idea what this day will cost me.”
He continued forward, bearing no visible weapon save the dagger tucked into his belt. A dagger designed to kill a spren. A dagger that Navani had, essentially, created. He reached the end of the hallway, burst alight with Stormlight—which somehow worked for him—and streaked into the air, rising through the open stairwell toward the ground floor.
Navani slumped in the doorway, objections withering in her throat. She knew he was wrong, but she couldn’t find her voice. Something about that man unnerved her to the point of panic. He wasn’t human. He was a Voidbringer. If that word had ever applied to any, it was Moash.
“What do you need?” her guard asked. “Have you been fed?”
“I…” Navani licked her lips. “I need a candle, please. For burning prayers.”
Remarkably, she fetched it. Taking the candle, shivering, Navani cupped the flame and walked to her pallet. There, she knelt and began burning her glyphwards one at a time.
If there was a God, if the Almighty was still out there somewhere, had he created Moash? Why? Why bring such a thing into the world?
Please, she thought, begging as a ward shriveled, her prayers casting smoke into the air. Please. Tell me what to do. Show me something. Let me know you’re there.
As the last prayer drifted toward the Tranquiline Halls, she sat back on her heels, numb, wanting to huddle down and forget about her problems. When she moved to do so, however, in the candlelight she caught sight of something glittering amid the wreckage of her desk. As if in a trance, Navani rose and walked over. The guard wasn’t looking.
Navani brushed aside ash to find a metal dagger with a diamond affixed to the pommel. She stared at it, confused. It had exploded, hadn’t it?
No, this is the second one. The one Raboniel used to kill her daughter. She tossed it aside, as if hating it, once the deed was done.
A precious, priceless weapon, and the Fused had discarded it. How long had Raboniel been awake? Did she feel like Navani, exhausted, pushed to the limit? Forgetting important details?
For there, glimmering violet-black in the gemstone, was a soft glow. Not completely used up in the previous killing.
A small charge of anti-Voidlight.
* * *
Kaladin took the steps down one at a time. Unhurried as he walked toward the trap.
A certain momentum pushed him forward. As if his next actions were Soulcast into stone, already unchangeable. A mountain seemed to fill in behind him, blocking his retreat.
Forward. Only forward. One step after another.
He emerged from the stairwell onto the ground floor. Two direform Regals had been guarding the path, but they backed off—hands on swords, humming frantically. Kaladin ignored them, turning toward the atrium. He set his spear to his shoulder and strode through this central corridor.
No more hiding. He was too tired to hide. Too wrung-out for tactics and strategy. The Pursuer wanted him? Well, he would have Kaladin, presented as he had always been seen. Dressed in his uniform, striding to the fight, his head high.
Humans and singers alike scattered before him. Kaladin saw many of the humans wearing the markings Rlain had described—shash glyphs drawn on their foreheads. Storm them, they believed in him. They wore the symbol of his shame, his failure, and his imprisonment. And they made it something better.
He couldn’t help feeling that this was it. The last time he’d wear the uniform, his final act as a member of Bridge Four. One way or another, he had to move on from the life he’d been clinging to and the simple squad of soldiers who had formed the heart of that life.
All these people believed in a version of him who had already died. Highmarshal Kaladin Stormblessed. The valiant soldier, leader of the Windrunners, stalwart and unwavering. Like Kal the innocent youth, Squadleader Kaladin the soldier in Amaram’s army, and Kaladin the slave … Highmarshal Stormblessed had passed. Kaladin had become someone new, someone who could not measure up to the legend.
But with all these people believing in him—falling in behind him, whispering with hope and anticipation—perhaps he could resurrect Stormblessed for one last battle.
He didn’t worry about exposing himself. There was nowhere to run. Regals and singer soldiers gathered in bunches, tailing him and whispering harshly, but they would let a Fused deal with a Radiant.
Other Fused would know, though. Kaladin had been claimed already. He was Pursued.
As Kaladin drew near to the Breakaway—the hallway to his right would merge with