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Chapter Text

Present

Moash stared as Teft reached for another pinch of firemoss. The half-healed wounds on the older man's fingers tore beneath the friction, shredding like wet paper. New blisters rose from the blazing flesh, angry wheals that made his own fingers throb at the sight of them. 

Still, Teft rubbed the smoldering moss, eyes glazed, lids drooping, his mind in another realm.

Moash felt a strange mix of emotion as he watched his old friend - anger, hate and disgust - and further down, in the weathered crags of his heart - grief, regret, and shame. This time, he was the one who had dragged Teft back into the throes of addiction. 

Because he knew he would be rescued. 

Moash was on his own path to salvation. One that led here, to Urithiru. To Teft, and to the man who would save him.

His eyes narrowed as he watched the old soldier's head nod forward.

He had been like Teft, once. Hiding behind vice to escape his own shortcomings. Acting like a whipped axehound pup, cringing at the slightest failure. It was fear that made him hesitate when called on to kill a false king. Fear, that made him flee when his first feeble attempt to strike down Elhokar had failed.

Then the Voidbringers found him. 

He had been so sure that these survivors of slavery, mind control, and unspeakable abuse fought for true justice. For an end to the cruelty and brutality of the lighteyes. Though he watched them send the Singers under their control to their deaths in Kholinar, Moash convinced himself that this was simply the price of warfare. He served them, desperate to prove his worth. In this service, he finally succeeded in killing that bloodstained pretender to the Alethi throne.

He believed he had found power, honor, and respect among the Voidbringers. Odium gave him a new name, and trusted him with a powerful weapon, the Raysium knife. 

Odium's words were sweet, a balm upon his shame and self doubt. Moash almost let go of his past. He began to believe that he had found a higher calling. That he had moved on from Bridge Four, from Kaladin.

He fought for them on a dozen battlefields, and struck from the shadows at other times. He was a soldier, an assassin, a divine avenger. From Kholinar, it was a blur of victories. 

Then came Thaylenah, where his past finally caught up with him.

Flashback

He fought, and bled, and suffered beside the Fused and the Singers, eager to give his life in the name of a higher cause.

Until he watched Torol Sadeas, the man who had abused him for so long, swallow a gemstone at Odium's command. When the Voidbringers rallied to his tormentor's side, he hesitated. And when Kaladin faced them with Bridge Four at his back, doubt consumed him.

Sadeas died at the hands of those he had brutalized.

The tide of the battle turned on that axis, and the Voidbringers fled. Moash found himself alone in a sea of corpses. 

In the distance, the Alethi combed the battlefield for survivors. He knew he would be recognized. Someone from Bridge Four, or the Sadeas camp would come eventually. The instant they found him, they would end him.

Unless…

He stared at the roiling clouds far above him, longing to plunge into their depths and drown. The faces of the corpses they had thrown into the chasms, brothers in arms who fell on bridge runs, flashed before his eyes. The frightened stares of his grandparents as they were dragged to their doom. The Herald he slaughtered, shocked gaze fixed on the blade in his breast. The Singers who died at his side in Kholinar. Elhokar, transfixed upon his blade, dying with his child in his arms. The boy, screaming for his father to open his eyes, tiny hands slick with blood. Those wide golden eyes staring up at him, asking why…

Hands shaking, he pressed the tip of the Raysium knife to his chest, just over his heart. His chest heaved, eyes burning with shame, and terror, and doubt. So many dead. So many at his hand. What was one more?

A man leaned over him, his massive shadow blotting out the churning storm above. The setting sun broke through the clouds, and searing light poured over the stranger. His eyes turned golden, the green of the Sadeas uniform set alight, so the glyph seemed to shine with it. He held a shattered shadblade in his hand, his brow furrowed.

His hands shook far too hard to hold the knife. It fell from numb fingers, as Moash closed his eyes. He wondered if the broken shardblade would still sever his soul from his body, or if it would only tear his flesh. If death would be swift, or if this warrior of light would take him to face a far slower end.

The stranger moved, the gravel beneath his feet scuffing. Moash's throat bobbed as he swallowed his fear, cursing his cowardice.

But the blow did not come.

He opened his eyes, staring up at the gleaming figure. The stranger had knelt at his side. With the sunset at his back, the outline of the warrior's hair blazed like a golden ring of radiance.

"Do not despair, my child. The Almighty sees your plight.”

The words were so soft. So kind. Moash could not conceive of such mercy in the bloody ruin of that battlefield, and could not bear to even hope that it might be turned upon him.

The stranger laid a white-gloved hand upon his cheek, lifting his gaze.

“What weighs upon your heart?” The warrior asked.

Moash stared up at that halo, that holy visage, and dared to pray for the only salvation he could imagine - a swift, clean death.

“I killed the king.” Moash breathed. His tears fell, mixing with the filth and blood on his face, staining the white glove of the stranger. “Elhokar Kholin. I killed him.”

He stared up at the lighteyed man, waiting for the disgust. The recrimination. The rage.

Instead, the stranger pulled him into an embrace.

Frozen in shock, Moash could only listen, speechless, as the stranger murmured in his ear.

“It is a terrible burden, to do what others are too weak to do themselves.” The stranger said, voice low and rumbling, like a distant roll of righteous thunder. “The Almighty sees that you have fought to rid the world of a terrible evil, my child.” 

He eased Moash back, laying a massive gloved hand upon his shoulder and fixing him with that brilliant, burning gaze.

“You no longer need to bear this burden alone. There are others who see what the world refuses to: The Kholins have the blood of untold thousands upon their souls. Alethkar will know no peace until their stain has been purged.”

Moash stared, shocked at the words.

“You are a Son of Honor. Perhaps his greatest.” The stranger said, sitting back. He offered his gloved hand. “I would be honored,” he said gravely, “if you would allow me to help you complete this holy task.”

Present

Moash pressed himself further into the shadow, waiting for Teft to rise.

The Paragon had showed him the truth. The Vorin church would purge the sins of the Kholins from Alethkar - tyranny, supremacy, injustice, poverty, and the murder of innocents. 

He was the divine sword, the hand of the Almighty.

He watched Teft stand. The old soldier stumbled from the moss den, and Moash followed. 

They would come. 

He could smell it, the hypocrisy of Kaladin Stormblessed.

Teft stank of it. Lured him with it.

The perfect bait

Chapter Text

Present

Adolin's head throbbed. It was late, sometime in the hours just before dawn, but he did not bother to lift the cover from his sphere lantern to check the time.

The room still smelled like her perfume. A scent that would fade all too soon, this time for good.

Flashback

“He doesn't even WANT me, Shallan!” Adolin shouted. 

The argument was worn, tired. He had lost count of how many times he had explained. Still, she seemed convinced that Kaladin would somehow interfere in their betrothal. 

“It was one night, and he's spent the last seven months acting as if it never happened!”

He hated how much that truth ripped at his soul. 

Shallan stared at him, tears streaking her cheeks. 

“He probably just believed the stories about me. Thought I was easy.” he added miserably.

He looked down at her, wishing the heartbreak in her eyes meant more to him. That he loved her as she deserved. The way he loved him.

“It was just sex to him.” He said. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the curls to distract himself from the burn in his eyes.

“But not to you.” She countered.

He flinched.

“And that,” she said sadly, “Is why I have to leave.”

Present

Thud Thud Thud

He blinked in surprise, rolling to face the entrance and watching the familiar way the shadow beneath the door shifted.

He smiled in spite of the pang in his chest. He grabbed his boots and went to the door, opening it.

Kaladin stood outside, looking uneasy.

“I'm sorry for bothering you again, Adolin.” He said.

Adolin sat on the bench in the entrance, pulling on his boots.

“Teft?” He asked.

Kaladin grimaced. “Missing again, down in the Warrens. I wouldn't ask, but the others are on duty…”

Adolin shook his head. “He's my friend too, Kal.”

The Windrunner flashed a grateful smile, his gaze meeting Adolin's just long enough to burn.

He rose, following him down, into the heart of Urithiru. He watched him move, his stomach in knots.

Because Shallan was right. 

To him, it wasn't just sex. 

He was in love. And the worst of it was that he would always choose this - following him, just his friendship - over not having him in his life. 

So if not talking about what happened in the Frostlands was the only way to stay close to him? He would simply have to bear it.

They passed down, into the jumbled apartments, alleyways, and warehouses in the center of the massive residential level of the tower. They reached the poorest quarter, a network of slums and storage buildings that the locals called The Warrens.

Though the city lay within a massive building itself, the scale of the tower made the space seem more like the sunless underbelly of a sprawling metropolis than the heart of Urithiru. Here, buried deep in the crowding of desperate refugees, the homeless and addicted - almost all darkeyed - slept in whatever refuse they could cobble into a shelter. 

It was a place of desperation, only preferable to the fallen cities throughout Alethkar because Odium’s forces could not reach them. Starvation, disease, addiction, and crime ruled, overlooked by the demands of the war in the world beyond.

As they combed the alleyways, they passed a lighteyed guard on patrol. He recoiled in disgust as a darkeyed beggar reached out for him, kicking their hand aside.

Kaladin paused, tensing. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, his eyes blazed faintly with Stormlight.

“Storming lighteyes.” he snarled. “Always happy to live on the backs of darkeyes as long as they don’t have to look at them.”

Adolin felt a surge of righteous fury.

And then, shame.

He watched Kaladin as he dropped a few marks into the beggar’s cup. 

He wondered, not for the first time, if that was the real reason Kaladin pretended that night in the cave had never happened.

If he was ashamed of him. Repulsed. Disgusted by what he was.

Adolin offered the beggar a piece of fruit, meeting his eye. 

He couldn’t blame Kaladin if he was. In these last months, he had befriended Bridge Four, and spent countless hours in places most lighteyes would never dare to go. He had seen a lot of ugliness down in these slums, but none of it compared to the casual, thoughtless cruelty of the lighteyes.

It was all he could see in the mirror, lately. 

He owed all of them - Kaladin, and Teft, and countless others - far more than an apology. He owed them a better world. An end to all of this. 

He had no idea where to begin.

But he would start by looking. By seeing. By remembering. 

Chapter Text

Present

He followed Teft through the dark labyrinth. After several blocks, the old Windrunner was clinging to the wall to stay upright. Moash remained at a distance, watching him slump in a trash heap from the entrance to the alleyway.

He smelled Kaladin first. Fresh and clean and deceptive, like the wind from a Highstorm - as if it didn't carry blood and death.

He waited, hoping he did not come alone.

But no, Kaladin was never alone these days. 

Not like Moash. 

The Paragon said he had followed Kaladin everywhere since coming to Urithiru. 

The rumors were rampant. A prince and a Radiant - Kaladin with a lighteyes.

He refused to believe it. More lies. Kal was being used, just like Moash had been. 

Maybe as Kholin's whore. But Kaladin wouldn't be fool enough to think it meant anything. Even he, tricked by the Blackthorn, had to have enough sense to know-

Quite suddenly, Kaladin and Adolin started down the narrow side alley. 

Disgust roiled his stomach at the way Kaladin looked at the Kholin heir. Rage burned as he studied the princeling's arrogant bronzed features. The way he smiled at the Windrunner, as though he truly loved him, was revolting. Just another lie from a lighteyes - and worse, one his old friend appeared to be foolish enough to believe.

He shoved aside any sympathy he felt for Kaladin, reminding himself of the hard truth.

This was the man who made excuses for Teft's weakness, but condemned Moash's strength. 

This was the man who lied. Lied about how he got his brands. Lied, and framed an innocent man. Lied about turning on his own men in a fit of greed.

He longed to confront him. To demand the truth. To make him see sense. To persuade him to join him on his quest.

“You'll thank me, someday.” He whispered, watching Kaladin one moment longer.

The instant the Windrunner caught sight of Teft he broke into a run. He called to Kholin for help - water, a blanket, spheres.

Kholin took off his jacket and tossed it to him over the pile of trash.

“There are a dozen spheres in the left pocket!” He called.

Moash scowled. He acted as if money was nothing to him, a toy. As if even one of those spheres would not be the difference between life and death for so many people in the slums.

“I'm going to try to find some water!” Kholin added.

“And a blanket!” Kaladin called, laying Teft on the ground to examine him.

Kholin left the side alley, jogging down the main. Moash drew back into another alleyway, holding to the shadows. He pulled on a mask as Kholin approached, breaking the little vial hidden in the depths of the rag in his palm. 

The moment he ran past, Moash seized him, muffling his cries with the cloth. He leaned away, careful to avoid the pungent fumes. Kholin jerked, clawing at the rag, eyes going wide as the noxious mix flooded his lungs.

Moash dragged him backwards, into the side alley. In the struggle, Kholin's head cracked against the stone corner, further addling him. He tried desperately to summon his blade, but the ghost of the weapon appeared and then vanished as the poison took hold. His wide, fearful eyes grew dull, cloudy. With a final shudder, he slumped into Moash's arms.

The great duelist, crown jewel of the Kholin dynasty, went down with only a pathetic bit of twitching, like the cremling he was. 

Moash threw the cloth aside. The Paragon had warned him to never inhale a breath of it.

He stared down at Kholin as he coughed, blood staining his lips. For a moment, he felt something close to pity. He knew what waited for him. Torture. Fear. A slow death.

He forced himself to focus on all that the Kholins took from him. His friends. His family. His lover.

He bound his wrists, throwing his cloak over him. He slung the princeling across his shoulders and set off at a strained jog. 

Pride surged within him. He succeeded where he had failed before. He might not have killed Dalinar, but the Kholin heir would be his downfall. He finally had the means to break Dalinar. To free Kaladin from his spell. To tear down the Kholin monarchy once and for all. 

Chapter Text

Present -

Kaladin scowled, pulling Teft's arm over his shoulder.

It had taken close to an hour to get him back on his feet, and he was still unsteady. He needed water, warmth, and a safe place to sleep off the moss. 

Which meant getting him over the pile of garbage stuffed in the alleyway. Four feet deep in places, unstable, and stinking of rotting food and piss. It was remarkable Teft managed to clamber over it in the first place. Getting him out again would be miserable - but far easier with a few extra hands.

Unfortunately, Adolin had disappeared entirely.

He looked around, irritation rising as Teft leaned heavily on him, swaying. 

“Adolin?” He called, shifting his weight.

Where in damnation had he wandered off to?

He pulled Teft a bit higher on his shoulder and started forward, practically dragging him through the massive pile of refuse. He heaved him over the crest and stumbled down, carefully guiding him over the trash heap and out, into the main alley. 

“Kaladin!” 

He looked up, panting, and broke into a relieved smile as Rock jogged down the alleyway, followed closely by Lopen.

“Sorry we’re late, just got off of guard duty!” Lopen said, his usual smile absent as he examined Teft.

Rock gave Kaladin a bag of charged spheres before scooping the older Windrunner into his arms as though he were a child. Teft groaned, settling into a deep sleep almost immediately.

Kaladin turned to the alley again. “Adolin?” he called.

“Lost your princeling, eh, Goncho?” Lopen asked, quickly regaining his cheer. 

He rolled his eyes. “He isn’t mine.” Kaladin said distractedly.

Kaladin pulled out a glowing sphere, walking down the alley and past the trash-filled offshoot where he had found Teft. He scanned the ground, searching for any clues to where the princeling had run off to.

“Shouldn't we head home? We don't want to be late!” Syl said cheerfully.

He ground his teeth together. He had a shift at the hospital with Lirin, and he would prefer to face it with at least a few hours of sleep. 

It was a good project, in theory. Setting up the complementary medicine ward, establishing the limits of Radiant healing and defining the role surgeons would play in treating what they couldn’t - infections, disease, poisoning. 

Kaladin felt a throb build in his temple as he remembered the fanatical glint in Lirin's eye. It was good to see him invigorated, of course, but he had never been an easy person for Kaladin to work with. Passion just made him even more exacting and impatient.

“Besides, your mother said you're supposed to be back for breakfast!” Syl added, grinning.

Kaladin scowled halfheartedly, turning back to the search.

Syl was teasing, but she was also right. 

Moving to Urithiru and living as a family again seemed to reawaken Hesina's maternal instincts. Even though he was a grown man, now, she seemed to worry more than ever. He did not want to suffer through yet another awkward breakfast with her sleep deprived stare locked on him as he ate.

No, he needed to get back. Adolin KNEW he did, so where in damnation-?

A flash of gold caught his eye. A few stray blond hairs gleamed in the spherelight about six feet up, stuck to the corner of the wall at an entrance to a side alley. He frowned, plucking them from the stone.

Golden blond, with a single strand of black. 

He looked down the side alley, and spotted a stark white cloth on the ground.

Nothing in the Warrens was ever that clean.

His brow furrowed as he approached.

“Does he just have a bad sense of direction?” Lopen quipped, “or does he have trouble seeing? I've heard lighteyes have awful night vision!”

Kaladin walked up to the rag, crouching. Up close, he could see flecks of crimson on the fabric, and he tensed. He reached forward, but froze when he caught a whiff of a sharp, dizzying scent, jerking his hand back.

“Burn that rag - do NOT touch it, just burn it!” Kaladin barked at Lopen, standing and breaking into a run.

Syl sped after him, spinning through the air and watching him curiously. 

“What did you find?” She asked

“Harrow.” Kaladin said, eyes raking the alleyway.

“What's-?”

He racked his brain, trying to remember what Lirin taught him about the chemical.

“It’s an anesthetic - but surgeons stopped using it when they saw what it did to patients' lungs. Effusion, bleeding. Drowning in their own lungs.”

He saw the dead end far ahead, desperately hoping for some sign of the princeling.

“The only people who use it are slavers and hostage brokers, men who don't give a damn if their captives live or die.”

He stopped, staring at the wall, trying to catch his breath, to think. Blood thundered in his ears, dread rising.

He had to find him - fast. Get him to a healer.

He needed help.

He needed Dalinar.

Chapter Text

Flashback 

Dalinar stood, silhouetted in front of the window. He watched the slaves below as they labored beneath the blazing sun, painstakingly expanding the Sadeas warcamp. 

He was silent. Dangerously silent. His hands were clasped behind the small of his back, the left wrapped around the right, which he had clenched in a fist.

Adolin's stomach churned at the sight. At the terrible stillness of the man before him.

He hated how small he felt in his towering presence. At 17, he could still grow, but he knew he would never be as tall as him, or as strong.

Just another way to disappoint him.

“Torol told me that you challenged him again.”

Adolin flinched. “Father, I was just-”

“You are a soldier, now.” Dalinar said. “Address me as such.” He added, glancing over his shoulder warningly.

“Sir,” Adolin said, fighting down his anger. “His bridge crews are inefficient, barbaric, a waste of men and resources. Even you have said-”

“I am in command of the Vengeance Pact.” Dalinar said, voice cold. “And each Highprince is in command of his own army, regardless of my opinions.”

“But-”

“And YOU are two weeks into your first deployment.” He continued, voice growing deeper, louder. “In no way is it your PLACE to challenge your commander, let alone in front of his men!”

Adolin felt a hot red flush creep over his cheeks. He bit back a retort.

“You have shown you are not nearly mature enough for service. Perhaps your brother should-”

Adolin panicked, thinking of Renarin. Only thirteen, gentle and sickly. The idea of his brother alone in the warcamps terrified him.

“No! Please, father - sir” he amended. “Please. I will control myself.”

Dalinar turned to face him, eyes hard and cold. There was so much pain there, such profound exhaustion, and choking grief. The shadow of Gavilar's murder lay upon his soul. 

Adolin so desperately wanted to take away that pain, to replace it with pride.

“You will have one final chance, Adolin.” Dalinar said warily. “Fail to obey your commanding officer, any HINT of insubordination, and I will send you back to Kholinar like the child you apparently are.”

Adolin fought back the heat in his cheeks. Shamespren fluttered around him. 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Dalinar glanced at him from the side. “You will serve under Meridas Amaram.” He said. “Train, along with the rest of his new recruits. He is well liked, talented - and I believe there is a great deal he could teach you about respecting authority.”

Adolin nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Good.” Dalinar said. He turned to face him fully, pausing. “I am also taking the shardplate.”

Adolin tensed. “Why-?”

“You have grown cocky, since your victory over Tinalar. Arrogant. I believe you must be humbled. Reminded that you are just a man, no better or worse than any of the others you serve beside, lighteyed or darkeyed.”

His jaw clenched, but he nodded, forcing back his emotion. He squashed an angerspren that threatened to boil from the stone beside him. 

Control. Learn to control your emotions. Mask them properly.

“Three months.” Dalinar said seriously. “If I hear even a breath of you disobeying, your assignment will end.”

Adolin nodded.

Dalinar softened slightly. “You may not understand now, son, but arrogance in a leader is a death sentence to the men who follow them. If you do not learn to put aside your ego, to see the lives of the men you lead as yours to preserve, then I could not in good conscience ask them to follow you.”

Adolin watched his father. He was different, since he abandoned the drink. So much of him changed since Gavilar died. 

These ideals were far loftier than the ruthless efficiency he led with as the Blackthorn. But they spoke to something deep within Adolin. They made him want to be better. 

They made him think of his mother.

Chapter Text

Present -

Kaladin paced the waiting area outside of Jasnah's study, waiting for the Kholins to arrive for the day.

The lobby was a small, comfortably apportioned room, but given its size he could easily cross the space in a few strides. Four forward, four back. He kept his hands clenched on the bag of spheres buried deep in his jacket pocket, trying to force himself to remain calm, even as Stormlight seared his veins, begging to be used.

The door opened, and his head whipped up.

Shallan froze in the entrance, startled. Her eyes were puffy, red-rimmed, and her hair was frazzled. Judging by the circles under her eyes, she hadn't slept.

“Kaladin.” She said, puzzled.

“Jasnah. Dalinar.” He said curtly. “Have you seen them?”

She shook her head, taken aback by his tone. “They should arrive soon.” She said. “Though they don't generally take meetings this early-”

“This can't wait.” Kaladin said hurriedly. “I tried Dalinar's quarters, but the Ardent said that he could not be interrupted.”

“Kaladin?” Shallan said, holding up her freehand and catching his shoulder before he could start pacing again. She looked up at him worriedly. 

She knew him too well, after Shadesmar.

“What happened?” She pressed.

“Adolin.” He said, pained. “He vanished, down in the Warrens. I…I think he was taken hostage.”

She covered her mouth in horror, swaying slightly.

“Oh… oh no, not now…” she whispered.

He frowned, guiding her to sit in one of the chairs. He noted, with a bit of alarm, that she was tearing up. In his own distress, he had forgotten how frightening the news might be to her.

“Shallan,” He said as reassuringly as he could manage. “Storms, I'm sorry. I know he's your fiance, and I-”

She shook her head, sniffling. “That's just it, though. He isn't.” 

He stared at her. “What…?”

“We fought, last night.” She said, pulling a kerchief from her safehand pouch and dabbing her eyes. “I've known for awhile that there was someone else, and if they were in his past, I could accept that. But he was in love, and we both knew it. So I ended the causal…”

He gaped.

“WHO?” He spluttered, temporarily losing track of everything else. 

She lowered her hands, staring at him incredulously, and realization hit him like a stormwall.

He thought back to that night in the cave. The way Adolin stared up at him. The way he told himself he had imagined the love he saw there, that the future he wanted was impossible.

“But he never said-” he stammered.

Shallan laughed disbelievingly, looking at him as though he were a fool for missing the signs. The past few months. His constant presence. His willingness to come with him, regardless of the hour. His company, when the nightmares got bad.

And he knew.

The door opened, and Dalinar entered, followed closely by Renarin, Wit, and Jasnah. Kaladin stood, facing them, and Dalinar froze. 

He seemed to know, just by his expression, that something was profoundly wrong.

Chapter Text

Flashback 

Adolin tried to obey Amaram. He really did.

When he ordered the men to run laps carrying one of the storming bridges, Adolin dutifully did his part. When he put them on half rations for a week for a series of failed chasm runs, he took the punishment philosophically. And though he seemed to select him for every foul, degrading, miserable task as retribution on behalf of Sadeas, Adolin accepted each assignment without a word of protest.

He had met plenty of petty, vindictive men in positions of power. The Alethi military seemed to view a certain amount of mistreatment as a rite of passage for new soldiers, and he hardly expected to receive special treatment. 

He could take filthy latrines and a few nights of hunger without complaint.

It was Amaram's hubris, his reckless disregard for the safety of the men who served him, that he could not tolerate. 

Oddly, it was a scouting mission that made him snap.

The race for gemhearts was a constant struggle. The Parshendi knew the Shattered Plains intimately, and moved fast as a result. They also understood the chasmfiends far better than the Alethi, and seemed adept at predicting their movements. Careful observation was critical to spotting any signs one of the beasts was on the move. 

So when Amaram ordered a scouting party to infiltrate one of the nearest Parshendi camps and sabotage their stores, the small squad of soldiers selected for the task were skeptical. 

He could have ignored it. He wasn’t assigned to the party, after all.

He stayed up that night studying his maps, frowning. He couldn’t read beyond a few place names that had become familiar, dates, and titles, but he knew the region well from the exhaustive attention it had received since Gavilar’s assassination. 

The target seemed small, inconsequential. He stared at the network of chasms until his eyes itched, until the ink lines no longer made sense. His vision had just begun to blur when he finally saw the pattern. Not in the chasms, but in the dates. 

The Parshendi only attacked the warcamps directly after raids on their settlements in the months leading up to the Weeping.

He thought back to what they had learned of the Parshendi culture. He had never had Jasnah's brilliance or Renarin's talent for finding connections, and he wished, for a moment, that he had at least a scrap of their cleverness. But something, something had to explain the pattern.

He reached for a lavis roll and took a bite, grimacing at the mealy taste of soulcast grain.

And froze.

Grain.

It was the dry season, and on the Shattered Plains, that meant that crops were long finished for the year. Until the Weeping, nothing would grow. So they soulcast food in those few months, and relied heavily on stored grain.

He swallowed, staring at the map.

At the wide, sheltered crescents of arable land surrounding the settlement.

Amaram wasn't planning an attack on a military camp. He was cutting off food to half the Parshendi armies. Their response, which would be their only real option, was clear. And the consequences would be dire.

He leapt up, running from his room, desperately hoping he would arrive before the scouting team left.

When he came up on Amaram's office, he paused, listening carefully to the voices within. He heard familiar voices - Talas, Raloren, Amaram, and Highprince Hatham, a partner in the plan - and relief flooded him. He pounded on the door, not caring how it looked.

The voices went silent.

After a moment, the door opened. Raloren frowned, his grizzled squad leader rather irritated at the interruption. Behind him, Highprince Hatham sat in a chair with a glass of red in his hand, frowning. Amaram rose, slowly, from behind his desk, flushed a dark, ruddy crimson.

“How dare you interrupt-” Amaram growled.

Adolin stepped in, ignoring Amaram and instead focusing on Hatham. He was his best chance.

“It's the mission, sir.” He panted, holding the Highprince's orange eyes. “We are risking every warcamp in the Northern front if we attack Etakara.”

Amaram scowled. “You have no business in this meeting.” He said, low and furious.

Hatham frowned. “Steady, Meridas.” He said, raising a calming hand. “I've known Adolin his whole life. He has steady nerves, so if something has shaken him it is worth considering.”

The general stared at the Highprince, tan eyes blazing in fury, and for a split second Adolin thought Amaram might leap over his massive desk and attack the man. If Hatham noticed, however, he did not show it. 

Amaram mastered himself, forcing a few long, slow breaths.

“Speak.” He hissed through clenched teeth.

“Almost every time we have attacked a Parshendi settlement in the months before the Weeping, they have countered with an attack on the warcamps closest to the raid.”

“-counteroffensives are hardly new-” Amaram sneered

“They don't attack the rest of the year.” Adolin countered. “This isn't about vengeance for them.”

Hatham frowned. “Then what…?”

“Food.” Adolin said. “They are down to their last stores before the next growing season.”

Amaram laughed, hard and derisive. “So you spent all that time with the Ardents studying farming?”

Adolin walked up to the map on the desk, pointing to the past sites of attack.

“Look,” he said to Hatham. “The only exceptions are the few times we have attacked their military encampments. If this was a counterattack, any assault on their warcamps would lead to an immediate counterstrike.”

Hatham frowned at the map. “The Parshendi's motivations are inscrutable at times…” he said.

Adolin shook his head. “But that's just it, they aren't. Because they only attack the warcamps when we target farming settlements.”

Hatham looked up, meeting Adolin's bright blue gaze.

“They attack for our supplies, because we can soulcast food.”

The Highprince looked stunned, eyes scouring the map, the dates. Even Amaram dropped back in his chair in surprise.

“By the Almighty's seventh name…” Hatham murmured. “I think you might have figured it out.”

Amaram scowled. “Why does it matter, though?” He said. “Cutting off supplies to half their fighting force will give us a massive advantage!”

“And leave them no choice but to attack the warcamps to recoup the loss.” Hatham said.

“Half our losses.” Adolin said seriously, “Half our casualties come from attacks on the warcamps. They come in at night, set fires, and in the chaos, raid our storehouses.”

“You can't fight a war without death, boy.” Amaram snapped. “Calculated risks are part of the larger strategy.”

Adolin glared at him. “You are awfully eager to sacrifice when your warcamp is furthest from the target.” He said coolly. “We won't be the ones dying. But Sebarial, Aladar, and Hatham are nearest to this settlement. I suppose they agreed to take this risk?”

Amaram's nostrils flared. 

Hatham shook his head, standing. “We can't run this raid.” He said firmly. “Thank you, son.” He added, nodding to Adolin. “You may have just saved a few thousand men.”

He turned, not even bothering to look at Amaram as he swept from the room. The other two waited uneasily, but Amaram dismissed them with a sharp gesture.

“Soldier.” The general snarled.

Adolin froze, as the others left.

“Close the door and lock it. I want to have a word with you.”

Adolin closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. 

He was facing staggering discipline. Hours of shouting. He might even be sent back to Kholinar for insubordination.

He wouldn't change a thing.

Present

Adolin groaned, head hammering. His shoulders burned, arms throbbing fiercely. He was freezing cold, and breathing hurt.

He cracked his eyes open, sluggishly looking around.

He was in a dark storeroom, lit only by a dim strip of light shining from beneath the distant door. It smelled of damp stone and thick dust, a fine layer of crem dust on most of the boxes.

He looked down. He was stripped naked, hanging from the wall by his arms. Chains ran behind them and back, into the wall. His hands were encased in some sort of steel housing.

He tried to summon Maya, but when the sword appeared, it fell to the ground with a clang so loud that it made the throb in his head far worse. He dismissed her, grimacing.

He shifted, trying to push away from the wall, but the chains had very little give.

With a groan, he slumped into the hold of the chains once more. He coughed, distantly aware of the taste of blood that came with it. He closed his eyes against the growing pain in his head, and let himself drift again.

Chapter Text

Flashback

Amaram strode up to Adolin, rage fragmenting his calm exterior. His polished bearing crumbled completely. Gone was the pious, honorable young general, the man of the people. Instead, a feral animal prowled toward him, eyes blazing with a fury that rivaled anything he had seen in the Parshendi.

Amaram crossed the room with slow, purposeful strides. As he closed in, Adolin was painfully aware of his sheer size. He was older than him by more than a decade, with the musculature of a seasoned soldier, and was several inches taller. Where Adolin had the compact muscle and lithe speed of a Riran, Amaram was a true Alethi, with a broad chest and thick, powerful limbs. 

Though Adolin had faced many opponents in his short life, and had lived through his own share of battles, the fear he felt in that moment was entirely different. He pulled away instinctively, but his back hit the door. He lifted his chin, trying to appear defiant, even as he fumbled for the doorknob.

Amaram seized the front of his shirt just as his fingers brushed the brass. He jerked him off his feet and slammed him into the wall, knocking the wind from him and cracking his head against the stone.

Adolin grabbed the wall, fighting to stay standing as his vision blazed with blinding light. He felt Amaram's massive hand on his chest and heard him lock the door.

That single, quiet, metallic click jerked him back to consciousness. His eyes flew open, heart hammering, and he summoned his shardblade.

Amaram grabbed his wrist as the mist swirled, slamming it against the doorframe and snapping it. Adolin tried to hold the blade, to swallow the fire that shot through his arm, but the instant he felt the weight in his palm his grip failed. His sword fell to the stone floor with a resounding clang, and he prayed to Honor, to the Stormfather, and to his mother that someone would hear. 

It only vanished, along with any hope of escape.

The general twisted his grip on his shirt, half throttling him. He leaned into his face, breath sour with wine and the late hour.

“It's time you learn your place, boy.” He snarled.

Amaram dragged him across the room and slammed him into the desk, shoving him across the polished wood and scattering maps and missives as he cleared a space. He slammed his face into the desk and bent him over. Adolin tried to fight, but he was laughably weak compared to the grown man behind him. Terror made his legs shake and the pain in his wrist made his arms shudder as he tried to pull away. He felt Amaram jerk at his belt, felt him pull down his trousers.

Then pain, sudden and shattering, as Amaram thrust into him. His knees buckled as he realized what he was doing.

He screamed, the sound muffled as the general covered his nose and mouth, smothering him.

“Silence.” Amaram commanded.

Desperate for air, he swallowed his cries. Amaram removed his hand and left the princeling to gasp his pain into the wood beneath him.

It was agony. Humiliation. Terror on a level he had never known before.

“Arrogant.” Amaram sneered. “You think your father's name will bring you glory, respect?” He knotted his hand in his hair, shoving his face into the desk as he slammed into him. 

“You're worthless, boy. Outside the dueling ring, you're nothing but a spoiled child. Not a soldier, not a strategist, nothing but a stain on your father's name.”

Adolin stared to the side, eyes locked on the door. If he could summon his shardblade again, use his left hand-

“You wanted this, didn't you?” Amaram continued, voice growing low and rough with pleasure. “You bent and let the better man take his right. You like it.” 

Ten heartbeats.

“Or are you just a coward?” Amaram continued, tightening his grip on his hair. “You know what will happen, if you tell a soul.”

Five. Six. Seven.

Amaram leaned down as he thrust, snarling in his ear.

“I will tell your father about your insubordination. Hatham can confirm it.”

Eight. Nine.

“And then, I will have your brother.”

His heart seemed to stop. 

Renarin.

The idea of sweet, gentle Renarin alone with that monster paralyzed him.

He had to stay. Had to protect him. Had to keep him as far from the warcamps as possible.

The threat silenced him. He swallowed his cries as tears streamed down his cheeks. He simply stared to the side, silently running katas in his head. The familiar stages of windstance, methodical, fluid.

There, he was free. Strong. Brave.

Even if it was a lie, it was a lie that kept him sane.

When it was over, Amaram forced him onto his knees, and ordered him to clean him.

Adolin nearly choked on the taste of his own blood and filth.

Amaram sneered down at him, victorious.

I can’t let him see he’s won. Adolin thought dazedly.

Laughable.

He was bleeding, broken, bowing to him in every way that mattered. What did defiance accomplish?

Nonetheless, he buried all of it behind a mask.

In that moment, he learned to hide the shame, the fear, the disgust, and above all, the pain.

For two months, he learned.

Present

A fist cracked into his jaw, jerking him back to consciousness.

“Pathetic.” a familiar voice sneered.

Adolin opened his eyes, glaring into the cold, leering face of Meridas Amaram.

Internally, Adolin was terrified.

He put on his mask, and he scoffed.

“Meridas.” he growled, spitting the blood from his mouth. “Of course. I thought I smelled a coward.”

Chapter Text

Present

Kaladin stared at the floor as Dalinar continued his long, low monologue. Jasnah sat in furious silence. Renarin's breaths shook.

Wit stood by the door, buffeted by the sheer emotion of the moment. It was like trying to follow four simultaneous, shouted conversations - profoundly overwhelming, and typical for the Dawnshard's influence.

He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, focusing on Dalinar's words.

“And you said there was no note?” Dalinar asked yet again.

Kaladin shook his head. “Nothing.” He repeated in a whisper. 

“What in Roshar do they want?” Dalinar said.

“To send a message.” Jasnah answered, soft and feral.

Wit swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat as the memory surged, unbidden.

Flashback

It was, once again, time for Elhokar to survey the warcamps. Every few months, he passed through a select few, visiting the Highprinces and their generals and reviewing their progress in avenging his father. 

Wit, ever dutiful, had followed him. The young king had insisted, complaining that he would be in desperate need of humor in the coming days. Normally, Wit would have mustered a dry observation about the overwhelming weight of the crown, perhaps even draft a brief poem on the exquisite suffering of the monarch.

He was, however, touring the Sadeas camp, currently under the direction of Meridas Amaram.

Anyone would need cheering after slogging through the sort of filth that seemed to follow such as respectable nobleman.

Though Wit could not put his finger on it (and refused to try, for the sake of hygeine), there was something fundamentally slimy about the young general. Regardless of his sterling reputation, his handsome good looks, and his great stature, he made Wit think of little more than a writhing cremling. 

The one thing to look forward to in that dour, miserable camp, in his estimation, was Elhokar's young cousin, Adolin. The boy had an exceptionally well developed sense of humor. He laughed at most of Wit's jokes, and actually bothered to ask about the ones he didn't understand, bless him. Best of all, he laughed loudest at the comments made at his own expense. He had an unusually thick skin, for royalty, and never seemed to take himself too terribly seriously outside of the arena. Nothing like his wet blanket of a father.

What he found, once they arrived, was a very different person than the boy that had left Kholinar a few months before.

Adolin was, to put it simply, off. Quiet. Gaunt in the unhealthy way of a teen growing too fast on too little food. He seemed distracted, jumpy even, and showed little interest in bantering with Wit. He dropped his sword several times in training, a first for the normally exacting young duelist.

He was very, very unlike himself.

Leave it to the uptight, sanctimonious arrogance of Amaram to wring the fun out of the one royal with a sense of humor.

He shrugged it off, supposing it was natural for a boy seeing war for the first time to struggle a bit. All of the bloodshed and brutality was enough to dampen even the brightest of spirits. He just hoped he would remember how devastatingly funny Wit was once he was out of sight of Amaram.

He grimaced, sparing a bit of pity for himself as he settled into his task for the evening.

Elhokar had left his folio of maps perched neatly on the corner of Amaram's desk following their meeting earlier that day. The good king had no desire to suffer Amaram any further. Five hours of the man had been quite enough. 

Wit couldn't blame him, really. He was a notoriously ambitious man, and for all of his superficial polish, he was incapable of subtlety. He had spent the better part of the afternoon advocating for further promotion, for elevation to a rank fitting his obvious talent. When he was not polishing his own spheres, he kept his lips firmly anchored on Elhokar's backside. And while the king was self conscious and desperate for approval, he was exceptionally aware of insincerity. 

And so, ever the humble servant, Wit went to visit the commanding suckup.

He was just beyond Amaram's office door, preparing to knock, when he heard a thud.

He frowned, withdrawing his hand, and listened. To the rhythmic slapping. The quiet, muffled sob. The snarled, hateful whisper.

“Coward.”

He brushed the doorknob, heart hammering, and found it unlocked.

He opened it in one smooth motion, and found Amaram standing with the Kholin boy bent over his desk, his head wrenched to the side, facing the door. The boy shook, eyes wide and terrified, tears streaking his face. Amaram, his attention locked elsewhere, slammed his hips into him, his pants down around his-

ShockHorrorRage. So close they blended into some new emotion.

Strange, to find you can still experience something new, even after millenia.

Wit ran across the room, seizing the larger man and shoving him from the boy with all the force his bonds would allow. 

Panting, he placed himself between the monster and his prey.

Rage. Fury that the Dawnshard's lingering influence made it impossible for him to harm the thing standing in front of him.

“RUN.”Wit barked. "Because I am going to have you hunted down like the animal you are.”

Amaram seized his pants, dragging them up and covering himself as he stumbled backward, into the empty, darkened hall.

As soon as he was gone, Wit turned.

Adolin cringed on the floor. He had backed himself against the desk, staring up at the man in mute terror - naked, bleeding, breathing raggedly.

Wit took his jacket off and offered it to the boy. He took it, pulling his knees to his chest and trying to hide beneath the folds. It hung pathetically around him, making him look smaller than he was.

Wit knelt beside him, careful to leave a clear path to the door. He reached out, hesitantly brushing his arm with his fingertips.

Adolin jumped, flinching, and Wit felt a flash of referred pain.

Terror so deep it brought agony.

His rage grew.

“How long has he been doing this to you, Adolin?” Wit asked softly.  

“Months.” The boy answered, barely above a whisper. His voice cracked with disuse.

Wit nodded, squeezing his shoulder gently. The boy's breaths sped, and his eyes filled with tears, face red with shame.

“It's over.” Wit said softly. “He won't touch you again, Adolin.”

Adolin nodded weakly, staring blankly at the office door.

Wit licked his lips, cautious.

“You've been strong, Adolin. For far too long.” Wit continued. “But I need you to use that strength one last time.”

The boy turned and stared at him. The fear bled into exhaustion.

“What he did to you was evil.” Wit said, squeezing his shoulder, now. He hated the ploy he had to use, but knew it is the only way to drag the boy up from the wreckage. “We can't let him do it to anybody else, can we?”

Adolin looked so tired, somehow years older and like a little boy all at once. He stared at the ground, brow furrowed. 

Then squared his shoulders and nodded. 

“My father needs to know…” He whispered.

Wit nodded.

Adolin took a deep breath. “I will tell him.” He added, voice shaking faintly.

“A brave choice.” Wit said gently.

Adolin looked over at him at the words, desperate, hardly daring to believe it.

Wit's expression softened. He held his gaze. 

“You're no coward, Adolin Kholin.” He whispered, trying to mask the way his own throat clenched.

Adolin pressed his lips together, breaths hitching. Slowly, shakily, he leaned against the man and let the tears come.

To Wit's horror, he did not make a sound.

Present - 

“Amaram.” Wit said softly. “It's Meridas Amaram.”

Chapter Text

Present

Amaram ignored the jab, smirking at the admittedly feeble attempt at riling him. Adolin glared at him, bridling at the cool confidence, the way he relished his control.

“What has your father planned for Alethkar?” Amaram asked. 

“To save it from Odium.” Adolin answered.

“And for the Vorin church?” 

Adolin scoffed. “Plan for it? He barely thinks of it.”

Amaram shook his head. “In the name of mercy I will repeat myself. How does Dalinar Kholin plan to destroy the Vorin church?”

He shook his head, laughing. “He has no plan! Because he is busy trying to save humanity from a God of hatred and ruin, you paranoid-”

Amaram swung his cane into his side, throwing his full weight behind the blow. Adolin gasped, jerking back instinctively as the flash of pain and fire followed. Amaram drew back again, and struck with the polished silver handle this time. Over and over, jaw clenched, until a muffled crack answered him. 

Adolin hung, panting desperately, his shattered ribs screaming. His knees shook.

“What. Is his plan?” Amaram repeated.

Adolin spit the blood that seeped into his mouth. “You're pathetic.” He said. “You know why my father tested you with that shardblade?”

The general tensed.

“Because he knew what you are, Meridas. A lying, thieving, traitorous-”

Amaram slugged him, knocking his head back into the stone. He struck everything he could reach - his face, his legs, his abdomen. Over and over, until the princeling could barely breathe, and the general's uniform was soaked in sweat.

Adolin let off a keening wheeze of pain, sagging in his chains as the general stepped back. 

Amaram held his hand to the side, and a figure emerged.

Adolin stared, breaths hitching against the pain and the fire that lanced through his chest. He couldn't make sense of what he was seeing, beyond shock and fury.

Moash? He had the nerve to come to Urithiru, after Elhokar?

The traitor handed Amaram a white kerchief, and the general wiped some of the blood from his knuckles.

“Still trying to pretend your hands are clean?” Adolin wheezed. “You and I both know some stains don't wash off.”

Moash tensed. Amaram huffed, folding the kerchief and tucking it into his immaculate coat pocket.

“Do you really think he'll come for you, your Radiant?” Amaram asked briskly, turning to look at the princeling.

His eyes went wide with a flicker of confusion. Fear. Realization, that he was bait. 

Heartache hit him, as he wished Kaladin was his, well… anything, really.

Followed by cold, steady resolve.

Adolin smiled, if for no other reason than he knew it would annoy him.

“See, that's your first mistake, thinking Kaladin belongs to anyone.” He said, pride swelling in his chest. “Even when you burned a slave brand onto him, you never owned him. Because he can't be bought.”

Amaram tensed, even as Moash stared at the princeling.

“What was your price, Meridas? Wealth? Power? Or did you just want to get your dick wet?” 

He rounded, slamming his fist into the princeling's stomach. 

Adolin coughed. Gasped, unable to find air. He vomited, hanging limp once more.

Amaram grabbed his hair, wrenching his head up. He put his face right up to Adolin’s, lips ghosting above his.

“Was that an offer?” he purred in his ear, “You know I'm always happy to put those beneath me in their place.”

He leaned into him, pressing against his body.

Adolin felt terror, cold and naked.

“Take some time to think, boy.” Amaram said softly. “Confess the sins of your father, and maybe I can find something more pleasant than a knife to jam into your-”

Adolin glared, livid, and spat in his face, vomit, and blood, and phlegm dripping down Amaram’s chin. 

Amaram sighed, pulling out the handkerchief again and wiping the filth away. 

He beat him until he was barely conscious. Until time became meaningless beyond the measure of the princeling's gasps and grunts.

Chapter Text

Present

“Amaram?” Dalinar repeated. “Why would he target Adolin?” He asked, eyes flicking to Kaladin, the uncomfortable reality of his preferred target clear.

Wit stared at him, shocked. “You must be joking - and even I think this is a poor time.”

Dalinar stared, shaking his head. 

“You dismissed him from the Warcamps, after what he did to Adolin - of course he wants revenge!” Wit said in frustration.

“Did… to?” Dalinar looked mystified.

Wit looked like he was sorely tempted to shake him.

“Wit, Adolin told me that Amaram was uncouth…”

“Uncouth?” Wit repeated, fury in the word.

Dalinar looked to Jasnah, clearly uncomfortable speaking of such things in front of her. “A rapist. He told me he knew firsthand that Meridas Amaram was a rapist. But I don't see how reporting a crime he witnessed eight years ago would make him a target.”

Wit stared at him. “Witnessed?” He repeated, softer. He looked sad, now. Pitying.

Horror dawned on Dalinar's face. Renarin gasped, though it sounded like a sob. Jasnah cracked the arm of the chair she had been sitting in with her grip, her eyes gone wild.

Kaladin couldn't move.

Flashback - The Cave

“Have you ever taken a lover?” Kaladin asked.

“I've been with men before.” Adolin said evasively. “Gone down on them. But I was only taken by one, and that was years ago.” He added uneasily.

Kaladin frowned. “Bad experience?” 

Adolin shivered from something other than cold. “Bad partner…”

Present-

Kaladin turned, running to the chamber doors and throwing them wide. Sylspear materialized in his hand.

Horror, and hatred, and choking fear stole his breath.

Chapter Text

Moash faced away, looking out from the balcony, over the jumbled slums that crowded the Warrens. A teeming underbelly had emerged within Urithiru. A mass of humanity, clawing for salvation. 

Once, he believed himself one of their saviors. 

But doubt, his constant companion, had followed him to the underbelly of the ancient city, clawing at the edges of his faith.

“You’re waiting for him.” Amaram said.

It was an observation, his rich voice gentle and sympathetic.

“Why should tonight be any different?” Moash said with a noncommittal shrug.

“It's been years, since he left you.” Amaram said, coming up beside him and leaning on the railing, looking out over the city. “Time changes everything.” He glanced over at him, tan eyes dancing with fondness in the light of the city. “Even you, my stubborn friend.”

Moash grunted, though the corner of his lip twitched.

“You don't owe him anything.” Amaram said. 

At that, Moash's hand went to his sword. Amaram followed his hand with his eyes, shaking his head.

“He gave you that shardblade because he thought he could control you with it.” He said, calm and solemn. “It's always been like that with Stormblessed. Manipulation, domination, deception…” He shook his head regretfully. 

Moash wanted to believe his words. Wanted to believe that Kaladin wanted to control him. Truthfully, he wished Kaladin wanted anything to do with him. 

“Do you think he'll come for Kholin?” Moash asked.

He had hoped that the plan would fail. Though it would upend months if planning on their part, perhaps even threaten their entire mission, at least it would mean that Kaladin hadn't sold himself completely.

Amaram set a hand on his shoulder, gently massaging the muscles of his neck with his thumb as Moash shivered.

“If Stormblessed comes for Kholin, he is just doing for a lighteyes what he never did for you.” Amaram said gently.

Moash breathed faster, tensing as Amaram stepped behind him, still gently massaging.

“You deserve so much more than that. You have been nothing short of heroic. You will be known as the man who tore down a coward king, and revealed the Kholins for what they are - tyrants.”

Moash felt Amaram lean into him, pressing him against the railing from behind.

“You should be greeted as a hero, not spat on or left for dead.” He breathed, hands drifting down his back. “When I look at you, I see a servant to something far higher than a man - to the Heralds, the Vorin church, and all of the forgotten crushed beneath the brutality of this monarchy.”

Amaram felt over his body, grinding against him. He reached around, grabbing him through his trousers.

“Please. Let me thank you as you deserve. Let me show you that all of the prejudices of the Kholin era mean nothing in the world we are going to build.”

Moash felt him sink down, kneeling behind him.

“Let me show you that even a lighteyes should bow before you.” He breathed, hands drifting up to his belt.

Chapter Text

Present - 

He went to the Sadeas headquarters first. He expected to be turned aside, but to his surprise, the guards had parted at a short, soft command from Ialai herself.

Her face had been an impassive mask as he explained Adolin's capture. He could read nothing, nothing in her sharp green eyes. The hate and rage that radiated from her in the wake of Torol's death had vanished behind a mask like a polished mirror. 

Nothing slipped through. Not malice, as she stared at the man who had helped kill her husband back in Thaylena. Not satisfaction, as she learned of the disappearance of her enemy's son. Not fear, as Kaladin's own brittle veneer of control began to crack.

When she invited him to inspect the headquarters and interrogate the soldiers, he tried to convince himself she was calling his bluff.

He searched in a daze, his terror silently ratcheting with each hour. Through the day, into the night, and into the next morning, he scoured the offices and storage depot, the barracks and kitchens. He searched for hidden doors. Interrogated guards and soldiers, servants and Ardents. 

Time seemed to race out if his grasp, leaving him stumbling in its wake. He could smell the Harrow, a noose tightening around Adolin's neck with every wasted hour. 

After more than two days without sleep, he was forced to burn through Stormlight just to keep his eyes open. To stay standing. To keep searching. 

His body screamed for rest. 

His mind was haunted by regret.

He had been a fool.

He had tried to keep his distance, to let Adolin live his life. He behaved as if he never wanted more, and stubbornly ignored Adolin's clear attempts to be closer to him. 

He almost believed he didn't love him. Except for when the sun caught his hair just so. Except for when Adolin would smile at him, open and fond and sad, and somehow tear down every wall Kaladin tried to build between them. Except for when they sparred, and he found himself drawing out each round. Except for when he laughed, the sound making his heart leap like his first true flight.

They couldn't be together.

Some days, he convinced himself Adolin's betrothal to Shallan was the reason. Other days, that it was his own failed relationship with Moash. Or fear of breaking oaths, or losing one of his closest friends, or impropriety, or Dalinar's disapproval.

All of which covered the far more painful truth that Kaladin recognized years before: his simple presence seemed to bring danger down on others like lightning from the Everstorm. 

So he loved him from afar. Kept him safe with his distance, and refused to put him at risk for something as selfish as his own gratification.

He had fooled himself into believing he was the one who brought danger with him, like some sort of curse. 

It never once occurred to him that Adolin might have enemies. That he might be a target to bring down Dalinar, or Jasnah. He assumed, foolishly, that the threats they faced were directed at him, and that he could protect him by hiding just how much he meant to him.

And he did mean so, so much to him. His kindness. His humor. His resilience. His loyalty. He remained by Kaladin's side, not out of reverence, or fear, or a desire for power, but because he cared for him. He stayed with him, when so many others betrayed him, or pulled away in fear. Adolin hung on, when so many others fool enough to get close to Kaladin fell. Tien. Elhokar…

He had stayed. In so many ways, he had stayed.

Regret haunted him. He had never thanked Adolin for going to prison with him. For standing by him. For pulling him out of his quarters when he was deep in depression. For getting him through the worst of his nights after he came back from Hearthstone, haunted by everything he had seen on his miserable journey. For that night on the Frostlands. For showing him there could be more than sex, more than friendship, maybe even…

It was early morning on the second day when he finally made a breakthrough.

It was a guard, barely out of his teens. In his nerves, he admitted he had delivered a message for Amaram the night before. Not to the general himself, but to a stranger. A darkeyes with angular features, a hawkish nose, and brown hair speckled with black.

It couldn't be.

He grabbed the guard by the front of his uniform, slamming him into the wall.

“Show me where you met him.” He snarled, “Or I swear by the Stormfather…”

Syl strained at the edges of his awareness as he threatened the man. 

This is wrong, Kaladin.

This is protecting.

Pain, and terror, and rage swirled inside of him as he shoved the guard toward the door.

Between the frightened gasps of the soldier, he could swear he heard a single, strangled sob, soft as the breeze itself.

Chapter Text

Present- 

Adolin regretted many things in his life.

But his silence?

It was the one regret that consumed him.

He stared down at the blood on his body. His filth. He studied the violent, dark purple stain that wrapped around his side, from his armpit to his navel. The sea of bruises that covered him. The uneven outline of his ribs. 

He felt fear, sadness, self pity - for a moment.

Then empty, aching fury at himself.

It was nothing, not even the barest fraction, of what Kaladin had suffered, along with thousands of others. 

Slavery, conscription, forced labor, rape. Adolin had known, and allowed it, even tried to justify the inequality that drove it. Even when he suffered it himself, he had left it to his commander to fix. Instead of using the power he was given to help to fight these horrors, he fled from responsibility, from the burden of making a decision.

He regretted it. Every cruel joke. Every arrogant, foul justification. Every time he looked away. Every slave who died because he valued being able to sleep at night more than a human life. 

These last few months, he had heard too much, seen too much, stared far too long into the mirror. Where he used to see what he was told to see - a charming prince, worthy of his reputation both in and out of the arena - he now only saw a sneering, condescending lighteyes. A coward who wrapped himself in self pity, calling himself a victim when he had experienced little more than a fleeting glimpse of the horrors he excused. 

Kaladin had opened his eyes. 

First, with the screams he heard from his cell, the cries of a man suffering torment beyond anything he could imagine. 

Then, with his words, fearlessly tearing down every lie and illusion a lighteyes bleated in defense of their tyranny. Kaladin rarely directed it at him. But he spoke a truth Adolin could not separate from himself.

He knew of the bridge runs. Knew of slavery. Knew of the fathers and mothers who were executed in front of their children for the crime of offending a lighteyes. Knew that his few short months of abuse at Amaram's hand was a daily reality for many. He knew, and he allowed it, because he had the power to speak against it and he chose silence.

But it was seeing the scars the Windrunner bore that truly forced Adolin to face the truth. In sparring, in the baths, in the changing rooms, in the cave. Those scars, the mark of every attempt on Kaladin's life, haunted him. He had walked the Sadeas warcamps while Torol carved those marks into his friend's body. He had passed the barracks that were a prison and a burial mound all at once, and he did not so much as look at the men inside.

It was Kaladin's scars that marred the pristine image Adolin had wrapped around himself. The scars of so many. Bridge Four. Lopen, and Teft, and Drehy. People he called friends.

People he never gave the respect of accountability.

He closed his eyes, fighting the burn.

No, he had much to regret. His shortsightedness. His arrogance. His neglect and callousness. 

But his greatest regret, the shadow that hung over his heart as he hung there, waiting for death, was this:

In spite of their friendship, in spite of everything these men risked for him over, and over, and over, in spite of loving Kaladin down to his bones, Adolin had never had the courage to apologize. For how he failed them. How he failed as a leader, as a friend, and as a person.

He owed them so, so much more than his silence, his cowardice.

Especially Kaladin.

He was a Radiant, but so much more than that. He was courage incarnate. The son Dalinar deserved. The friend Adolin could not imagine living without. The man he loved.

He was not his Radiant, no. 

He could not imagine being worthy of him.

But an apology? Surely, surely, he could have given him that.

Chapter Text

Present-

They returned to find the Kholin prince far more subdued. He hung from the chains, seemingly asleep. Bruises marbled his body, a stark contrast to skin gone several shades too pale. He wheezed softly with each breath, and blood dripped freely from the corner of his mouth.

“Are you ready to talk?” Amaram asked, tone as polished and polite as ever.

“Storm off.” Kholin grunted.

Amaram sighed. “I could offer you leniency, if you report your father's crimes.” He said, absently plucking a speck of dust from his white glove.

“We both know you never meant for me to leave this place alive.” The blond said, eyes cracking open. 

Moash expected to find arrogance and fear in those blue eyes.

To his surprise, he saw steady, calm resolve. Defiance. 

Kaladin.

“You could spare yourself a great deal of suffering.” Amaram continued, delicately pulling on the fingers of his glove one at a time. He removed it, standing before the princeling. He reached out with his bare hand and seized his chin, lifting it and running his thumb along his lower lip.

Kholin went rigid, jaw clenching, staring through him.

Amaram's hand drifted down his neck, nails raking lightly over his chest.

“I could even make this pleasant…” he added, head tilting as he leaned closer, smiling as Kholin fought to keep his expression blank.

Moash tensed. 

In a flash, Amaram seized him by the throat and slammed Kholin against the wall. His lips were inches from his flesh, breathing against his cheek, watching in satisfaction as his gaze went unfocused.

Moash knew that expression. The forced detachment. He had seen it in the eyes of far too many darkeyes, had worn it himself back, before Kaladin came. 

The general's ungloved hand raced over bruised flesh, down, through the dusting of blond hair leading to-

“Sir.”

Amaram looked up, a flash of irritation sparking in those hard, hungry eyes. 

“Brightness Sadeas requested an update by last bell.”

He grunted, glaring into Kholin's eyes for a moment, before shoving him away by the throat. He turned, marching from the room without a backward glance, and Moash followed.

As they strode through the warehouse, Moash tried to mask his disgust. 

Unfortunately, Amaram knew him well.

“He did worse to countless darkeyes.” Amaram explained, calm and certain. “It is entertainment for them. A form of hunting. In a way, this is justice.”

Moash stared ahead, and silently wondered why justice so often made him sick.

Chapter Text

Present-

Meridas Amaram glared down at the spanreed from Ialai.

Stormblessed is coming.

He snarled to himself.

“Guard the entrance.” He barked at Moash.

The moment he left the room, Amaram strode to a small, locked chest on the desk.

Kaladin swore an oath to serve Honor, and killed a possessed man. He broke his oaths, as far as Amaram was concerned, the instant he shattered Oathbringer. 

He opened the chest, and gazed down at the fragments. The largest was still attached to the hilt. 

Oathbreaker. The jagged remains of a priceless artifact.

Amaram thought it was only right that he use it to break something just as precious.

-

He dragged Oathbreaker through the skin of the princeling's chest, working with an artist's precision as he finished carving the final glyph. 

Adolin's voice had broken ages ago, and his futile struggles stopped not long after. Through the final, elegant strokes, he only gasped, half conscious and shaking with pain. 

“Do you know what they say?” Amaram breathed, lips ghosting along his jaw.

Adolin shuddered, moaning faintly.

Amaram smiled, finger running slowly, lovingly over his sweat-soaked skin, tracing the first glyph and drawing a pained gasp.

“Worthless.” He purred.

“Arrogant.” He added as he followed the lines of the second.

His fingers drifted to the last, thumb just brushing his nipple. “Coward.”

Adolin shuddered at the familiar words. The same insults he had snarled into his ear years before, when he tried to break him.

“...so you finally learned to write your name…” Adolin rasped, head hanging.

He chuckled faintly, a hysterical, deranged sound that jerked from him. The ghost of a smile twitched on his lips.

Amaram snarled, seizing his hair and wrenching his head up, glaring into his eyes.

“Do you know why Stormblessed never came for you?” He growled.

Adolin gritted his teeth, trying to mask the flash of grief at the question. He stared back, defiant.

Amaram smiled, feigning pity. He breathed against his lips, shifting his grip on the shattered sword.

“Mistakes,” he said, thrusting the jagged remains of Oathbreaker deep into his side, “Are best forgotten.”

The princeling's eyes went wide, a choked cry dying on his lips as he jerked, 

Amaram twisted the blade, watching in cold satisfaction as gray spread from the hilt of the broken sword, death creeping outward as soul was severed from flesh.

Adolin stared into nothingness, terror and agony clouding his eyes as his gaze grew unfocused.

Amaram leaned close, his lips hovering just above the princeling's, relishing the taste of blood on each trembling breath. He watched, smiling as awareness faded from the blue eyes before him. He tightened his grip on Oathbreaker, braced to snuff the life from him with a final, wide sweep the instant he fell unconscious.

Moash shouted from the front of the warehouse, jerking his attention from the princeling. He dropped the blade with a curse, letting it fall, and ran from the room.

Chapter Text

Present - 

It had been millenia since she could fully think, fully feel. Then centuries of semiconsciousness, of muffled words echoing through something akin to the sleep her Radiants had fallen into following the worst of the battles. Jumbled memories and the weight of unconsciousness so deep that she forgot that she had a self, a past, a purpose. 

She could not move, could not speak, could not think. The flashes of memory that did come terrified what was left of her shattered mind. But worse, urgency, something unfinished, a greater task, screamed for her to rise, to remember.

It was a fevered, frantic nightmare. Nothing was real, save the pounding need to rise once more and fight.

Through that terrible paralysis, she saw glimpses of battle and bloodshed. Not of her choosing and not of her purpose. Surges of anger, at killing foolishly. At being used as a tool for retribution. Horror, at destroying indiscriminately, the touch of the Unmade tainting the hands of her bearers in a red mist.

Then a voice. Of a boy, gentle and earnest. It was that voice, full of calm, and fondness, and sincerity, that helped her wake.

He spoke, not to others, not to himself, but to her. Tentative, at first. Shy, but bubbling with enthusiasm. With time, he spoke more, sharing his hopes, his dreams, his fears. 

Through her slumber, she could see the soul of him. It shone like a candle in the darkness. The first time they met in Shadesmar, it rose to a blaze. In the months since, it became a beacon, guiding her back to her memories, her duty, and her purpose. 

And now, it was barely an ember.

Stay with me, please.

He did not lift his head. He hung there, shaking breaths echoing in the silence.

“Maya.”

A familiar, crushing grief rose within her. 

Not another one, please. She begged Cultivation. Please, Mother, not again.

“M'sorry…”

Help is coming. She urged.

His breaths faltered, that terrible gray stain spreading outward. 

The words, Adolin. She pled, her feeble grip on this realm slipping.

“Life,” he whispered, halting and strained, “Before. Death.”

She felt it thrum through her, familiar and terrifying.

“S- strength… before weakness.”

The bond shuddered, the light guttering.

“Journey…Before…Before…” The words were barely audible, now.

You're almost there, Adolin. She urged, closer to herself than she had been in millennia.

"Des...desti..."

The light vanished.

Oblivion.

Chapter Text

Present -

He had expected a fortress bristling with guards. A grueling fight through a sea of men. Wounds and Stormlight, rage and resistance. 

Instead, he came upon a warehouse in the Warrens, half abandoned and barely lit. A chained door opened with a single stroke from Syl. An empty store room, and Moash, standing alone in the center.

He held his shardblade, the one Kaladin had given him, the one that he had used to slaughter Elhokar, in a loose, easy grip.

After two days of terror and rage, he had no fury left for the man who had betrayed him in every way that mattered.

“Adolin.” Kaladin said, dull and exhausted.

“Through me.” Moash said, moving into a defensive stance.

Kaladin held his hand to the side, summoning Syl as a spear. 

“Move.” He commanded.

“I stopped taking orders from you a long time ago, Kal.”

Kaladin charged him, striking to disarm. Moash scoffed, meeting the blow and redirecting the momentum, sending him past him. He turned, stabbing at his shoulder.

“You never took orders from me.” Kaladin said, fury rather than humor coloring the words.

“I was loyal.” Moash snapped, striking again.

“To yourself-”

“-To our people!” 

Kaladin caught the overhand strike on the shaft, glaring up at him.

“Is that what you tell yourself?” He snarled. “That you're protecting people? By assassinating kings-”

“By killing a tyrant!” Moash bellowed, twisting the blade and slashing at his arm. “A monster who allowed the slaughter of our people!” he continued in an arc, stabbing at his gut, and barely missing.

“And how many darkeyes died under the Fused?” Kaladin shouted.

“A fraction of those killed by the lighteyes you defend!” He answered, livid, thrusting again. “You abandoned us the second you got a shred of power!”

Kaladin stumbled back a half step, more from the words than the assault. Still, the blade caught his shirt, grazing his side.

We're low on Stomlight, Kaladin. Syl warned. I don't know how much you'll have left to heal.

Moash struck again, and this time, Kaladin did not hold back. With a swift upward motion, he managed to disarm him, sending his shardblade flying. Before he could bring his spear around to strike, however, Moash tackled him.

Then they were grappling. While Kaladin had the height advantage, Moash was all muscle, and there was little Stormlight to draw on. He ground his teeth together, shoving him back, when a weak, distant cough echoed from the warehouse beyond.

His head whipped up.

“Adolin?” 

Moash snarled, using the lapse in focus to shove him to the side, rolling on top of him and straddling his hips.

“Do you honestly believe he would do this for you? Risk his life for a darkeyes?” He hissed.

“He has. More times than I can count.” 

“And what about me?” Moash said, voice cracking with strain as he fought to keep him pinned. “I risked everything for you. I always fought for you. Always put you first. Even now - all of this is for you, Kal, even if you don't see it, I-”

Kaladin threw him into the wall with a sickening crack. 

“For me?” He snarled, standing, distantly aware of Stormlight simmering over his skin. “You betrayed everything we stood for. Served the man who branded me. Captured the man I love. For me?” 

Moash looked up at him, clutching his side and panting. 

“Why?” Kaladin whispered, calm and terrible.

“Because I loved you first.”

Kaladin grabbed the front of his shirt, lifting him off the ground. He stared down, empty and exhausted. 

Kaladin threw him against the far wall. His head cracked against the stone. Blood streamed from his temple, and he did not stir.

“That isn't love.” He said, voice tight.

He bent, taking the shardblade in hand, and ran into the warehouse beyond.

Chapter Text

Present-

The warehouse was dark as the chasms, a labyrinth of storage alcoves and towers of crates. He pulled his last sphere from his pocket. Nearly dun, it cast a weak, shivering circle of light around him. He held his breath, listening carefully for some hint at his direction. 

Another cough. 

His head whipped to the right, to the far end of the massive building. He ran, straining his hearing as he followed the rasping hacks.

Other than the thud of his feet on stone, the place was deathly quiet. Gradually, ragged gasps began to echo through the silence. Labored. Crackling and wet. Halting, and terrifyingly familiar.

Every surgeon knew that rattle. The sound of failure. Of a battle you could no longer win.

He swallowed his panic as he reached the far wall of the warehouse, following it to a small room hidden in the corner. He found the door cracked, the breaths shuddering from within.

He threw the door open, and dropped the shardblade, nearly falling to his knees.

Adolin hung limp, his arms spread wide, chained to the wall by the wrists. His head sagged forward, his blond-black hair matted with blood and filth. He was stripped naked, with wide, violent bruises wrapped around his torso, over his leg, on his arms, everywhere. His chest heaved, fighting for each breath as though it took every shred of strength left in him. Several of his ribs lay odd angles, the broken bones jutting out painfully.

Three glyphs stained the skin over his heart a pale, bloodless gray that only carving into someone with a shardblade could create. 

Worthless. Arrogant. Coward.

Kaladin's breath caught in his throat. He stumbled toward him, breath hitching as he caught sight of the growing gray stain on his flank. The shattered remains of Oathbringer lay on the floor beside him.

“Adolin…?” he whispered.

There was no answer.

He ran the last half dozen feet, cold terror flooding his limbs. His eyes raked over his restraints, trying to find a place he could cut. The chains vanished into the wall, looped through the steel encasing his hands. There was no room to fit a shardblade, not without cutting him.

“Syl… Syl help me find a way… I have to get him down…” He stammered, at a loss where to even begin.

Syl flew away, expression grim.

He reached for him, but hesitated, trying to find some part of him that wasn't bruised or bleeding. His eyes burned, fingers shaking as he carefully brushed his cheek, gently cupping his face in his hand. He lifted his head, fear a crushing weight in his chest as he found his eyes half open, his gaze unfocused. He didn't so much as stir at the touch.

“Wake up.” he said, voice shaking.

The blue eyes stared past him, vacant and empty.

“Adolin!” Kaladin barked, louder. 

He grabbed his shoulder with his other hand and shook him slightly. His head rolled from his grasp, lolling forward, and Kaladin fought back a sob. 

“Adolin, wake up!” he shouted. “Wake up, Storm you!”

He seized his face in both hands, far rougher, and pressed his forehead to Adolin's. 

“You're supposed to be different, you're the one who stays with me, you always stayed!” he growled, brow twisted in agony as he stared into those sightless, half lidded eyes.

“Please.” He choked, tears leaving trails of fire on his cheeks. 

His raked his fingers through his hair, knotting at the back of his head. 

Adolin's breaths grew weaker, softer. Kaladin's pleas faded with them. He stroked his hair, hoping it brought him some last comfort. That he would know he wasn't alone. 

“I'm sorry.” Kaladin whispered. “I'm sorry, I should have seen it, should have known how you felt… I should have told you…”

He closed his eyes, nuzzling his cheek softly, longing for some answer, some sign. He kissed him, achingly tender, waiting for his lips to move, to return the pressure. 

But there was only cold skin. The taste of blood. Deadweight. 

Kaladin pulled back, mouth half open in an agonized grimace. 

Faint, pale blue Stormlight drifted from his lips.

Though only a weak whisper, Adolin drew it in.

“Kal…” 

It was barely a sigh.

Kaladin froze. 

Hands shaking, this time with hope and terror in equal measure, he cradled his head. 

Adolin's brow furrowed, trying to force his eyes to focus.

“Kal… you…”

“I'm here.” Kaladin whispered. “I've got you. Just hang on, alright?”

Adolin's breath hitched, trying to lift his head. 

“Kal, no… you… you can't-” he slurred.

Kaladin stroked his cheek.

“Syl's going to get you down, ok?” he soothed.

A clink echoed from the wall and the casing around Adolin's left hand opened, the chain falling slack. His knees buckled immediately, hanging by one arm.

Kaladin caught him, bracing him as Syl worked on the other chain. 

Adolin sagged in his hold, face buried in the crook of his neck. “… please… have to… have to go…” He panted, increasingly urgent.

The second chain went slack, and Adolin slumped into his arms, cold and limp. For a few moments, Kaladin clutched him to his chest. He closed his eyes, breathing him in, unwilling to relinquish his hold quite yet. 

“Run… have to…” Adolin pled, breaths speeding.

Reluctantly, Kaladin lowered him to the floor, gently laying him on the stone. He shrugged off his captain's jacket, grateful for the extra length, and covered him. He began to examine his wounds, rage overriding fear as he saw the marks of torture.

Adolin stared up at him dazedly, breaths speeding. He fumbled for his arm. Though his hand shook, his grip was surprisingly strong.

“Run, Kal. I can't… run…” He urged, frantic now.

Kaladin turned to look at him. His fury must have shown, because Adolin flinched. He forced the anger back, expression softening as he stroked his hair from his forehead.

“I'll carry you.” He soothed. “I won't let him near you again, Adolin. I swear it.” 

Adolin cringed. “Not for me… please, not for me…” he begged.

Kaladin pulled aside the jacket, carefully examining the shardblade wound to his side. His brow furrowed, only half hearing him as he felt from his sternum and down, to the left, following his bottom rib.

Upper left quadrant. Likely destruction of the spleen, possible damage to the lung, stomach and large intestine. 

He pressed the wound, gently palpating the cold flesh. Adolin grunted, sweat beading on his forehead. His breathing was still strained, the Harrow continuing its path of ruin deep in his lungs. 

“I can't…” Adolin whispered against the pain. “I can't be the reason you die…” 

He looked over at the words.

Adolin stared at him, tears spilling down his cheeks. “All I've ever done is cause you pain.” He said shakily, breath hitching. 

Kaladin swallowed, heart sinking. He bent, lifting his head and shoulders and embracing him as gently as he could.

“You've caused me to feel so many things…” He said. “But never pain.” 

He pulled back, kissing his forehead. 

He's coming, Kaladin! Syl whispered.

He grimaced, reluctantly laying him back to the stone.

“I love you.” He whispered, pressing their foreheads together one last time. “No matter what happens next, please remember that.”

He stood, summoning Syl as a spear.

Adolin stared up at him, terrified.

“Kaladin…” He said weakly.

Kaladin turned, facing the door as a shadow fell upon them.

“Kaladin!” He tried to move, and could barely lift his arm, hand shaking. 

The Windrunner spun his spear, taking a defensive stance.

Amaram charged.

Chapter Text

Kaladin met the blow unflinchingly, Sylspear braced in a crossguard. Shardblade met living blade, and he could swear he heard the screams of the deadeye as steel scraped against steel. Amaram snarled, straining to break his hold, fury reflected in his pale tan eyes.

Kaladin ducked suddenly, twisting and sending the butt of the spear into Amaram's side. The general hissed, blocking the sweep of the spear that followed and shoving the haft aside. 

Exhausted, bloodied, with his Stormlight dwindling, Kaladin knew he was in trouble. While he had the height advantage, Amaram was stronger. He was on familiar turf. He blocked the exit. And he knew Kaladin would not leave unless he could bring Adolin with him.

His only hope was to end it quickly. 

Unfortunately, Amaram had come to the same conclusion.

The general smiled, cold and calculating.

“He cried your name to the very end.” he sneered. 

Kaladin felt a chill run down his spine, fighting to ignore the taunt, though he knew it was true.

“It was pathetic.” Amaram continued. “A Highprince, covered in blood and piss, whining the name of some filthy darkeyed bastard like some common whore. Begging you not to come. To save yourself-”

Kaladin threw himself at the general, a roar of rage and grief ripping from his throat as he struck. 

He knew Amaram baited him, that he wanted him to charge, to be reckless.

He didn't care. Anything, anything to see the bastard bleed.

Kaladin, we have to run. Syl pled.

Her voice was muffled. A distracting buzz against the rush of blood in his ears and the cry of surprise, of genuine fear, as Amaram barely managed to dodge.

A surge of satisfaction, a thirst for more of that fear. Righteous, brutal, desperate. 

Please, Kaladin!

Amaram swung, and Kaladin knocked the blow aside. He struck again, and Kaladin sent the sword flying. Amaram lunged after it, and Kaladin thrust his spear through his right shoulder.

Amaram screamed as his arm went dead, and Kaladin put a foot on his chest, kicking him backward and swinging the spear up for the killing blow.

He thrust.

KALADIN! Syl screamed. 

He held her a hair's breadth from Amaram's throat. White hot fractures started at the tip of the spear, forking upward like lightning.

Kaladin hesitated there, on the precipice. He stared at the fractures, craving the final thrust of his weapon, the shadow of death in those hateful eyes. There was no thrill, here, only the knowledge that the man he loved was dying, and the thing beneath him was the cause. His arms shook, muscles straining as he tried to resist the call. Tears streaked his cheeks, his chest heaving as he tried to control his breathing against the mounting fear, the grief, and the rage at the one who had broken-

ADOLIN! Syl pled, sounding as though she were fighting with every shred of strength she had to stay his hand. He's not breathing, Kaladin, PLEASE!

Terror overwhelmed him, and clarity came with it. He dismissed Syl and stared down at the demon beneath him. He kicked his heel into his mangled shoulder, kicking Moash's shardblade far from the wounded man. Ignoring his scream of agony, he ran back to Adolin and fell to his knees.

Chapter Text

Adolin lay on his side, arm outstretched toward Kaladin, his fingers half open. He stared, lips parted, pupils blown so wide and dark that only a sliver of blue remained. The rasping breaths had ceased, replaced by a silence far more terrible. 

Kaladin jammed his fingers into the pulse point at the angle of his jaw, and found nothing. 

“No… no, no, no!” He hissed, rolling him onto his back.

He placed his palm in the center of his chest, his other hand on top of it, and thrust down with all of the strength left in him. Hard and fast, staring as his head lolled to the side, rolling with each compression. Ribs broke beneath his hands, like rockbuds crushed under a boot, and still, he thrust, desperate.

He had watched his father do this just a handful of times.

It had only worked once.

He shoved off the grim memories and bent, opening his mouth and sealing his lips to Adolin's cold ones. He blew in a breath, watching his chest rise like a swelling billows, and blew in another. When he pulled back, a mist of Stormlight drifted from Adolin's mouth like pale, glowing blood. 

Compressions again. 

He thought of nothing but the motion of his body, the blood that he pumped through him, keeping the ghost of hope alive for another second, keeping him tethered to the possibility of a world where the man he loved wasn't… wasn't…

Exhaustion brought an end to even that. He fell back, gasping for air and staring down at the shattered wreck that once seemed to hold the light of the sun itself. 

He was barely recognizable. His skin, once a warm, rich gold, looked more like that of a Singer. Crimson and blue bruises against pale skin, gray shardblade wounds gone bloodless long before his heart stopped beating. Empty, dull eyes, devoid of the joy and love that had offered him a glimpse of another life.

A life he had rejected. 

He fell forward, dragging himself toward him. Too exhausted, too broken to rise. He collapsed against his chest and rested his cheek there, unable to do more than stare into the void. 

No cry of agony. No tears. Just the yawning abyss of those wide, dark eyes. The creak of shattered bone beneath his hand. The weak, uneven quiver-

He jerked, rising sharply.

It saved his life.

Amaram struck hard and swift, but Kaladin's motion threw off his aim. Rather than slamming the strange silvery knife into his neck, the pair tumbled backwards, the blade hitting stone instead of flesh. 

Kaladin shoved him aside and summoned Syl.

He felt only the hollow emptiness of spent Stormlight.

He twisted, throwing himself over the fallen princeling. In the split second before Amaram rammed the knife into his back, he screwed his eyes shut, bowing his head to Adolin's and holding tight.

A grunt and a gasp jerked from behind him.

He turned, shocked, to find Amaram on his knees, ruined arm dangling, the odd, silver and gold knife tumbling from limp fingers. His eyes had burnt to cinders, and smoke poured from his lips.

Behind him, Moash pulled his shardblade from his back, watching coldly as Amaram slumped to the side.

Kaladin stared up at him, freezing as surely as he had when Moash killed Elhokar, the world slowing as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

Moash raised his blade, pointing it at him.

“Run.” Moash commanded.