[ Part of him balks, immediately. Among the Ennead it was known: only those born to divinity would become divine. They did not have demigods born of human mothers, did not have mortal men who rose beyond their station to be rewarded with a throne of their own. The Archangel speaks madness. And he speaks madness, because Set knows there are other pantheons, other ways. He has been faced with the majesty and dignity of the Mahadeva, he has thrown himself against Gilgamesh's blades and disdain, he has hunted alongside Anat of the Levant.

The Archangel has pledged to burn for his dream. It is madness only a mortal being can possess, a hunger only they know, for they are free to imagine such heights, and free to attain them - in some way. ]

Why?

[ He has to know. It grips him, the edge of this thing that makes the Archangel who he is - that riles Set, even as he seeks purification at the hands of his fellow Savant. ]

Go on, tell me your reason. Why you presume to toy with me, to be - [ A sharp laugh escapes him. The verge of madness in him too. ] So impertinent! A human who thinks he will grant a god salvation!