wreaking revenge upon the race that bested them.” His lips curve into an almost conspiratorial smile. “The Eshvaren are not the noble paragons they’d have you believe. Not selfless martyrs who gave their lives for us. They are demons. Demons who would be gods.”
I sneer. “I’m supposed to believe that?”
He shakes his head a fraction, as though I’m a slightly dim student. “Have you never wondered why we all resemble one another? Think, child. Every race in the galaxy. We all stand on two feet. Breathe the same air. Speak languages the others can comprehend. The chance of hundreds of races evolving in such similar patterns across so vast a timeline and distance is nonexistent.” He folds his arms and scowls. “The Eshvaren seeded the galaxy in their own image. We are a virus in a petri dish to them. No better than insects.”
The words reverberate in my mind, sending shudders through every part of me. I’ve heard Tyler and Fin talk about their United Faith. The religion that grew among the galactic races to explain these similarities.
I glance at Kal, pressed against the chamber wall.
“But … the Maker,” I say.
The Starslayer shakes his head.
“Not a Maker, child,” he says. “Makers.”
The word shakes me, chilling my blood.
“The Eshvaren are our puppeteers,” Caersan says, his violet eye flashing. “And we their puppets. Imagine the arrogance it took to seed life in their own image across hundreds of worlds. All for the sake of some petty revenge?” He gestures at the Weapon around us, the rainbows dancing on the crystal. “That is the jest of it, Aurora Jie-Lin O’Malley. That is all we are. There are no gods. There is no grand design. No purpose to any of it, beyond the last desperate stab of a fallen empire. A lottery of a million years and countless lives, for one last chance at vengeance.”
The thought is almost too much for me to take in. But through the power that links us, binds us, I know Caersan isn’t lying. All the religions of all the worlds, all the creation stories, all the beliefs of how and why this began …
And really, it was the Eshvaren who made us all?
It’s a stone in my chest. A cold hand squeezing my insides. I wonder what Finian might think if he knew. What Tyler would say if I told him.
Makers …
But then I push the thought, the weight of it and them, aside. I force my attention back to Caersan as he looks me up and down and sneers.
“You are nothing to the Eshvaren. And still, you would die for them?”
“Of course I would,” I say. “No matter what you say, the Ra’haam still wants to consume the entire galaxy and every living thing in it. Asking for just one more life to stop it seems like a small enough price to me.”
I look him over, taking my time.
“It’s a pity you were too cowardly to pay it.”
Just for a millisecond, I see anger in his gaze.
Interesting.
“I was strong enough to forge my own destiny,” he replies coolly. “To step off the path my would-be masters laid down for me.”
I snort. “And your idea of strength was to destroy your own homeworld? To kill billions of your people?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kal shift his weight.
His father simply shrugs. “You speak as though the effort cost me something. But all my ties were long since burned away. Just as they taught us.”
Burn it all away.
It makes sense, I suppose. If Caersan cut away all his ties—family, love, honor, loyalty—but didn’t replace them with devotion to destroying the Ra’haam, what would be left? Just an empty shell, with all the powers of the Trigger.
But somehow, I’m not sure that’s right. There’s something in his gaze—that flicker of temper that flashed to the surface like a silvery fish, then disappeared—that tells me that whatever he burned away has begun to slowly creep back in.
That maybe I’m stronger.
I lash out at him with a wave of pure power, quick as a whipcrack. He stumbles back a step, then straightens, radiating disdain.
“What was that, child?”
“Just a hello,” I reply, as sweetly as I know how.
Caersan strikes back, but instantly, instinctively, I throw up my hands. My energy is midnight blue, shot through with silver wisps, like nebulas, like starlight. His is a dark, dusty red, like drying blood, threaded with antique gold. There’s a depth to it, a richness and a power I’d find frightening if I