?”

The atrin set down Ezra’s sword with a grim expression. “I don’t know what you are to my father.” Here, he looked at the consort mark now covered by Ezra’s tunic. “And I don’t—I don’t want to know what that is until I can speak with him directly, but it’s clear you’re something to him. And if you managed to make an impression with that ancient, world-weary god, then you must learn to defend yourself for his sake.”

Skanda stood up with the air of someone greatly aggrieved. Ezra watched the atrin, his scrutiny turning shrewd when he realized what this was—why Skanda was upset.

“You once called him an unemotional block of stone. You were wrong.”

Ezra’s words had Skanda whirling back around with surprise. “How did you—”

Ezra flashed a wry, empty smile before slowly getting to his feet. He traversed his quarters before stopping at the divan where his mortal body lay. As he worked on extracting an item from his necklace chain, he noticed the minuscule signs of degeneration on his mortal body that hadn’t been there before his impromptu trip to Eurus. He pushed aside his spasm of panic before turning to Skanda.

“I won’t speak for him regarding his past regrets, but you should know that when the rest of Svarga celebrated the rebirth of the new God of War, Agni never once let you go.”

He reached out a curled hand, prompting Skanda to accept the offering. As he dropped the golden spear in Skanda’s palm, he watched a plethora of emotions flit across the atrin’s face, the most prevailing being awe and crushing realization.

It wasn’t his place to mend the relationship between Agni and Skanda, and he did not owe Skanda anything—not after he’d supported Yama-Ember, albeit under false allusions and the disorientation of being recently summoned from purgatory. Yet there was something horribly soft underneath Ezra’s persistence to remain unfeeling. He blamed it on being a father—

On once being a father.

He’d want someone to soothe his child’s hurt if he wasn’t around to do it himself.

And knowing the lengths Agni had…

Ezra promptly shut down his thoughts. It was difficult enough to talk about Agni, but at least he could dissociate. “You’re right to assume that I am something to Agni.” He took a step closer to Skanda. “I was his weapon to extract you from Naraka. I am meant to give you a better existence now that you are an atrin. With Indra and the other gods planning to sabotage all that Agni has worked toward, I will gladly accept your offer to prevent that from happening.”

“Ezra,” Chitragupta protested, finally coming between the two. “That’s not—you’re not a—”

“I’ll do it.” Skanda curled his fingers over the spear and clutched it close. “But I won’t go easy on you.”

Ezra ignored Chit’s imploring look and merely smirked. “I sure hope not.”

Present Day

Ezra climbed to his feet under Skanda’s stare. “You said you’d never go easy on me.”

Skanda scoffed at Ezra’s discontentment before sheathing his sword. “I will always fall short as an instructor when you hold yourself to such lofty, self-imposed expectations. You’ve pushed yourself hard enough today.”

“I find your expectations are typically always grounded and rational unless they apply to yourself. There is normally one of two reasons that cause you distress: misunderstandings or failed endeavors of lofty self-prophecies.”

Ezra sucked in a sharp breath as the distant memory surged past his barriers. With it came the ghostly sensation of fingers curling around his wrist, restraining him against a table, and a teasing touch at his waist. Smug, fiery eyes peered through his defenses, seeing him, calling him out.

Being seen had never felt so invigorating, so…heartening.

Ezra busied himself with picking up his weapon—or the sword Indra had given him those many months ago. As the blade snapped back into its scabbard, he succeeded in smothering the memory, the words, and the sentiments of warmth and home.

“After all this time, he still doesn’t trust me with you. I suppose that goes both ways.” 

Skanda’s wry comment had Ezra turning back around. He noticed the atrin watching the skies where Chitragupta circled overhead, on edge as he always was when they sparred. Ezra’s lashes lowered with blasé disapproval, earning the sudden attention of Skanda.

“What—”

“You two are on the same side,” Ezra interrupted frostily. “Perhaps it is due time you set aside past grievances and made amends.”

“Did he even tell you who he was?”

“Who he was?” Ezra repeated with a pointed look at the gold spear resting against Skanda’s chest. “I know who he is, and that is enough for me.”

Skanda’s expression creased with surprise before it cleared to impassiveness. He stared at Ezra, his hand subconsciously touching the spear now void of Agni’s memories. No matter how many times Ezra had clutched it after first viewing the memories, he had never been able to see them again. He had no qualms giving it to Skanda, feeling the atrin had more claim to it than Ezra. The spear symbolized Agni’s enduring affection for his son and was also an agonizing reminder of what Skanda had lost: his godhood.

“Tomorrow, same time?” Ezra asked, his voice undoubtedly piercing through the vicious rehash of past tragedies and bittersweet remembrances in Skanda’s mind. It was not uncommon to see Skanda’s gaze directed to the distant past; his mood was always melancholy when he returned to the present.

This time was no different, and it took Skanda a breath of time to return. “Yes.”

Ezra observed him for a time before bowing at the waist.

As he turned his heel, he wondered if Agni ever thought about what it would take to make Skanda’s existence as an atrin a happy one. Surely the god did not think beyond freeing Skanda from the prison of other atrins and bhutas. Surely the Fire God had realized an empathetic Reaper wasn’t enough to absolve the shadows of a glorified past that would relentlessly stalk Skanda’s heels. Unlike Chitragupta, Skanda did not seem to think highly of Yama’s creation of atrins, though he would never say it aloud. His nostalgic and poignant absences from reality said it all.

Ezra wondered if Agni would see all this whenever—if ever—he reunited with his son or if he’d be blinded by his son’s reappearance in his life that he’d overlook how miserable Skanda truly was.

“Ezra.”

That was new.

Usually, Ezra could slink away unnoticed when Skanda disappeared into his past.

He turned with a quirked brow, unnerved by the concentrated gaze directed his way.

“I…” Skanda pressed his lips together to either compose or bolster. “It makes sense that you’re regressing the longer you’re in the mortal realm. We’ve both heard the stories that the Reaper cannot reasonably tolerate the mortal realm for long.”

He paused, and the pause was enough to sink something despairing inside Ezra. Having an idea where this was going, Ezra turned his shoulder on Skanda and clenched his right hand. The sound of bone grinding against bone was nearly muffled by the heavy glove surrounding his hand.

“I’ve heard the reports.” Unconcerned with the spasm of anguish he’d ignited in Ezra, Skanda pressed on, “I’ve heard the reports that suggest the mortal realm is also struggling from hosting the God of Death for so long. Why didn’t you tell me, Ezra?”

And the words came rushing back from the royal council:

“Birds are falling from the sky!”

“There have been unusual deaths among wildlife…”

“Healers proclaim the sick are not recovering from simple, treatable illnesses. Death rates are at an all-time high. Surely, the healers are improperly diagnosing their condition.”

“Having some trouble with the new crops, Your Majesty. Inexperienced farmers. Rotting produce. We’ll try again, but we must formulate a contingency plan for the food shortage.”

Ezra directed a hollow smile into the distance. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Don’t give in to Indra…”

“I don’t plan to,” Ezra admonished.

“Have you ever tried to pray?”

The question was so unexpected that it had Ezra whirling back around with a wide-eyed stare.

“What?”

“To Agni,” Skanda clarified.

Ezra stared. He then laughed, loud and ugly. “Pray to Agni?” he whispered scathingly once the mirth died. “It’s been over six months since I’ve seen or heard from him. You think I would resort to pleading when he couldn’t even send a sign when I’d needed him the most?” The unshed tears were unwelcome and every bit revealing in the face of Skanda’s knowing stare. “I would never.”

“You don’t know the intricacies of Svarga,” Skanda insisted. “There are larger predators who hold absolute power over Svarga. You know about the lockdown in Svarga and Naraka, but you have no idea what happened to Agni on the other side. Don’t you believe it odd that he hasn’t reached out? I’ve even tried to pray, but I never received any acknowledgment from my father.”

Ezra straightened and touched the hilt of his sword. “If your prayers cannot reach him, then why do you imagine mine would?”

Skanda frowned. “Major deities are often overwhelmed by the sheer number of worshippers in their heads. They’re able to isolate those prayers by focusing on a specific individual. If he’s conditioned himself to be attuned to you—just you—he will hear your prayer no matter his circumstances.” He watched Ezra with an expressive frown. “Where is the harm of trying?”

“There is no harm,” Ezra responded quickly. “Just as there is no point. He may be able to hear me, but that doesn’t mean he can do anything about it. I’d much rather find a way to handle things alone.” Without broadcasting how utterly pathetic I am by reaching out in prayer.

Not wanting to extend the discussion further, Ezra retreated from the clearing and returned to the palace. Turning intangible would have made the journey quicker—easier—yet he savored the amount of stamina each step demanded. The mortal realm may be protesting his presence, but he could train his body to endure it. In a situation with so many unknowns, at least one thing was guaranteed: Kartikeya would inevitably attack, and Ezra had to be prepared.

The fact that he’d even been given this much time to train was godsent. Chitragupta had destroyed most of those warcrafts the night they’d gone to Eurus, which undoubtedly bought them time, yet it would not hold Eurus off indefinitely. Though he hadn’t recognized what they were, the warcrafts appeared to be able to take flight. Considering how large they were, Ezra doubted their capabilities, yet if any mortal territory could invent something so ingenious, it was Eurus.

Now that Ezra felt more confident in his abilities, he was anxious to take the war on the offensive. He’d done enough waiting, and he had the strangest sense that someone was championing for the passage of time. 

Indra.

Not long after his ascension, Chitragupta informed Ezra that Svarga and Naraka were under lockdown, and the only deity capable of accomplishing that feat was the King of Devas. It did not take Ezra long to determine why he was being forced to stay in the mortal realm. Though Ezra wanted to spite Agni and Varuna at the time of his ascension, his jump back to the mortal realm had inadvertently been a direct challenge to Indra. The king had made it abundantly clear how much he wanted Ezra in Svarga as the Reaper, and Ezra had enough audacity to deny him.

As retribution, Indra banished Ezra to the mortal realm, and all the king had to do was sit back and wait. Indra knew what would happen the longer the Reaper lingered here, and if that weren’t enough to force Ezra’s hand, then Kartikeya would add further pressure from Eurus.

Ezra’s form flickered, giving way to the exhaustion.

As he forcibly returned to a solid state, his knees buckled, and he collapsed in the snow. He landed on his knees and stayed down, staring into the snowy forest.

He wondered if Chitragupta and Skanda also thought they were in over their heads.

He laughed under his breath and fell backward. As he stared at the tree branches, he speculated if it was better to seek out Indra now and prevent further destruction of the mortal realm. Would Indra accept him in Svarga without further stipulations after all this time? Doubtful. The king would hold the upper hand and ensure the offer he extended to Ezra was riddled with caveats. 

Still, if he accepted Indra’s proposal, that would mean he would have to leave behind his mortals, his kingdom, and Brooke and their—

Ezra closed his eyes and worked on summoning the Reaper essence to distract himself.

The slimy presence quickly answered his call, and Ezra immersed himself in the foul power. He’d gotten better at tolerating it, acknowledging the absolute need to embrace extra power and shouldering the responsibilities as Reaper. Yet the longer he immersed himself in the taint, the longer it took to shake off its morose effects.

He opened his eyes to the small orb of black energy suspended over his splayed fingers. He frowned at its size. It was still nowhere near as large as Yama-Ember’s. The small orb flickered before extinguishing, and his hand turned intangible with it. He fought against the mind-numbing exhaustion, refusing to succumb just yet. Sweat beaded across his brow as he focused on maintaining a solid form. When his hand finally turned corporeal, he slumped further into the snow.

The color drained from his eyes as he stared unseeingly at the grey, hazy morning. A few sporadic snowflakes trickled serenely down upon him, but he remained inert, feeling the emptiness inside spread like a stain.

“Where is the harm in trying?”

His eyes flickered as Skanda’s words came back to him.

Ezra found his lips parting, his chest aching as he thought of that presence that had torn a hole inside him with its absence. “Agni.” The name filled that empty ache with something light, airy, and foolishly hopeful. His pulse hammered erratically against his ribcage as he breathed it again, “Agni.”

The world remained silent and still, and that fiery presence remained absent and dark.

The faint smile on Ezra’s lips gradually disappeared, and the pale eyes resumed their glassy, unfocused scrutiny of the sky. A gentle breeze rustled through the trees, tousling the snow enough to cover the impressions left behind by the fledgling god who could no longer maintain physical form.

Elsewhere in Svarga, the breeze wasn’t so subtle and gentle.

The howling wind was psychological torment to the inhabitants of the dank and confining cells. Yet one inhabitant escaped most of its effects by being enchanted in a permanent state of unconsciousness. Though the immortal entity had only been a detainee for six months, it appeared as if he’d been rotting in the penitentiary for centuries, for his appearance had progressed in age, rendering him a sack of bones with wrinkled, thin flesh.

For the first time since his incarceration, he twitched as if suddenly roused from deep sleep. Bony fingers clawed the stone floor, and his neck cracked as he realigned his head. A heavy beard trembled as he worked his jaw, and the thin chest took a shuddering, deep breath.

He then turned motionless as his memories sluggishly returned, the last to return being the sweet chime of a whispered, anguished prayer.

“Agni.”

Fiery eyes snapped open.