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Chapter Text

Prologue: The Black Mark on Honor, 1161

Evi Kholin

Evi pressed against the door before Dalinar closed it, bringing an abrupt end to their discussion. 

“Husband, wait.” She said quietly. She gave a soft knock, but he didn't answer from inside his rooms. He was going to attack again, going to war. Again. Not a few scant months after returning from his last campaign. From his last promise to stay and be there for their boys.

And I am the one that married him. The warmonger. And He'll use my Plate to do it . 

She thought bitterly. She left the door and walked aimlessly through the palace, the Stormlight torches flickering in between windows revealing the setting sun She rubbed her forehead instinctively with her safe hand, causing some passing maids to blush and scoff as they saw her. She quickly bundled the hand up in her safe pouch, but the damage was already done, and she knew she would hear no end of whispers for the next few weeks about her supposed impropriety. 

I have told Adolin and Renarin that their father is a good man…what do I need to do in order to believe it myself?

She brushed a stray lock of blonde hair out of her eyes, catching a tear coming from her eye while she did, with her freehand this time, and didn't notice as she rounded the corner that she had bumped into someone. With a quiet gasp she muttered apologies, only recognizing who it was after the fact. 

“Oh, Aroden, my apologies! I was caught up in my own thoughts!”

The man regarded her reservedly. He was short for an Alethi, with a wiry frame. Corded muscle tight against his skin, while his brothers were as broad shouldered as Ryshadium. His hair was cropped short, shaved on the sides, but he had the same blue eyes as her husband. He smirked, self-effacing, bowing his head in respect.

“Think little of it, dear sister.” He said quietly, using the traditional greeting for one married to a sibling. “My head was in a storm, it seems. Are you alright?” He asked, in part due to their collision, but also asking about the tears about to spill from her eyes.

“Just another day, old storms.” She said, her voice trailing off quietly as they began walking together. 

They walked down the corridor, servants passing them here and there, Aroden politely taking her arm as they did, her grip polite, holding his elbow with her freehand as her thoughts raced. 

This is…nice. Perhaps a distraction will do me good.

She decided. Aroden was not like either of his brothers, Galivar with his headstrong attitude and plotting, or her husband, with the Thrill and cry for battle always in his heart. She allowed herself to relax, whatever meeting Aroden was heading to obviously forgotten when he saw her distress. 

“You always seem so sure of everything, Aroden,” She said, glancing at him, her voice low due to the passing servants. “Do you ever feel torn by the harshness of your people? Put out by your brothers?”

The smell of cooking meats wafted through the air as they neared the dining hall, preparations well underway for her husband’s going away feast meant for later that evening, and they entered a small anteroom together, meant for high ranking servants to open bottles of wine or collect dishes. It would make for a highly improper spectacle if the two of them were seen together there, but at this moment, Evi didn’t much care.

Alethi and their traditions. Can I not even confide in my husband’s brother if I have a need of him?

She looked up again, pulled out of her own thoughts by Aroden’s answer.

“In reality, I’m not so sure of much anymore, or my purpose in all this. Gavilar rules the kingdom, and rules it well. Or at least as well as to be expected. Dalinar is his general, his iron fist. Sadeas has both their ears and respect. They’re the conquering trio, the ones who united these princedoms under one banner. I’m not sure what there’s left for the youngest brother, the only stain on my father’s precious honor, besides time to sit and brood.” He answered evenly.

Almighty, that’s right!

She cursed herself for her impropriety. In the West, families were much freer with their natural born children, In Rira, it was expected that a landed lord would have concubines or other women about him. But Alethi took bastardry as a negative trait. She had never heard the whole story, but Aroden was that stain on the Kholin family--conceived in a single night of passion by his father with a healer caring for him following a night of battle after Gavilar and Dalinar’s mother died, the wound claiming their father soon afterwards. Aroden was brought to the Kholin princedom, spared poverty only when one of Gavilar’s retainers recognized his mother and confirmed the story. He’d been raised an Alethi highprince, if only to spare the memory of their father’s honor.

“I think they both resent me in truth, my brothers. I was too young to join them on their earliest campaigns. They think me a child yet, despite the fact that I’ve since bloodied my blade…even if I have little taste for it. Of course, I cannot voice such facts. I understand that the very fact that I live is due to the charity of my father's family.”

They walked into the feasting hall, servants bustling about and preparing the tables, though the closest few bowed respectfully, muttering greetings of “highprince,” or “brightness” as they sat at one of the lower tables, and Aroden respectfully poured them two cups of orange wine, taking one for himself and taking a sip.

Evi’s expression became one of quiet contemplation, sipping the wine, its low alcohol content already bringing a flush to her thin cheeks. “Well, some of the wisdom given to us by the Heralds tells us that it is not the battles won or lost that define our worth, but how we choose to live each moment with kindness and compassion.” She said, placing her freehand over his. “Perhaps you’re just finding a different path of honor, one less…violent than theirs.”

Aroden closed his eyes at that. Appearing deep in thought before he opened them again. “I’ve never cared for the Thrill. I can feel it, just like the rest of them, like Dalinar…but in truth it disgusts me. When I fight it's like I wake up from a nightmare when it's over. I see the butchery I’ve conducted, and I wish I were anyone else… someone else. 

She patted his hand again at the admission, giving him a small smile and taking another sip from her drink, a master servant approached, delivering them a few small plates of morsels in case they were hungry before the main meal, sweet fruits for her, bread for him. She looked at the plate, but gently pushed it aside, turning in her chair to regard her brother-in-law fully.

“Dalinar changes every time he goes to war, sinking deeper into the pleasure of it. Sometimes I fear he may not come back at all. I think you're right to be wary of it, Aroden. This campaign into Jah Keved, it's his third in as many years. I fear for our boys. They need a father, stability.”

And I need a husband.

She thought, but she left that need unsaid.

“I admit my brother has his faults. But…storms…he does try, in his own way. He talks about you on campaign, you know. Not often, and he’d never admit it publicly. But he does care for you in his own way. He’s told me in confidence that he respects you as the mother of his children, and he enjoys the months you do spend together.

Aroden sipped at his orange again, refilling the cup from the pitcher and waving away the master servant dressed in black and white standing a respectful distance away.

“Your boys will be alright regardless of what happens. Adolin is growing like a weed. He may best me in the arena someday. And Renarin…while a sword may not be in his future. He is a sweet boy, and you’ve raised them well.”

He set his cup down, his finger running along the rim.

“As for honor. I truly wonder if we Alethi know anything about it. What do we really serve when we pay ardents to burn our prayers? Was it honor that united this kingdom, or bloodshed? If Vorinism is the path to enlightenment, why am I such an oddity if I wish to physically read the books that contain the knowledge of the Almighty and his Heralds myself?” 

Evi’s eyes widened at the news of Aroden's confession, bringing her freehand to her mouth in shock.

He…cares for me? I've always felt a burden, so out of place here.

“That means something..it really does.” Evi said quietly, trying to hide her swelling emotions behind a mask of calm.

From their space in the hall, Evi could hear the sounds of the training yard outside, imagining the physicality of the royal guard striking at one another with practice swords, no blood being spilled, but men training to do just that. She decided to persist, ensuring that she would have Aroden’s support moving forward.

“Adolin is a good fighter, but he needs balance. He needs the fierceness of his father, but someone to guide the gentleness of his heart. And Renarin needs a role model, for when his father is not around.” She hesitated, taking a sip of her orange before speaking again. “Promise me that you’ll watch out for them. Help them navigate the intrigues and guide them.”

Aroden met her gaze with intensity, reaching across the table to squeeze her freehand. 

“I care for your boys as if they were my own, Evi. Rest assured of that. I’ll guide them as I’m able. Adolin will be a great highprince, a strong leader of men. Renarin, his dutiful advisor.” He leaned back in his chair, a sudden smirk crossing his face. “Who knows? If I do a good job of it they may even put up with their landless, unmarried uncle Aroden, who…scandalously, reads on occasion.”

Evi bit back a chuckle at that, bringing her safehand in its pouch to her mouth to giggle, nearly spilling some of her wine. 

“Thank you Aroden, you’re a good man. Far better than you give yourself credit for.” She raised her glass to him in a quiet toast. “To rebels and scholars then, even if they have to hide their books.”

Aroden took his glass and clinked it against hers, giving her a true smile that reached his eyes at that. The sounds of officers and high ranking soldiers started to fill the hall now, gathering for the feast they knew was coming.

“Ah, sometimes I just wish all the wars were done. And that we could truly be at peace.” She opined, twisting the sleeve that covered her safehand.

“Be careful what you wish for. Who knows what we Alethi would get up to if we had no more wars to fight?” Aroden teased, pushing his empty glass away and standing up.”I really must prepare, however. I was supposed to give Gavilar a report about the state of the city watch and its expansion, and then dress for the feast tonight. But tomorrow, I’d speak more with you about how I may best serve Adolin and Renarin, if you’d allow it.”

She glanced at the rapidly filling feast hall in shock, amazed at how she’d lost track of the time, and stood up as well, grasping Aroden’s hand with her free hand and safehand both, the latter still tucked in its sleeve.

“I’d like that Aroden, thank you. Now be off! I’m sure I’ve kept you quite long enough. You may have just enough time to read a few pages of your favorite book before the feast.” She teased, a knowing smirk in her eyes.

Aroden coughed back a laugh, eyes darting around the room for listening ears before adjusting his coat. “Perhaps I’ll even read to you one of these days if you’ll allow it? Now that, brightness, would be a scandal.” He said chuckling to himself, departing with a small nod and hurrying to find Gavilar.

Evi gathered herself, feeling lighter than she had in weeks, and departed soon afterwards. She needed to find her boys, and prepare her gown for the evening. She’d learned quickly that Alethi did nothing in half measures, and she wished to be prepared for the spectacle that she knew this feast would be. She stepped from the hall, her quiet steps echoing to head to the training yard, where she knew she'd find Adolin, and then to the library for Renarin, and then...to her rooms. To her husband, who according to Aroden may not truly detest her after all.

1168

Aroden Kholin

Aroden sat ahorse, Windsinger whinnying quietly between his legs as he held her reigns loosely. He sat at the head of the Kholin contingent as they crossed the last plateau before the Shattered Plains. He paused for a moment, taking in the sight, before deciding to ride ahead, taking Windsinger's reigns and taking off into a gallop. He ignored the cries from his honor guard begging him to stay and await the arrival of more of his men, stopping only at the edge of one of the massive craters overlooking the landscape that appeared as if the Almighty himself had torn it asunder. A highstorm rumbled in the distance, but he knew it would be sometime yet before it arrived, and he'd have time to find shelter, maybe even enough for a Soulcaster to make some of his men and himself a proper stormbunker. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the clean scent of the air here a treasure compared to the bustling streets of Kholinar, and then sighed. He wished Evi were here. He longed to be home with his feet up, reading her a book. 

What we could have been in different times.

Storm it all, he also missed his oldest brother. Despite this entire war being started by his assassination, he oddly wished that Gavilar was here leading it. Elhokar tried, but he was a stubborn lad. Not willing to listen to his elders. And with Dalinar gone on his fool's errand, Adolin too young to hold the army together on his own, and Renarin's reluctance to draw a blade in battle, it fell on him to lead the Kholin armies into battle for the first time in their entirety. 

He felt altogether unready. 

I call Elhokar a lad, but only a few years separate us. If I can learn to be a leader of men, so can he.

He swallowed his self doubt, flipping his blue half-cape back over his shoulder, his longsword's pommel gleaming in the pale light of the highstorm and setting sun, he turned back towards his honor guard, nodding to them respectfully.

"We make camp here, circle the stormwagons and have the men seek shelter. Set a sentry as well. It might be these craters may make good temporary warcamps. We'll inform the king personally, and with luck we'll ride out to do battle tomorrow." 

A thunderclap made him pause his instructions, the wall of the highstorm barreling closer, but he ducked his head to the wind, blinking away the crem that is blew into his eyes. 

"Tell the men to move quickly. We need to be ready when the storm arrives." 

Kholin officers - his officers for now he supposed, saluted sharply and began carrying out his instructions while he rode back down the column to notify Elhokar. The wind picked up as he did, signaling the eminent arrival of the highstorm, promising torrential rain, wind, and thunder that would be so much more destructive than back out west.

And coming with it soon, for better or worse, my last brother...

Chapter Text

"There is not much to tell about the youngest. He does as he is bidden to do. Though I do sense something strange about him. I shall report again briefly before I return."

1161

Evi

Evi hurried to get dressed in her rooms for the farewell feast. With the help of her female servants she wordlessly removed her casual gown, one of the last she’d brought with her from Rira, and allowed herself to be placed in a true Alethi gown, beautiful enough for the wife of a highprince. The dressmaker had really done a phenomenal job with her requirements. It was a deep Kholin blue, with a low neckline, sequined with sapphires in a line from her breastbone down the front of the dress. Her shoulders were also exposed, but not enough to be improper. Of course, like always, after the dress was buttoned, she carefully secured her safehand in its pouch, several smaller buttons ensuring it was safely covered, to prevent the catastrophe she had brought upon herself earlier in the day.

  She moved to the mirror quickly--the gathering of her children having taken much too long before the scheduled beginning of the feast--  allowing a servant to undo her messy bun and secure her golden hair in a braid while she busied herself with makeup. Red lipstick, a small amount of eyeliner. She did not care much for the overt stylings of the court, and frankly had little time for it these days. With a sigh, she waited patiently for the servant to finish the braid, and stood up purposefully, taking a single broam from the table beside her and tucking it in her safe pouch for luck, an old tradition that she found queer as a child, but she appreciated now. 

As she stepped from her rooms her thoughts again turned to Aroden, her quiet brother in law, and wondered how he was preparing for the feast. He was never much for true finery, dressing in simple clothing that made him blend into a crowd. He’d been an enigma for most of the time Danilar and her had been courting, but has been an increasingly common presence at least in her son’s lives since they’d been born. The man had very little in terms of actual power in Kholinar, and he’d been right to tell her that his mere title alone was a gift from Gavilar, in their father’s memory, but he had recently been appointed the head of the City Watch, and she’d heard court gossip that while he could be found scandalously in the palace’s libraries at times, he did devote himself more and more often to swordplay in the training yards. 

He has a dual nature, I suppose. A warrior who wishes to be a scholar. 

She mused, her features turning to ones of delight as she rounded the corner and took sight of her children from their servant-minders. Adolin looked like a little brightlord already, wearing a small Kholin military uniform, a training sword at his belt. Renarin looked uncomfortable, in a high-necked tunic buttoned up tight, his face a little reddened underneath his spectacles, but these were her boys, and storms was she proud of them. 

“There’s my two highprinces!” She exclaimed, ignoring the stares from the passing servants as she hugged them both. Adolin tensed up, as all older lads do when shown public affection by their mothers, but Renarin leaned into her embrace, the stimulation from the day appearing to nearly overwhelm him. She stroked his hair softly and whispered soothing words into his ear, ensuring him that after their entrance he could unbutton his collar a little, and he nodded once in understanding.

My gentle boy. He’s got nothing of his father in him. Where will his heart lead him, I wonder?

They passed through the stone hallways of the palace quickly after that, heading down the stairs from the living quarters to the common areas. Along the way Evi realized that she should have told Adolin to put away his training sword, but storms, they were going to be late as it was! They gathered in the entryway, where she met her husband, Gavilar, Navani, and Jasnah, the girl ignoring her arrival completely with her head in a small book that she tucked into her safe pouch after a murmur of reprimand from her mother. 

“Ah, Evi! You're here! And my two nephews! Well there's nothing else for it! Let's begin and send my brother off with style!” 

He said with gusto, clapping his hands and throwing the twin doors to the dining hall open with a crash, ignoring the protests of the master servants who were to herald their arrival. 

“But wait! What about Aroden!” She shouted over the din of cheers from the men gathered inside, but she was ignored. Dalinar gave her a quiet, judgemental stare as they entered together, his hand holding the elbow of her freehand and children trailing behind. The lower tables were full, shoulder to shoulder with every light-eyes in the Kholin army capable of finding a seat, and through the windows in the common areas of the palace below, she could hear the raucous cheers of the dark-eyed non-commissioned officers and spearmen shouting the Blackthorn's name in praise about the glories of the coming war with Jah Keved. She allowed herself to be lead to her seat at the high table, Gavilar giving a short but proud speech about his most capable general taking to the field again, and boldly, for herself, asked a servant for a cup of blue wine, enough to dull the headache forming at the base of her skull from the noise and the heat of the room. As well as the many worries about her children and her husband that filled her mind. 

The feast progressed as one could expect of typical Alethi fare. The officers and their wives shouted stories of previous battles. Wine flowed freely throughout the tables as the feast became more lively. Cheers for the king and the Blackthorn filled the air, though Dalinar all but ignored her as he spoke in an animated tone with Dalinar, and at one point stepped away to speak with Torol Sadeas and his wife. She consumed her women's food, sweet sauces and fruits that tasted bland on her tongue. Chasing it with her blue wine, which flushed her face and burned as she swallowed it. Adolin behaved as well as could be expected, though he played with the pommel of his training sword too often for her taste, and he proudly drew it at one opportunity when Gavilar asked him about how his time in the yard had progressed during the day. Renarin looked overwhelmed, and she moved a few seats over, sitting next to the poor boy and leaving a space between her and Adolin open so she could mother him, unbuttoning his stuffy collar and soothing him by stroking his back. 

Suddenly, there was a stir at the front of the room, the master-servant at the entrance eager to finally do his job of actually announcing somebody for the evening, though he did so almost apologetically. 

“Announcing the arrival of Highlord Aroden Kholin, Commander of the City Watch!”

Aroden stepped through the double doors quickly. Half the room silenced itself as they regarded the youngest son of that Kholin generation, the other end of the room, where the highprinces sat, outright ignoring his arrival. though Evi caught sneers on a few of their faces. Her brother in law looked quite regal, dressed in a fine tunic buttoned across his chest though he left the highest open and pinned back, with fine black trousers and cuffed leather boots that rose to just below the knee, the Kholin glyphs embossed on the back of the jacket in gold. 

He stopped in front of the high table, bowing curtly at Gavilar, his eyes flickering to both he and Dalinar, before taking his seat, pointedly all the way at one end, nearest to the wall.

“Kind of you to join us brother. Was the city watch in such disarray that you almost missed the feast?” Gavilar called with a teasing glint in his eyes. But the words seemed forced, almost too even. 

Is he hiding something? Was Aroden doing something else?

“More like he got caught up in a book.”

Dalinar grunted, giving Aroden a dismissive glance and pouring himself another cup or purple wine, his fifth of the night if Evi had accounted correctly. 

“I greeted those you expected me to find, my king. Our discussion took longer than expected.” Aroden said respectfully, as a master-servant poured him a cup of blue as well, and a plate of men’s food, which he picked at with his utensils. 

He was meeting someone at the king's command? Who?

She was knocked out of her thoughts by Gavilar clapping his hands again. “I dare say our men are fed and watered enough. Wouldn't you brother?” He asked Dalinar, who seemed wholly uninterested in the whole ordeal, his eyes glazed over in a look Evi knew all too well. He was simply waiting for an excuse to be off. To see battle again. 

At Gavilar’s signal the servants began moving tables and chairs out of the way and the musicians in the corner started playing more loudly. The officers and their wives standing ready to begin the evening dances. Evi's head pounded at the drums, and the floor seemed to move underneath her feet, her single cup of blue clearly a poor choice as she switched to water, her headache growing worse. She turned, worried, to Renarin, as she knew the boy hated loud noises, but was surprised to see he was doing just fine, Aroden whispering to him animatedly as he described to him the story of one of the books he'd read earlier. He sat mesmerized as he told him of the Sunmaker and the strange beasts he encountered all the way from Shinovar when he invaded the West. 

Evi mouthed her thanks and gestured for a servant, allowing her to take Renarin to bed, as it was already quite late, and Aroden turned to Adolin instead. 

“I hear you're quite the terror in the training yard nephew. I'm proud, and I know your father is as well. It may be that you'll beat me in a bout me soon.” Aroden said with a quiet laugh.

“Not a hard feat.” Dalinar said with a dismissive cough. 

Can you have an ounce of decorum?  

Evi thought bitterly, turning her back to her husband as she appreciated Aroden's outreach to her elder boy.

“Even so, after your father's departure we must find time to spar together. I'm curious to see how your talent has grown.” Aroden said with a wry grin. 

“I'd like that uncle! The sword ardents say I'm a prodigy!” proclaimed Adolin, his chest puffing up. 

Aroden let out a real chuckle at that, relaxing his frame, the biting comment from Dalinar seeming to flow over him like water. It likely helped that he was deep into his own third cup of blue wine, likely as much as Evi to drown out the din of the music that seemed all too loud.

Time passed quickly after that, as song after song played before them. Evi sent Adolin to bed, and Gavilar excused himself, saying he had other business to attend to, leaving Navani put out and departing with Jasnah soon after, though not without some chiding from her mother that she should have offered a dance to at least one officer or his son before she left. That left her, Dalinar, and Aroden, who still picked at the last few morsels on her plate. She gazed at her husband expectantly. He was no dancer, but as the music slowed she realized she did yearn for at least one moment of closeness to him before he departed. 

Danilar ignored her, but sensing her desire, Aroden stood, offering to take her freehand. 

“Brother, may I have the honor of taking your wife for a dance? He asked quietly, and carefully, she realized. 

Dalinar froze, regarding Aroden with a curious expression she couldn't place, but silently nodded once, before standing and leaving the table, she saw him step into a corner of the hall with some of his generals, likely discussing strategies in the days ahead. He’d spoken frequently, and loudly about the difficulties of fighting in their lands to the west, and he’d want to be ready to combat the hit and run tactics of the Veden cavalry. Internally, she knew all of that, but it still hurt her heart to be rejected so openly.

But enough of that, a kind man has offered you his hand in the dance you sought for.

“Thank you for the opportunity, brightness.” Aroden said with a teasing formality, pulling her from her thoughts. As he led her from the high table and onto the floor. The musicians, seeing them approach, played a lighter tune, and a few of the officers and their wives demurely moved aside, giving them some space. 

She tried to ignore the feelings of betrayal towards her husband that settled in her chest as Aroden held her respectfully, one hand grasping her freehand, the other resting palm up on her shoulder, as they began to move with the music, the song ebbing and swelling like the Reshi Sea of her home. All at once it was all too much for her as she wanted, suddenly, to simply feel loved. She grasped for something to distract her in the moment.

“Tell me Aroden, what do you dream of when you think of life outside Kholinar? Beyond our wars? She gripped his hand tighter with her freehand, ignoring the warmth of his skin on her own. His eyes met hers evenly, a small smile on his features as he responded. 

“A dangerous thought, Evi. Who knows what we Alethi will do when there are no more wars to occupy us. But were I to be free of such occupations. I’d like to hope we may relax restrictions on the darkeyes, or even the slaves.All men and women should deserve a chance to better themselves, regardless of station. If we are all made in the image of the Almighty, how can we say that because of one feature that some are greater than others? I know Vorinism’s take on the matter. But ardents also say I’m not to read letters either. The notions seem…foolish to me, like accretions gathered over centuries rather than true teachings of the Heralds.”

Evi smiled at that, a little embarrassed for the man, but stiled the giggle that bubbled in her chest. She needed Aroden too much right now, she enjoyed the man’s company, and she would not insult him here, so publicly.

“That’s quite the dream, but how would you propose such a change? All Roshar has followed an order of those that rule and those that follow since the Dawn times.” She asked, stopping herself from saying more, aware of the venue they danced in. Though she needn't have worried, as the few Kholin officers nearest to them had already pointedly moved away from them as the song ended and another began.

Another song began, wrapping around them like a comfortable banquet, and she continued. “Perhaps it starts with raising the next generation to be better. Teaching them to follow better ideals.” She mused, allowing him to spin her respectfully, the blue wine now well and truly making her tipsy.

“It would be challenging, yes. But our nation is in the midst of change, even now. Gavilar is the head of something so much greater, trying to do something so much more than simply uniting the highprinces.” Aroden responded, a sudden and proud glint in his eye.

“Gavilar spoke of it to me tonight before the feast, Evi. He…trusts me with it. Alekthar…all of Roshar will be better in the future. And your boys will get to experience wonders we may never comprehend.” 

Evi’s eyes met his, uncomprehending, and she shook her head in confusion.

He couldn’t be talking of these senseless border conflicts could he? He just told me he disliked fighting. 

Could Gavilar be considering expanding Alethkar further? Would he invade Herdaz next? Perhaps conquer some of the Frostlands under the Alethi flag? But why would that involve Aroden? Her thoughts turned to what he’d said earlier. He had met someone earlier on Gavilar’s behalf. Perhaps that was the key. She kept the conversation moving, but was genuinely interested, setting her worries aside.

“That may be so, but what I care most about is the security of my children.” She said desperately, clinging to his hand, ignoring the fact that sweat had begun to collect between them in the heating dance hall, due to the torches and bodies moving about.

“Your boys will be fine, Evi, regardless of what happens. They’re strong, and they have you, and myself looking after them. I adore them as if they were my own…as…as they could have been.” 

Her heart paused in its chest for a moment, icy shock causing her steps to falter as she realized the deep flush that had come to his cheeks. Some likely due to the wine, but also his own internal shame. That thought was all that stopped her from shoving him away as tears, unbidden came to her eyes, threatening to roll over. She hastened to wipe them away with her safehand sleeve, as calmly as she could ensuring nobody, especially her husband, had seen her reaction or heard his admission.

Where did this come from? How did I never see?

“Y-you resent me for marrying Dalinar?” She asked quietly, suddenly feeling ever so small. Her world crumbling around her. 

Aroden’s eyes flinched in concern, and sudden sadness, and he appeared like he wished he could take back his words entirely. When he spoke it was with shame, his hand turning to grip her shoulder gently.

“No no no. I don’t resent you. I could never… I simply…mourn for what could have been Evi. Danilar…my brother is a good man, but he doesn’t understand you. When you started courting I was too young to know the wants of my heart, too reserved. And Gavilar would have never allowed it. He needed your Shards in the hands of his Blackthorn. But I see you now Evi, your gentleness. I see your children and....I would never threaten your marriage with him, but storms. I appreciate you in ways he never could.” He said, reserved, hanging his head as the music finished. 

For propriety’s sake she allowed him to lead her back to the high table, now abandoned, save for them. Most of the hall's occupants streamed out as the music ceased, and she saw Dalinar stumble back to his rooms, holding one last cup of violent wine in his hands, blessedly seeing none of their improper behavior. Aroden sat with a heavy sigh, openly pouring himself a deep cup of blue and quaffing it quickly as Evi sat down as well, pointedly away from him. She spoke to him in a low, even voice, even as deep inside, her desire fought with her dignity and duty. She did remember the quiet, polite boy he had been when she and her brother had first traveled to Alethkar. The young man who had asked about her homeland, had guided her through the confusion of Alethi culture when her betrothed had ignored or mocked her. The man who had actually been close by during Renarin’s birth and had been more present in his life than his own father. 

But duty is the death of want. I must kill this in the cradle.

Aroden, to his credit, spoke before her.

“I will end this now, however. You have my sincerest regrets Evi. I simply couldn’t go on without you knowing you have my heart. Dalinar cares for you in his own way. I will not be the source of another mark of shame on the Kholin name. We can remain friends. Companions, but you deserved to know the truth.”

“Friends.” She said, her voice thick with emotion. “Because that is all we can ever be.”

“We must put aside our wishes for the good of our people. The good of our children…thank you...thank you for the dance.” She said with finality, flicking another tear from her eye, thankful that the hall was nearly empty now, aside from a lone master-servant waiting a respectful distance away. “Let us continue to cherish our moments of honesty in the future, Aroden.” She said, smiling sadly, standing and patting his shoulder with her freehand as she gathered her skirts and moved to leave. 

She had nearly gathered herself when Aroden reached out suddenly, catching her wrist with his hand. His eyes met hers, weeping sapphires as he regarded her with an agony that nearly crushed her heart.

“My apologies…again. I’m a terrible highlord. A terrible Alethi. My brothers built a kingdom…all I’ve done is want what I cannot have.” He blessedly let go, sipping another drink of his wine, which she reached out for and set out of reach for him as she regarded him with compassion.

“There is no harm done, Aroden. You are a good man. Sometimes the noblest thing we can do is accept things as they are and make the best of our circumstances. Go and rest. Forget our troubles for the night. Sleep, my dear friend.” She rested her freehand on his shoulder again, closing her eyes for a moment as if in silent prayer, before stepping away. 

“Gavilar asked me something odd today. I wondered if the wisdom of your people may offer some guidance…what are the most important words a man can say?”

She hesitated for a moment, turning a final time and regarding him warmly.

“Rest now, Aroden. Those questions will keep.” 

She didn’t look back, but made a motion for the master-servant to guide the man to bed. Tomorrow was to be a long day. 

1168

Aroden

The next wave of Parshendi arrows clattered against the shield wall. Aroden raised his own in the air, grunting in pain as two of them snapped against the metal and through the wood behind it. One of them sank deeply into his forearm as he groaned. But he ignored the agony. Shouting orders for his commanders as he held the with his men. Light-eyed officers relayed his commands, and a wave of Kholin cavalry charged along the flank, pushing the Parshendi infantry off the plateau in a slow, methodical march of shields and spears. They'd walked right into this maneuver. Several hundred of their infantry gathering on one plateau and then retreating across it when the Alethi gathered in force to strike them, peppering them with arrows from their relative safety.

His own honor guard surged forward, reinforcing the line he had thrown himself into, two of them bodily throwing him away from the line. He allowed himself to be guided back in exhaustion, his shield already being carefully removed by a healer who tck’ed at the injury even as another worked to remove his bracer, tugging the sleeve up underneath it. The first pulled out a set of shears, cleanly snapping the arrow’s shaft in half along with the fletching, worrying about how best to remove it. Thankfully he could still feel his fingertips, but damned if it didn’t hurt. Aroden had been wounded before, but never by an arrow, thank the Almighty, and never seriously. He was sure his honor guard would give him a private dressing down about it later.

“We should return to the war camp, Brightlord! It would be unwise to remove the arrow here. It could catch an artery and produce a great deal of bleeding!” The healer said, but Aroden waved him off. A large man in shining Shardplate approached, ahorse, with a massive shardhammer on his back, clambering over one of the precious wooden bridges they’d begun assembling in order to cross the chasms.

“Highprince Sadeas! What news from your plateau?” Aroden called, nodding his head respectfully. 

Sadeas’ army had arrived less than a day after the Kholin’s a few months ago, and his grasp of strategy was one that Aroden had much appreciated. Aroden thought himself a capable tactician, but before his arrival to the Shattered Plains he had no real world experience leading large forces of men. Sadeas obviously did, and his demeanor upon discovering he would be working with Aroden had been nothing short of respectful, his prior disagreements with Dalinar, and the ugly business at The Rift it seemed, having no bearing on how he treated him. Unfortunately, as the man removed his helmet a thin line of disappointment marred his face.

“Not well, they retreated from our forces too, after drawing us in. They’re using hit and run tactics, knowing that we can only chase them so far. I have a few dozen wounded and killed, and it looks like your forces have faced the same.” His eyes gazed down to his arm, the arrow wound welling a small amount of blood that pooled in his palm and dripped onto the dried crem. 

“Your first arrow wound I take it? Listen to your healer, get back to camp, Brightlord. I’ll convene with General Khan and we’ll cover one another’s retreats back. I won’t have Dalinar cutting my head off with Oathbringer if you should fall here.” Sadeas said with a grin, replacing his helmet with finality and galloping forward, assisting the rest of the Kholin forces in driving off the last of the Parshendi attackers, planting their spears down and creating a rear guard should any of their number decide to attack their rear. 

Storms…bless that man. Bless him. 

Aroden thought weakly. He allowed himself to be guided to his horse, awkwardly mounting it with one hand as he rode across their bridges and back to camp, pausing occasionally to issue orders to passing generals or officers as the Kholin and Sadeas armies covered one another’s retreats back across the Plains. Upon entry to the crater where the Kholin army had made its encampment, Aroden allowed himself to slow his horse’s pace to a walk.. One, because his wrist had truly started throbbing now, and two, to take in what a spectacle the camp now was, and allowed himself a moment of true pride. He had worked with the Soulcasters to create most of the designs on display around him. From the barracks, to the storm bunkers, to the hulking building in the distance, Elhokar was quickly turning into a real palace. His scholarly abilities had been useful in that, and he was able to draw and produce exacting plans for the Soulcasters to follow. He would never call himself a true engineer, but he hoped that some day the Alethi military mind would consider the value of a fighting officer able to read his own plans and designs besides common glyphs.

Maybe that’s my future when this is over. I could create an entirely new branch of the Kholin military, marrying the science of the ardents with military engineering.

His mind raced at the idea. He could maintain some semblance of Alethi masculinity while remaining close to home. Evi at his side. The thought warmed his heart even as he soured at the thought of her alone, with nobody for company. 

She has Navani and Aesudan at her side at least. Though she never got along well with them.

He let those thoughts of home go for now, climbing from his horse’s saddle with a grunt and allowing himself to be lead to a medical tent, where the healers deftly nudged him onto a stretcher and they began sterilizing instruments and cleaning his entire arm with soap prior to removing the arrow. That was when Adolin decided to step into the tent, his eyes wide. He stormed up to the stretcher, but was gently guided back by one of the attendants.

“I’m fine, nephew. Just a scratch. I can feel my fingers just fine, see?” He quipped, raising the uninjured hand and wiggling all five digits.

“Brightlord, please.” An ardent murmured, strapping the arm down and offering him some medicine boiled in tea.

“I should have been out there with you today, storm it uncle, you don’t even have Plate! What were you doing at the front!” Adolin shouted, half in concern, and half in anger at missing the battle.

Aroden raised his uninjured arm reassuringly before speaking.“We agreed to do rotations when we realized we wouldn’t get the pitched battle with the Parshendi we wanted, Adolin. Sadeas served ably as our Shardbearer on the field. If you go out every time we strike you’ll be fatigued when the real battle approaches. Now if you’ll excuse me. I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.” Aroden grunted out, pushing aside the tea. 

The healer nodded, and offered him a strop instead, which Aroden took gladly, placing it between his teeth and closing his eyes as the healer deftly removed the arrow shaft with one swift movement. He tried his best, but a loud moan of pain escaped his lips through the strop, and it took every fiber of his being not to scramble off the table as the iron came next, sealing the wound and preventing contamination. Along with copious amounts of soap and water poured directly into the wound to flush out any bits of bone that may have remained inside. Small orange fingers of painspren formed around him on the table, grasping at his figure.

“Wisdom of the Heralds tells us to flush the wound, brightlord. My apologies, this is necessary to prevent rotspren from collecting.” Said the eldest healing ardent, removing the strop from his mouth as Aroden panted, reaching over for the tea and quaffing it eagerly.

He closed his eyes after that, allowing them to bandage the wound for a time, his eyes meeting Adolin’s again, who looked at him with a mixture of a young lad’s annoyance, compassion, and begrudging respect.

“Alright uncle. But if you’re going to fight on the frontlines again, don’t forget about me, you hear?” He said with a smirk.

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Aroden called out as his nephew stepped out of the tent, his coat billowing in the ever-present breeze of the Plains.

He allowed himself to be guided back to his chambers in the main storm bunker. Or…palace as it was becoming, passing through the Soulcast walls being renovated by Elhokar's builders. Hard stone soon gave way to plush carpeting, which felt heavenly on his footsore legs. One of his attendant's opened the door for him and began dutifully removing the rest of his armor, his arming coat soaked through with sweat under his steel breastplate. He shrugged out of it and his tunic as best he could, and as soon as his grieves were off he waved off the man, dismissing him as he carefully sank onto his bed, cradling his arm and letting the medicine do its work. As he closed his eyes he dreamed of Evi. His home. He wondered how much longer it would be until he saw them again. 

Chapter Text

“I’m told he’ll arrive to the Plains soon, and we’ll be all the better for it. In truth he disgusts me, though begrudgingly I must admit he is a good leader of men. Keep my lands secure, and perhaps you’ll take his place.” 

Words of Power
1161
Aroden

Aroden groaned in pain as he rolled over in his bed, pressing his pillow to his face, sunlight streamed in through his window and the bile in his stomach threatened to bubble over and cause him to vomit. 

Dalinar leaves this morning. You promised Evi you’d speak to him before he departed. Get up. 

He thought to himself, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth and his thoughts muddled. He did swallow a mouthful of bile, tasting identical to the blue wine he’d only stopped drinking a few hours prior, but shakily, he stood to his feet. Rising and stumbling to a chamber pot in the corner of the room and letting loose the contents of his stomach; very little food, and mostly still blue, inside it. He coughed a few times, spitting and blowing his nose, and stood to his full height again, rolling his shoulders as a master-servant entered the room looking decidedly nonplussed. Aroden ignored the man’s judgemental gaze and stepped quickly to the pitcher of water on the table near him, pouring himself a glass, and then a second, quaffing them quickly. To the third he added a pinch of salt from the tray of breakfast foods that the master-servant had brought in, and drank more slowly, pushing away the rest of the offerings and feeling altogether much better a few moments later.

“No more blue. Ever again.” He said quietly to the servant. “And nothing else for me to eat, thank you. I doubt I could keep anything down. How long until Dalinar departs?” He asked quietly, not looking up at the portly man in his black and white outfit. 

“The king indicated when he was served in his chambers this morning that the highprince would be leaving soon, and his officers are already assembled in the courtyard, brightlord.” The master-servant said demurely, nodding his head a fraction as his thick chin doubled up under his tightly buttoned collar. 

Storms. It's so late! I mean it. I’m never drinking again.

He quickly started stripping out of his clothing from yesterday, discarding the stained and smelly attire and splashing water on his face, slicking his hair back and hurriedly dressing himself in a fine grey tunic and matching trousers, with cuffed leather boots that went up to his knees. He hurriedly buckled his sword belt and slid his steel sidesword in his sheath. No Kholin blue today. That was for the feast. Normally he wouldn’t hurry to see his half-brother off, but he’d made a storming promise, for whatever good that would do. 

A promise made just before I absolutely embarrassed myself, admitting my affection for a married woman. 

All at once he felt like he’d be sick again, but he took a few calming breaths and stepped purposefully from his chambers, his steps quick through the quiet stone hallways as the morning light shined in through the castle walls. Masons lightly chipped away at some larger blocks outside as he passed, and he could hear them through the windows. The original keep was as old as Kholinar itself, but Gavilar, upon assuming the throne, wanted something larger and grander for the common people to see. To know implicity every time they looked from the main squares of the city that House Kholin ruled them all truly now. A part of Aroden wanted to stop and speak with the dark-eyed men, largely of higher dahns, and discuss their work, another part quietly admired his half-brother for his bold choices in the beautiful marble, but he buried those scholarly afflictions. He needed to look the part of a brightlord of some martial ability now.

Finally after climbing down the last staircase he was outside, squinting in the morning light as his eyes adjusted to the sun. He fought down a final wave of nausea, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, and spotted Gavilar and Navani, the former speaking loudly to some of Dalinar’s assembled officers, including General Khan, the other looking poised if a little unsettled, her lips creased in a fine line. Elhokar stood proudly, a little apart from his father, and Jasnah was nowhere to be seen, likely with her nose buried in a tome in between lessons. Aroden fiddled nervously with the pommel of his sword and quietly stepped over to the group, but when Gavilar saw him his eyes lit up and he approached, clapping Aroden on the shoulder with a strong grip.

“Little brother, I spoke again with our esteemed guests after I departed the feast last night. Well done, you silver-tongued Voidbringer. You made quite the impression.” Gavilar said quietly, patting him again. 

Aroden stiffened in shock at that. He had never gotten along with Dalinar since being adopted into the Kholin family; they were like oil and water. But Gavilar for most of his life had seemed content to forget he existed. But recently after asking him some oddly specific questions about the nature of his scholarly pursuits and sending him on a few odd errands, he seemed oddly…affectionate, and had been seeking him out more and more. This latest meeting with the strange foreigners last night had only been the most recent of his requests. The strangest was when Gavilar had asked him to read to him on some nights. An ancient text that was considered borderline heretical by some ardents called The Way of Kings. 

“Thank you, my king. In truth it was a short meeting, but I was glad to assist you.” He said evenly, looking up to meet the taller man’s eyes.

“Aroden, we’re family. Please, in informal settings use my name, or even brother. Thanks to you we have more tools available for our final goal…though for now, let’s keep it between us. No need to confuse Dalinar with ideals he won’t understand, or that may distract him before he’s off to war.” Gavilar said, parting from him and giving him a knowing nod not to speak further on the topic as they returned to within earshot of the rest of the Kholin family.
Aroden placed his hands behind his back and nodded quietly, regarding the rest of the family. Elhokar was discussing battle animatedly with General Khan, though Navani stood alone, eyeing him curiously, a glint of…something in her eye. Mistrust? 

Gavilar trusts me with his plans, but not his own wife? 

He meant to think on it further, but his breath hitched quietly in his chest as Evi appeared from the castle, Adolin and Renarin behind her. Storms, but she looked radiant. Her golden hair glinted in the sun like streamers of gold, dressed in one of her robes from her homeland, modified for Alethi sensibilities. Her freehand was exposed, as was her entire arm, though her safehand sleeve covered the other. Adolin looked terribly put out, dressed in blue Kholin finery, likely upset that he wouldn’t be joining his father on this particular campaign, and Renarin looked happy enough, leaping down the last few steps, color coming to his cheeks at the effort. It must have been a good day for him, no signs of weakness from his blood disease on his smaller frame, though Evi took his hand protectively after she followed him down the steps, keeping him close.

Danilar stepped into the courtyard behind him, discussing a few final points with one of his other officers about how he wanted his forces arrayed when they crossed into Jah Keved. He didn’t wear his, or rather, Evi’s Shardplate, not so far from the battlefield, but he was arrayed in traditional Alethi military dress and a gambeson, a long steel side sword at his hip. He spared a glance to his children, ruffling Adolin’s hair and outright ignoring Renarin, and gave Evi’s freehand a single squeeze, muttering something to her that Aroden couldn’t hear, before approaching the rest of them. He said nothing to Navani, but clapped a hand on Gavilar’s shoulder.

“Ride well, brother, may the Blackthorn give our kingdom another victory.” Gavilar said confidently, meeting Dalinar’s height and giving him a confident smile.

“It will be a swift war, now that you’ve agreed to unleash me. I’d say they were fools to disagree to our terms, but I find myself enchanted with the idea of bloodying my blade again.” Dalinar said with a rare grin, turning and mounting his horse without any further preamble. 

Aroden used that moment to approach, patting Dalinar’s horse by the neck and standing taller, as Dalinar looked at him curiously. 

“Dalinar. I…we both know you’re the general here. So I won’t speak of tactics or strategy. I’ve fought the Vedens as well, they’ll use hit and run tactics, we both know it. Only…do not let the Thrill entirely consume you. You’ve a wife here, and children who need their father. Return to us, highprince.” He said cautiously, meeting his gaze for only a split second longer than when he finished the words, looking over to Evi, who despite being too far away to hear his words, nodded to him in thanks. He looked back up at Dalinar, who simply nodded once, awkwardly leaning down as if to rest his arm on Aroden’s shoulder, but looking up at the horizon instead. 

“Well said, I’ll return when we’re finished.” He said finally, riding out at the head of the column, dozens of generals and officers mounting their own horses and galloping out after him, their hooves and cheers for victory echoing through the courtyard as they rode out to join the rest of the army already outside of Kholinar. 

Aroden stood still for a moment before finally nodding to himself. In spite of the war taking place far from Kholinar he had work to do. It was time to be what his half-brothers and the realm expected him to be. The warrior, not a scholar. He tapped the pommel of his sidesword again and turned to his family, and Evi approached him as Gavilar and Navani swiftly departed, separately, he noted, and Adolin and Renarin being led to their tutors. 

“Thank you for trying, Aroden, truly. My husband is a good man, he just needs…reminders, about why he fights, and a reason to return from them..” She said, her lips drawn in a tight line. “War…war is inevitable, but we must remember why and who we fight for.” 

He nodded his head respectfully at that, both of them dancing around last night’s drunken confession like it was a chained whitespine snapping at its handlers.

“He has his faults, but so do we all. My own is apparently drunken confessions. Evi, I…” He started, stepping a little closer.

“Hush now, what’s said is said. I appreciate your friendship, Aroden, you are a good man, and a good uncle to my children. It changes nothing between us.” She said in a quiet voice, and Aroden nodded again, trying to ignore how beautiful her eyes gleamed in the rising eastern sun. 

“I’ve meetings with several representatives of the highprinces this morning, Brightness, and perhaps later I’ll join the boys in the training yard. I’ve some ideas about young Renarin’s training.” He said suddenly, desperate to change the subject. And she nodded back, giving him an affectionate smile and taking his hand in her freehand.

“They’d both love that, I’m sure. I hope your meeting goes well. Perhaps later we could speak again, as well.” 

He nodded again in farewell and returned to the keep, his pace even as the last vestiges of nausea abated and his stomach growled in hunger. He made his way to the kitchens, wolfing down some cold leftovers from the feast the night before and then made his way to the meeting chamber, where several brightlords awaited them. Most of them eyed him with something akin to tolerance, though he noted Meridias Amaram didn’t even meet his gaze, and scoffed when he entered. Still, suffering silently, he sat at the head of the table as the sun reached its height, the morning shadows giving way to the heat of the day, and listened to their complaints. Provisions for the forces joining Dalinar, assurances that their lands bordering Jah Keved would be protected should the enemy reciprocate in invading their lands, and payment from the royal coffers to supplement their own incomes in using their Soulcasters to feed the men in the field. On and on it went, and Aroden caught himself rubbing his face in exhaustion and irritation after hours had passed. He wished these men would simply state explicitly what they wanted. He could have sat for hours puzzling over their preconceived notions about him and the roles their highprincedoms now played in the new Alethi monarchy, but right now, hungover and with a headache, he simply didn’t have the energy to do so.

This wouldn’t take so storming long if every single calculation didn’t have to go through a scribe. 

He reached for a pen on the table to jot down some notes, but thought better of it as Meridas raised an eyebrow at him from across the table, and Aroden fiddled with it instead, drawing small circles on the parchment in front of him. And wasn’t that the crux of the issue? If Aroden had simply become an ardent, he could have written all he wanted. If Aroden was born a woman he could have read all he liked, and would have done so. But he would not dismiss the obvious blessing he’d been given to be raised in the Kholin household, regardless of these personal issues. 

To the credit of his half-brothers and the older master-servants and retainers of House Kholin, Aroden had a fairly normal childhood for an Alethi light-eyes bastard. He barely knew anything was different about him until one day on the training field, when he had, as a rarity, bested one of the older boys when they’d been training with blunted longswords. 

“You’re nothing but a rotten bastard! Your mum was a whore, you know that?!”

He hadn’t known what a bastard was, but he knew what whore meant. Gavilar had, on one of his rare visits, explained the meaning of the word and that not all adults were nice people, in the same conversation that he had explained why he was gone so often, fighting to unify the country. And so as a young lad, Aroden had learned the truth of his existence. He did not share a mother with Gavilar or Dalinar. He was the product of a single night of passion between a dying man and his caretaker. His mother had been an ardent, and would have been expelled from her order had she kept him, and made the only choice she could, hoping for mercy for her child, hoping he would be raised properly in honor of his father. A father he shared a name with.

He didn’t think often of his mother, not anymore, but it was strange, it was like something was missing. He’d truly never known either parent, but he thought that if he’d had her presence in his life, things would be better somehow. Easier. The same couldn’t be true for his father, and from awkward talks between both his half-brothers it was clear he was not a constant nor stabilizing presence for either of them in their developing years. Gavilar didn’t seem to openly resent him for being a stain on House Kholin’s honor, he had merely ignored him until recently, giving him mundane tasks here and there, but it was clear Dalinar did.

He was brought out of his thoughts by a retainer of House Vamah suggesting a halt to the meeting for the day.. Aroden agreed vocally and left the room as quickly as he could, unbuttoning his collar in the suddenly stifling heat, and stepping through the corridors of the keep, his footsteps echoing as the laughs and jeers of the men inside the room echoed behind him. He swallowed the anger that built up within him, realizing he was still carrying the pen he’d been holding in his hand. He tossed it on a platter positioned on a side table as he walked past, irritated, finding his way to the training yard.

His mood worsened when he looked past the city guard and young men training to find a group of older boys surrounding a child, Renarin, he realized with a start, taunting him, and keeping him pressed against a wall. He was silent, until he was a few feet from the group.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” He said with a deadly calm, his hands clasped behind his back, though a vein popped up from his temple.

Not this one. Not Evi’s boy.

He thought angrily, recalling the constant struggles of young lads dealing with bullies at play. He’d gotten his fair share of scars and bruises from youths just like this while he’d been growing up, and he would not let it happen to Evi’s child. Renarin looked up at him hopelessly, snot dribbling from his nose and his spectacles crooked on his face. The boy closed his mouth tightly, doing his best not to sob. Aroden looked away, instead staring furious at the largest boy, the instigator of it all, and grabbed him roughly by his gambeson.

“A brightlord asked you a question, boy. What. Are. You. Doing?”

The youth, likely twelve or thirteen years old, stumbled back, eyes wide. Likely wondering whether it would be wise to insult the half-blood prince or be differential. His sense won out, apparently, as he nodded quickly, lowering his head and not meeting Aroden’s gaze.

“W-we were training and things got out of hand, sir. I-it won’t happen again!” 

“See that it doesn’t. This wasn’t training. Assaulting a highprince of the blood could see you and your family on the streets. Could see you locked up. Look at me.” Aroden said, his voice a deadly calm, though a low baritone gravel carried through as the youths all stared at him wide-eyed.

“The law states I could take the hand you struck with, you understand that? Or make you face five years in prison. You will return to your trainers now, and know that next time, I will take either one from you, you understand?” 

They all nodded and ran off in the same direction, towards the exit of the training arena, not a sound made between them. Aroden didn’t give them a second glance, crouching down quietly before Renarin and resting his hand on his shoulder affectionately, rubbing it through his oversized training armor.

“T-thank you uncle.” Renarin said, wiping his nose and gazing up at him through his spectacles, slightly magnifying his deep blue sapphire eyes.

Hmm…the same shade of blue as my own.

He thought, though he buried that thread deeply within him for now. “Think nothing of it, we Kholins stick together, right?” He said with a wry grin, helping the boy up with a strong hand.

“Now, I promised your mother I’d teach you something. If you’re still up for it, would you care to go through some katas with me?”

The boy nodded quietly and wiped his nose a final time, picking up his training sword from the sandy ground, standing as resolutely as a boy could after such a traumatic event, wearing a brave face. Aroden took him to a wider space where the two of them could stretch out, stopping for a time to retie the boy’s gambeson so a little more air could cool his flushed face and chest, and then they moved into the katas. Aroden worked with him slowly, methodically, correcting mistakes in posture with a quiet encouraging word and a gentle touch, and before long they’d moved into training rotations, Aroden guiding him through each stroke by calling out the numbers meant for each strike, catching each on his blade. 

“Very good, Renarin! Once more! One, two, three, four.” He called out, trying not to be lazy as he caught each stroke on his blade, redirecting the blunted training blade away from him each time. Before long the sun was baking them both, and Aroden called a break, sending the boy to one of the benches around the edge of the training area after removing his little leather helm and ruffling the boy’s hair, watching him lightly jog off to get some water and ensuring none of the bullies from earlier were still hanging around. He sighed and returned his own training blade to a weapon rack, feeling content for the first time all day and walking to a barrel of water, quaffing a ladle full of it and quenching his thirst. He stood up to his full height and raised an eyebrow, looking across the space and noticing Adolin’s blond hair sticking out from under his leather training helm as he readily beat a boy who stood a head taller than him, knocking him to the sand with a triumphant grin and a shout. Adents approached to assist the boy to a sitting position and others looked on at the young future highprince with tightly drawn frowns.

Oh lad, humbless wears better on you than arrogance. 

He thought, stepping across the arena and fixing a grin on his face as he approached.

“Ah there you are, nephew. I think I distinctly recall offering you a spar yesterday, if I remember correctly. Would you stoop so low as to give your uncle a taste of your skills?” He jested, grabbing another training blade and a shield, flourishing the longer sword in his hand. 

Adolin nodded with a determined smirk.

“I’d like that, uncle! Nobody here is giving me a challenge anymore!” The boy said loudly, one of the ardent groaning at the thought of two high ranking light-eyes going at each other in an unsanctioned bout. 

Aroden waved the grey robed man off and nodded his head. He didn’t intend to hurt his nephew, but he knew from his own experience with the Thrill that repeated victories in combat were a heady thing, and Adolin, while a good lad at heart, needed a reminder to be gracious in victory and defeat. Aroden stepped back, his blade hanging in a low grip, As Adolin adopted Flamestance, a curious choice for someone wielding a training blade instead of an actual Shardblade, and exposing Adolin’s overconfidence. Aroden fought back a smirk at that,keeping his blade tip down in his hand, adopting the Fool’s Guard. One of the ardents saw the ploy, a knowing smile on his face, but also said nothing, only nodding approvingly at Aroden. The Fool’s Guard was essentially no stance at all. It had no intrinsic values within it to attack or defend, but it could lull an overconfident attacker into a false sense of security, and respond quickly to attacks from any direction, like the attack Adolin made at his chest, stabbing quickly with his training blade at Aroden..

Aroden responded deftly, not even raising his shield and batting Adolin’s blade aside, stepping inside of his guard to use the flat of his shield and butt against the inside of Adolin’s left leg. The boy yelped in pain and quickly lept back, favoring his forward foot and reflexively slashing his blade at Aroden as he created distance. Aroden was on him quickly, leaning back to avoid the strike and batting the boy’s blade away, shoving him with his shield roughly, and then, parrying three more strikes with his blade, ducked inside the frankly ridiculous Flamestance guard, with the sword pointed out, and hooked the pommel of his sword around Aroden’s ankle, sending the lad feet up onto the ground. The boy let out a pitiable groan and laid there for a moment, sand getting in his blonde and black hair. Aroden leaned over him slowly, sinking to a knee and offering the youth his hand, with a grunt, helping him first to sit, and then to stand.

“Well fought, nephew. I’m sure you know why I did that, don’t you?” He asked with a warm smile, absentmindedly scratching the stubble he grew on his chin.

“To…to teach me to be better?” Adolin asked quietly, sheathing his training sword with a wary look in his eyes.

“Not just in the arena, but to be a better man. You weren’t there to assist your brother with those bullies, and I’ve just seen you bully your opponents today. Just because you’re a good sword doesn’t mean you can rub it in their faces, nephew. House Kholin rules these lands now, through your uncle. But we must make friends when we can. These boys will be trusted officers and generals in your armies someday. Let them think back on fond memories learning the sword with you during those times instead of you pummeling them into the sand, eh?” 

Adolin’s brow furrowed at that, before his eyes lit up with understanding, closing his fists tightly as he nodded at Aroden, brushing some of the sand from his blond locks and he adopted a determined grin. 

“You’re right, thank you Uncle.” He said, nodding again. Aroden thought he would wander back over to the ardents overseeing his training, but his heart lighted to see him instead jog over to Renarin, still sitting on the bench listlessly and inviting him to practice their training katas together. Aroden gave the scene a rare smile, returning his training sword to the weapon rack and dusting his hands off.

Well, my work here is done for the day it seems.

He thought to himself, his steps lighter as he left the training arena. In truth he fought because he had to. He wished he could have spent the day instead curled up with a good book, but helping people achieve inner mastery of themselves while fighting? Helping them understand themselves through sweat and effort? That he could do, especially for Evi’s boys. He retired to his chambers again, deciding he’d sit down with a book he’d been putting off reading on his own for some time now, and would likely skip dinner with the rest of the royal family. He’d been reading the book aloud to Gavilar, but hadn’t had the chance to break down the texts on his own. Gavilar hadn’t explicitly mentioned that the book had anything to do with the strange visitors he had been regularly hosting, but Aroden had easily put two and two together. It helped that the book was genuinely interesting, and he didn’t want to waste the sudden friendship that had apparently blossomed out of nowhere between him and his eldest half-brother.

In the silence of his quarters he stripped out of his sweat-stained jacket and hung it over his chair washing himself quickly with cold water and laid down on his bed, reaching over on the shelf and running a thumb over the leatherbound cover of the book, The Way of Kings, licking his thumb for purchase and opening the pages to where he’d left off a few nights ago. 

“I passed a man on my travels that thought to waylay me on the road, wielding a large cudgel and standing off to the side of the well traveled path with a scowl on his features. As I thought to pass he stopped me, opening his mouth likely to demand my spheres. I instead spoke first, asking if he could spare a broam for an old beggar to find rest for the night. He gazed at me quizzically, but passed me a sphere without a second thought, and I continued on my way, without a care, passing a ways away and into the throngs of travelers as he scratched his head in confusion. 

And thus, as I fear not a child with a weapon he cannot lift, I will never fear the mind of a man who does not think.” 

Aroden’s eyes lost focus on the page, and he rubbed them gently, setting the book in his lap. Nohadon’s writings always seemed to be complex, but this one on the surface appeared to be simple enough, he’d outwitted a common highwayman with his superior wiles. But he was supposed to be looking for something in the glyphs as well. Was there something about human nature he was missing? He wanted to dig deeper, dissect the glyphs piece by piece to see if there was something he’d missed. This translation, after all, was thousands of years newer than the original text, and it was likely the Vorin ardents had twisted a few meanings during the dozens of translations made during that time. He flipped to the front of the book again, reading the introduction, two words standing out to him out of all the others.

A journey.

He remembered that Evi had invited him to talk again later this evening, but for now, no responsibilities kept him, and he turned the page, reinvigorated. He would discover within what Gavilar thought was so important.

Adolin

1168

Adolin stepped out of the command bunker with a sigh, his hand itching to hold his Shardblade. The momentum of the early weeks on the Shattered Plains had died down after the first few frantic fights with the parshendi, and now, with his uncle Aroden wounded, and General Khan being unwilling to sacrifice more of his men on unfamiliar terrain due to their lack of ways to cross the chasms, it appeared the entire Alethi contingent was at a standstill, and amazingly, it was a contingent. The highprinces had truly answered Elhokar’s call for vengeance and now every one of the craters ringing the edge of the Plains was filled with the armies of Alethkar as each highprince built fortifications into the rocky ground using pure manpower and Soulcasters, those who had the spheres for it anyway. All in all, it meant he had quite a lot of downtime. Normally he would have filled such tedium with dueling, but Aroden had forbidden it for now, with the constant threat of parshendi raids that could come at any time. 

Speaking of his uncle, the man stepped out behind him, signalling the meeting with the Kholin officers and engineers was at an end. They’d spent hours devising new tactics and potential new bridge designs to cross the chasms, and Adolin wondered exactly why he’d been called to attend it at all. Certainly he had respect for the engineers that maintained the army’s war machines, but numbers had a habit of making his head spin most days, and his strength was at the front of a shield wall, splitting the enemy’s lines apart in his full Shardplate, not listening to scribes argue about which materials to use on building projects. 

Adolin’s uncle was a complete enigma to him. In one moment he could be an inspiring leader and an ideal brightlord, slaying the enemy with his sword and rallying the fighting men, and other times a near complete embarrassment, like now. He stood surrounded by ardents and engineers, his arm still in a sling from his injury the week before, and scanned a page full of script, not even glyphs, on his own, remarking on changes in the designs he’s recommended for defensive fortifications, and adjusting plans for the proposed semi-permanent bridges he’d thought up for crossing from plateau to plateau. Blessedly, he did look up from the paperwork as a newcomer joined their circle: Torrol Sadeas. He was not wearing his Shardplate today, instead wearing a garish yellow coat and a scarf tucked into his shirt. Adolin did his best not to wrinkle his nose in disgust, the coat did no favors for the heavyset man.

Though I do believe I could make it work on me.

He thought to himself, stepping closer to listen to their discussion.

“Highprince, we were just discussing potential bridge designs that may be beneficial for our campaign, we just need to await a new shipment of wood, it appears our Soulcasters are having difficulty producing enough for our needs.” Aroden said, giving the man a respectful nod. 

“I don’t think I’ll be needing any new designs per say, Aroden,” responded Sadeas, clapping the shorter man on the shoulder. “But more bridges would be most welcome. I’m keeping with my plan of having my spearmen move them into position, though I am currently examining alternatives to carry them. Speed will be of the essence to reach the parshendi before they can jump the chasms in numbers and retreat from us. Still, I can see the benefit of larger bridges transporting artillery and larger amounts of men. I’ll think on it. Well done, your brother would be proud.” He said with a smile.

Adolin gazed on at the interaction with confusion. He didn’t know the specifics of why his father and Sadeas had a falling out, only that it had to do with the night Gavilar died, but the relationship developing between his uncle and Sadeas confused him. Sadeas was a conniving politician, yes, but also a staunch believer in the Alethi ideals of manhood, and seeing him get along so well with, well, a man who read, was certainly odd. But he knew better than to raise such concerns now.

“As you wish, highprince. I can have a few more of the light bridges sent your way once we’ve constructed them. It's in House Kholin’s interest to support you as well, your men work well with ours, and I’ve noticed some of the other highprinces are ignoring our calls to battle when we spot the enemy out on the Plains.” Aroden responded affably, a little pride on his face as Sadeas addressed him so familiarly. 

“Well, far be it from me to avoid a battle to settle the Vengeance Pact, and I’ll gladly continue to draw swords with you, my friend. Well, once you’ve healed that is..” He said, gesturing to his bandaged arm. “Though I doubt you’ll be off the field for long, You’re tougher than you look.” He said with a smirk, then oddly leaned down to whisper something in Aroden’s ear, then lightly patted his shoulder before striding off back towards his own warcamp. 

Adolin watched him walk away, puzzled as to why he’d come to the warcamp at all, as the scholars and engineers around them also dispersed, leaving him alone with his Aroden, who regarded him as if he were seeing him for the first time.

“I know you get along with him uncle, but I’m not sure all of that praise was genuine.” Adolin said carefully, hooking his fingers into his belt.

“Oh I’m sure some of it was, but Sadeas and I have shed blood together before this, Adolin, and he openly respects me in front of the king and the other highprinces. He’s a useful ally, despite his and your father’s disagreements.” Aroden said calmly, resting his hand on his sidesword with his unsplinted hand, his gaze suddenly very far away. 

“Uncle?” Adolin asked, tapping him on the shoulder lightly.

“Hmm? Sorry, I thought I heard something. Well, no matter. Walk the defenses, tell the sentries to keep close watch. Just because the parshendi haven’t attacked for a few days doesn’t mean we should get complacent. I’ve a meeting with Elhokar and then with the Soulcasters, I need to see these building plans to fruition. And check on Renarin, would you? We have a proper training arena again, he’s been lax with his studies of the blade again recently, though I’d be a hypocrite if I called him out on it.” Aroden said with a sudden smirk, which Adolin felt was slightly forced, as he walked away quickly, towards the direction of the king’s stormbunker.

I may never understand that man fully. 

Adolin thought, watching him closely before stepping off again to do as he was instructed. Though he was stopped by Aroden calling for him again from some ways away, an unreadable emotion on his face.

“Oh, and Adolin? Look sharp, your father will be joining us soon.”

Chapter Text

“The campaign stalls here as the highprinces grow complacent, but some of the others have discovered something interesting that could make this whole venture worthwhile even if the Pact may never be fulfilled.”

1161

Evi

The weeks after Dalinar’s departure passed slowly for Evi. Despite being the wife of a highprince she had very little to do when it came to actual administration of the princedom. Scholars and ardents brought her papers to sign and accounts to review, but Dalinar kept tight control over Kholin lands and coffers and very little was out of place for her to manage. The affairs of the palace weren’t much more interesting. To Gavilar, Evi’s utility ended the second she had gifted her Shards to Dalinar, and Navani had little in common with her. Most of the wives of the Kholin officers and other brightlords and highprinces that had accompanied Dalinar to the West had left, and none of the regular courtiers around the palace wanted much to do with her,her foreign ways, strange prayers and incense burned to the One, and her limited awareness of Alethi sensibilities. Her boys were her joy, but she saw less and little of them during the day, immersed in their studies or learning the blade as they were. 

Evi’s breath hitched at that and she smiled, sitting at the table in the dining hall during the noon meal. Aroden, bless him, was actually starting to get little Renarin out of his shell. Part of her feared the idea of either of her sons actually going to war, but Aroden’s constant, steady, guiding hand on Renarin in the training yard had seen the boy actually start to develop some strength. It had been ages now since once of his fits, and he was actually able to defend himself from the bullies she’d worried herself sick over. He would never be a true warrior, that she knew, but her little boy was rapidly growing from the sickly thing she feared would die young. 

And it was all thanks to Aroden, not your husband.

She thought treacherously. She crushed that thought and took a small bite of women’s food at the table, suddenly feeling less hungry as she thought of the sight the other day. Women were typically not allowed in the arena, but she’d spared a glance from the balcony overlooking the sandy circle in the castle’s inner keep, and her heart leaped for joy as she saw Aroden guiding Renarin through more and more strenuous katas. The sight was startling. Despite Aroden’s mixed lineage he looked all Kholin, like an adult version of Renarin himself as he guided him, and then stepped back to watch the boy complete the entire set of movements perfectly on his own. Aroden had knelt down and fully embraced the boy in affection when he had completed the exercise, and Renarin had immediately returned it, both of them ignoring the judgemental looks of the city guards training nearby. 

She was pulled out of her thoughts by a servant asking if she needed anything else. She shook her head silently and stood, her hands clasped together and worrying at her sleeves as she walked alone back in the direction of her rooms. Her thoughts drifted again, as they often did these days to her dear friend.

And he is a friend, and brother-in-law, nothing more.

She insisted to herself. She stepped into her room, still brightly lit by the setting sun, and paused at the entryway, unbuttoning her safehand sleeve and turning to a small end table, lighting a small flame and for a few small sticks of incense. She extinguished the flame with a puff as the burners caught, and she leaned over, smelling the soothing ash that rose from them before sitting down, attempting to settle her tumultuous thoughts, her eyes finding the book she’d received as a gift from Aroden not a few nights prior. She found she had little constitution for trying to read it, however, preferring to have Aroden either read to her, or providing his commentary on Behardan’s works as best as he could. The book seemed to be staring at her, the simple leather bound cover with no title on it speaking to her very soul. She turned to open it when there was a quick knock at the door. She bade the servant to enter, and the young lad stepped inside cautiously as Evi slipped her safehand back into its sleeve while he averted his eyes respectfully.

“Brightness, I’ve a message from Highprince Dalinar’s warcamp. The rider who met me says he is well, and the message inside is of a…well a personal nature.” He said with an apologetic grin as he handed her the sealed letter, the stamp of House Kholin set in wax on the outside. She dismissed him, and gave him a few small chips as payment for his quick services, which he accepted graciously, retreating and shutting the door behind him before opening the letter.

Oh husband…

She thought as she broke the seal and read the words obviously penned by a scribe. The letter was positively pouring with emotion by her husband's standards. He apologized for her abrupt departure and asked if she’d wish to join him in the warcamp as all good Alethi wives should. He even extended an invitation for Adolin and Renarin to join them, though he did remark that he wished for Adolin to serve as a squire or messenger, as he was now of the age that such things were expected for future highprinces. She grimaced at that, but had long ago accepted that at least one of her boys would be a warrior someday. 

As she finished the letter she pressed it to her chest for a moment, closing her eyes. A warcamp. She had accompanied Dalinar on exactly one campaign, and left quickly once they’d reached the mountains of Herdaz. Her constitution was simply not strong enough to handle the thin air there or the cold winds, but a part of her did truly wish to be there for her husband, to try to steer him away from the Thrill and the bloodlust. 

Nevermind my constitution or my own fears. My husband has called for me. This is a gift from the One. I must be with him.

She stood up, a flicker of fire in her chest as she left her rooms, the letter still clutched in her freehand as she went to find the only person she truly trusted in the whole city to see her and her boys safely to the border of Jah Keved, and she quietly prayed that he would understand. The walk to his rooms was a blur, but before long she was at his door, opening it without knocking as he sat at a fine desk, neatly stacked pages of weapons shipments, transportation receipts, and all manner of paperwork designated for him as the head of the city watch to review and sign. He looked up from his pen and her eyes met hers as she read the letter. His eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment and he sat back in his chair, turning from her to look at his bookshelf for a moment, though she saw none of the disappointment in his face that she’d feared. Finally he stood up and walked around the desk, taking her free hand in his and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“I’ll speak to Gavilar, but either way, we’ll leave at first light.” He said with a smirk, stepping back and crossing his arms across his chest. “Though I warn you, I prefer to travel fast. No chull carts, no endless stream of retainers and servants. I’ll bring a handful of guards from the household, and pack a tent for you and a few servants, and one for me to share with your boys. I mean to be in Jah Keved in a few weeks, Brightness.” He explained, giving her a mocking scowl. “You can handle that, can’t you? Leaving aside Alethi propriety in the name of expediency?” 

Evi fought back a girlish squeal. It would be like an adventure from the stories she grew up with. Instead she merely nodded, a blushing smile crossing her own features as she nodded.

“I’ll let the boys know. Thank you Aroden, thank you so much for helping my family!” She exclaimed, stepping out of the room to leave Aroden to find the king and to pack her belongings. As she left the room she didn’t see the pained expression that crossed his features at her words, nor the sound of him sitting back down in his chair heavily.

Gavilar assented to their plans to travel, and Aroden was given the opportunity to pass nominal command of the city watch to Elhokar for the duration of their time in Jah Keved with a dedicated light-eyes captain named Isasik keeping him out of trouble. Gavilar and Aroden both agreed it would be good for the king’s son to spend some more time in command of fighting men before he reached his majority. 

After a night of fitful rest, Evi awoke to the rising sun, dressing quickly in traveling clothes and trousers with a split skirt to allow easier riding, waking up with her boys and enjoying a quick breakfast. Renarin looked surprised and enthusiastic about the trip, though he was a little wary about riding a horse such a long distance for the first time. Adolin was aglow with joy, a grin on his face the entire meal and eager to depart, already dressed in his Kholin blue uniform and relishing the joy of having a real shortsword belted around his waist.

They gathered in the courtyard, a small trail of servants with horses waiting, her singular bag of belongings and tent strapped to a packhorse. A few dedicated Kholin honor guards also gathered in the courtyard, their half plate glinting in the morning light and armed with spears and swords both. All in all it was an incredibly small group to be traveling with such high ranking light-eyes, but if they were attacked, she had been assured they would be able to outrun any larger skirmishing forces they encountered, and they were well armed for dealing with any bandits or deserters they encountered. She scanned around, looking for Aroden’s familiar frame, but he wasn’t there with them yet.

She spotted him then, entering the courtyard with Gavilar beside him. It seemed Navani and Gavilar’s children hadn’t seen fit to see them off. A pity, she supposed. She had never gotten along with Navani, and Elhokar could be grating, but it would have been nice to see them before she departed for what may be seasons. She couldn’t hear what the two men were speaking about at first, but as they walked down the final steps she could hear the final bits of their conversation.

“You likely won’t encounter them, but if you do, gently press for more information, nothing that will distance them from our cause but…well, I trust you brother. Use that silver tongue of yours.” Gavilar said with a wry grin, clapping Aroden’s back.

“I’ll do my best, my king. And you promise to keep having things read to you, eh? It's like a puzzle we’re missing a handful of pieces of.” Aroden replied with a warm smile of his own, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword and puffing his chest out at the praise. 

“Ah well enough of that talk for now.” Gavilar said suddenly, giving Aroden a look that Evi almost missed as they got well within earshot.

What are they up to?

She mused to herself, giving Aroden a quizzical look for a moment before bowing respectfully to Gavilar and saying her goodbyes. Aroden helped her up into the saddle before mounting his own horse, a steady and quiet white mare, before turning and giving Gavilar a salute. 

“I suppose I should say something about journeys, shouldn’t I?” Aroden quipped, looking back and giving Gavilar a smirk. 

“Be off with you, chull-headed scholar. Give Dalinar my regards!” Gavilar said, waving him off with an affection that puzzled Evi even further. 

Without further preamble, they departed. The walls of Kholinar loomed before them, and suddenly they were off, traveling on the dirt roads that connected the princedoms. They rode nearly all day, stopping only occasionally to stretch their legs or to give the boys a break. Evi was thankful for the trousers she wore or she knew she would have been saddle sore. The passing countryside brought back fond memories of travels during younger days, better days, when she thought she would be marrying an Alethi highprince for love. Her mind kept wandering back to Aroden’s relationship with his brothers, however. What was going on between Aroden and Gavilar? Had she missed something? In years past the youngest prince had barely seemed to exist to the king, yet now they were talking like…well…like brothers. It must have had to do with Gavilar’s meetings. She sincerely hoped the brotherly affection was real on Gavilar’s part, and he wasn’t playing poor Aroden, the man deserved genuine affection from someone in his family.

Does it have to do with the strangers they both seem to keep meeting? How does that connect with The Way of Kings?

After a few more hours of riding they stopped for the night, deciding to set up camp on a quiet hill with a good vantage point, and the bodyguards established a perimeter and sentries while her two servants set up their tents. Adolin and Renarin helped Aroden set up their own. Evi half expected some parshmen to appear out of the ground and do those menial tasks, before remembering that she was the one who agreed to travel quickly and lightly, and there was no way that those simple creatures would be able to sit on a horse.

When the evening supper was finished and Adolin and Renarin had been thoroughly regaled with memorized tails delivered by Aroden of the Sunmaker’s conquests-which made Adolin’s eyes light up like so many of the night stars- as well as descriptions of the strange beasts from the West which he encountered, which left Renarin entranced. It was time for the boys to tuck in for the night, and before long she could hear their soft snores from their bedrolls in their tent a few yards away. That left her and Aroden sitting on campstools, both watching the dying fire in the pit in front of them, the quiet sound of the servants cleaning the cooking pans over the hill, and the wind blowing quietly their only other companions. Evi relaxed as the breeze gently blew her golden locks across her brow, brushing them back with her safehand, still covered in a thin leather riding glove as Aroden looked across the embers at her. 

“Gavilar doesn’t know. But I think I’ve discovered what we’re after, Evi.” He said, unprompted, his blue eyes almost aglow in the darkness as the fire flickered on his face.

“Whatever do you mean, Aroden? What are we after? What does the king want? I hear whispers about how he ignores his children, his wife. Is…is there a danger to us? And these strangers-” She started, sitting up on her stool with concern in her voice as she looked around the campsite, as if she feared Voidbringers would come out of the darkness at any moment.

“ Relax , Evi. All will be revealed by Gavilar in due time. But for my part of it, that I can share. Nohadon, The Way of Kings. It's more than a book of parables. It's one big life lesson, a guide for others to follow who wish to learn arts long lost to us.”

He stepped around the fire, his eyes locked on hers the entire time, he knelt beside her and clutched her hands in his own, giving her a genuine smile and opened his mouth. Then he said the words.

1168

Aroden

Aroden waved off the master-servant approaching with a pitcher of blue wine, pointedly sipping at the orange already in front of him instead. It tasted wrong, not nearly enough alcohol coating his tongue, but he stomached it nonetheless. Highprince Ruthar of course had to raise a fuss, insulting his choice of drink and asking if his constitution was so weak that he feared getting drunk within the safe confines of the war camps of a single cup of stronger wine. Aroden ignored him. He recalled last time what happened when he had been truly in his cups, that night all those years ago where he had confessed his love to Evi, and did not wish to repeat his folly, and while he didn’t adhere strongly to the codes, he did not relish the idea of a hangover while battling the parshendi. The king’s table was a boisterous affair, all of the highprinces gathered together amongst a few tables. To Aroden it was a particularly garish waste of a valuable defensive position, set in a basin at the bottom of the high ground that Ekholar had first dedicated as his personal stormbunker and final redoubt should the parshendi ever attack in force and overwhelm the warcamps. That possibility seemed more and more remote, but the tactician in him still resented the waste the land provided. 

Still, the man does have decent taste in decorating.

He admitted to himself. Elhokar had even decided to have the Soulcasters create a kind of platform out of the basin, allowing the light-eyes to have a view of the Shattered Plains below, stretching on for mile after mile, the chasms between each plateau looking like mere cracks from this distance, and tall poles stuck in the rock with mounted Stormlight lanterns dotted the area, giving the feast an odd, otherworldly rainbow glow. The women gathered found it particularly beautiful and remarked often and loudly about it. Aroden even overheard the king discussing adding additional platforms and expanding the space, as if he had decided to make it a permanent fixture of the warcamp, seemingly unconcerned about the real nature of their purpose in the Plains in the first place.

The first hour of the feast had been dull, with the usual prattling and boasting that occurred whenever so many light-eyes were in one place. The second hour had somehow been worse as the men and their wives drank deeper into their cups. Every man at the table cajoled and laughed easily with either one another, or their wives, but Aroden sat alone, only having brought two bodyguards for protection, hoping to speak of specifics regarding strategy for Elhokar, but those dreams were dashed. It was clear that the war was not necessarily on the king’s mind tonight. He was knocked out of his thoughts by Elhokar addressing him directly, clapping him on the back as if they were old friends. 

“Brightlord! There’s a stream nearby, is there not? Perhaps if we added more platforms we could redirect its flow and flood the basin proper. Wouldn’t that be a sight?” Elhokar asked with a smirk, raising his cup at him and looking over the rim. As the current head of the Kholin armies, Aroden had been seated in a place of honor next to the king, and while Aroden didn’t enjoy being in a position of such attention, he did decide it was better than the insult of being positioned at the end of the table, or not being invited at all.

“That idea is certainly ambitious, my king, but a waste of precious resources. If we redouble our efforts on seeking out the parshendi, we can end this war quickly and return to our homes instead, rather than needing such comforts.” Aroden said evenly, taking another sip of his orange wine and picking at the food on his plate.

“Bah, it's been months already with no pitched battle. No no, unfortunately I think we may as well settle in for the long haul. Though perhaps when Dalinar returns he’ll be able to make quick work of these bastards who killed my father!” Elhokar responded brusquely, setting his cup down and giving Aroden a side eye. 

Aroden swallowed the rebuke and fought back a grimace. Despite Aroden’s complex relationship with Gavilar, he had never had a close connection with his son, despite their similar ages and shared upbringing. Elhokar had made his feelings towards Aroden very clear when they were still coming up. In his eyes Aroden was an upjumped bastard, and nothing more. He tolerated his presence in the warcamps specifically because there was no one else to lead the Kholin contingent. Adolin certainly could have, but his youth and inexperience left him feeling wary of doing so. Renarin was certainly growing more capable with a blade, but chose not to fight directly in case one of his fits took him over during battle, so it fell to Aroden. 

“My king, no campaign can be conducted at lightning speed, especially not on this ground. Once we’ve constructed more bridges to cross the chasms we can force an engagement with the parshendi on land of our choosi-”

“More bridges eh? Are you going to write up the plans yourself? Pen the lines all pretty in the women’s script?” Roion interrupted, already flushed from his cups as he shouted down the table and pointed at him with his half empty cup. 

Aroden did see red at that, squeezing his hands into fists at his side and standing up from his seat, meeting Roion’s laughing visage with a stare.

“I’ve spilled blood on the Plateaus plenty, highprince. And had mine spilled as well!” He shouted, holding up his healed arm with a mean scar on his wrist. “Where were House Roion’s forces when the Parshendi attacked, but a week ago? Your forces retreated, and it was myself and my men who retook your warcamp for you.” Aroden finished venomously, sitting back in his seat as he felt another presence sit next to him.

“Peace! Peace, my lords!” Sadeas said loudly, clapping Aroden on the back with a grin and shooting a look down the table at Roion. “Let us not dishonor our king with this squabbling. The Vengeance Pact will be fulfilled, by all of us. And much glory will be gained here.” He finished, helping himself eagerly to the platter of food and sipping on his own wine, poured by the waiting master-servant. 

“Right…thank you, highprince.” Aroden said quietly, nodding at Sadeas. “As I was saying, my king. The discovery of the chasmfiends has been a useful boon. As we harvest their gemhearts and provide more fuel for our Soulcasters it will only be a matter of time before we can strike at the heart of the Plains and attack the Parshendi directly. The stormcasters are getting better, we could strike during a lull in the highstorms and finish this war quickly.” 

At the other end of the table, Sebarial sat higher in his chair, openly scoffing. He wore a bright yellow Takama that appeared poorly fitted, and was stained from some wine likely spilled earlier in the evening. “A march out into that!?” He shouted, gesturing with his cup towards the Plains. “Are you mad! During a highstorm we’ll be swept away like so much crem!” 

His outburst summoned another cacophony of shouts amongst the highprinces, all shouting over one another trying to get the king’s ear, who sat apparently unconcerned, sipping his wine and looking down at Aroden again, a barely disguised disgust on his face. Aroden sank lower into his chair, glowering, and looked over to Sadeas for support, who too, apparently felt much the same as him with how they shared a glance. 

This was always going to be like corralling whitespines, but storms if they could just work together for a few weeks, I’d have parshendi heads on spikes right now.

Aroden thought, nodding in thanks at Sadeas for trying. “If that is all, my king, I think I shall take my leave. House Kholin’s forces, as always, are at your humble service, and we shall continue our attacks on the enemy as we find them.” He announced quietly, giving him a bow barely low enough to be proper and stepped off, not bothering to push his chair in, Sadeas also departed, along with Aroden’s bodyguards following them at a respectful distance. Once they had descended from the platform Aroden let his frustration show.

“I’ll never understand that man, highprince, I truly never will. He stands on my brother’s grave and demands a war to avenge him, but trusts nobody to actually carry it out, while building pretty open air dining halls!” He growled, his fists tight at his side. 

Sadeas, as always, calmed him, raising a cautioning hand and stepping closer, a guarded expression on his face. “That man, your nephew, is still our king, brightlord. It cannot be helped. Despite the difficulties between Dalinar and I, you must know that House Sadeas stands with you, despite your particularities.” He said, his frown turning into a small, ribbing smirk. “And come now, we’ve shed blood together, Torol is acceptable in less formal settings.” He patted his shoulder again, in his paternal way, and Aroden grimaced before nodding, slowly continuing away from the feasting basin.

“Thank you for trying, Torol. I do appreciate it. You’re a good friend. Perhaps when my Dalinar returns to us, the Blackthorn will whip them into shape, if his journey enlightens him, and he doesn’t come back the same useless drunk he departed as.” He said, growling out the final words. 

It all came back to Dalinar. Storming Dalinar. Drunken Dalinar. Violence incarnate. The Blackthorn. A worthless husband, a vengeful cur, and the one who had tried to take Evi from him. His thoughts drifted back to her now. Perhaps she was reading one of the books he’d given her back in Kholinar. How he would love to be anywhere else with her right now. He imagined her gleaming hair, her golden eyes, the way she fixated on him when he read to her. Treacherous thoughts for a warcamp, and he wondered how much better things would be if she were here with him.

No, not here. She would detest the violence and I should know it. I would not inflict that on her.

He stared out onto the expanse of the Plains one more time, Sadeas standing next to him, offering silent support before mounting his warhorse. 

“I’ve known and fought with Dalinar for many years, Aroden. He’s a shadow of himself now. I hope it isn’t an insult to say I think you’ve led his army far better than he ever will again. I’m heading back to my camp, but mayhaps soon we’ll hunt one of these chasm beasts together? I find it's a refreshing break from the tedium!” He said with a smirk, raising his hand in salute as he rode off, his own guards accompanying him. Aroden watched him ride off, before turning to the stable and mounting Windsinger and patting her neck fondly, the nearly treasonous words echoing in his ears. He had never thought himself a warrior…but storms, he had to admit that he was good at it. If Dalinar ever arrived from the West, he resolved to speak to him on the matter. He wouldn’t be relegated to the scribes again. He would keep leading men into battle, as was his right. Maybe then, just maybe, they’d win this damn war.

He rode off, taking one last look at the feasting platform and smirked, one of the sphere lanterns near where he had been sitting had gone dun, leaving the king in darkness. The fool’s servants hadn’t bothered to ensure they were fully charged before the feast, and he could dimly hear Elhokar yelling furiously about it.

Chapter Text

1162

Aroden

The Weeping started a few days before they arrived at the Kholin warcamp in Jah Keved. The unrelenting mist blown by errant winds this far West was certainly annoying, and Aroden was certainly annoyed by the constant need to wipe the water dripping down his forehead into his eyes every few moments, but they still made good time. Adolin and Renarin were handling the cold rain fine, but poor Evi shivered in the saddle, to say nothing of their servants, likely utterly unused to riding horses instead of following along in a chull hauled wagon as they would on a normal light-eyed progress. His cloak clung limply to his figure, heavy and dripping on his horse’s flanks, the only sound on the road the wet clopping of their horse’s hooves and an occasional gust of wind through the trees.

Aroden saw it then, as they crested the last hill, Kholin blue flags with the glyphs of the house fluttering on them in the breeze, their fabric weighed down with the consistent dreary rain. His bodyguards rode ahead, hailing the sentries at the edge of the camp.They passed through quickly erected Soulcast stone walls and wooden barricades, tents lining certain areas and storm bunkers and permanent Soulcast structures demonstrating that this was a camp in permanent transition. Something properly defensible should it be raided, but easy enough to depart quickly from if a larger force of Veden cavalry assaulted and they needed to fall back. The Kholin flag flew highest over the battlements, but flags of other highlords flew as well. None of the other highprinces had joined Dalinar’s army, but they’d sent token forces led by their own generals to ensure their desires were represented. 

He stopped the horses outside of what was once a Veden lodge, simple and small, with two posted sentries out front. Aroden dismounted his horse and assisted Evi next, the boys managing fine on their own, he brushed her shoulders in a familiar fashion, their time on the road together lessening the importance of propriety in his mind. She smiled at him in a way that made his heart break all over again as he turned, patting his mare on the neck, stepping forward with the family as the door to the lodge swung open. Dalinar stood there, wearing a dark blue Kholin uniform modeled somewhat like a takama, a small side knife tucked at his belt, but otherwise seemingly unarmed. Aroden knew better though, he wouldn’t trust himself to last more than ten seconds in a duel with the Blackthorn wielding Oathbringer, even if he had his own Shards.

“Highprince, we’ve arrived. May I present your wife and children.” Aroden said evenly, but with his best attempt at a friendly smile. 

Dalinar nodded at him once, his lips a thin line. “We didn’t expect you for some time, Aroden.” He said simply stepping past him to greet Evi, and to look at Adolin, his eyes darting around the warcamp in wonder, and Renarin, who seemed overwhelmed. 

“Well I’m not one to bring needless supplies to a campaign. We all thought it best to arrive here quickly.” Aroden said, following him as Dalinar met Evi’s eyes, taking her free hand at her side.

“Well good. I’ve been using this lodge as my command post, but it also has spare rooms set aside for you, and my sons.” Dalinar told Evi, as Aroden felt entirely cut out of the conversation. The two talked in muttered tones, Dalinar asking a few questions of Evi about the state of the royal household while Aroden took a few steps away, his eyes flickering over the warcamp entrapped in the haze of the Weeping, suddenly wondering why he’d even bothered to come. As the family made to enter the lodge, Aroden suddenly spoke up, a flame building within him from some hidden place deep inside.

He dismisses me so easily? Expecting me to ride back to the capitol with my tail between my legs after weeks in the saddle? No. I’m no mere courier. 

“And where shall I serve, Highprince? I don’t intend to ride all the way back to Kholinar on my own. I’m good with a blade, allow me to serve here, as is my right.” 

Aroden asked, suddenly stepping closer to the group. Evi seemed shocked at the outburst, her eyes flickering with alarm for a second while Dalinar looked him in the eyes with an inscrutable look again. There was a pause, both men refusing to blink first before Dalinar spoke.

“You’ll be quartered with one of the battalion lords under General Khan then. I’ll be assigning you as one of my personal scribes. Maybe your letters will do you some good there.” He said simply, turning away and leading his family into the lodge, leaving Aroden out in the misting rain alone. He kicked a loose rock across the courtyard, the sharp crack the only sound in the empty space and fought down the urge to shout in rage. 

A scribe. That’s all I am to him. 

Aroden had led campaigns before, had bloodied his blade, though he preferred not to.Yet Dalinar thought, simply because he could read, that he wasn’t capable of command. That he deserved a woman’s posting. Evi hadn’t even thought to complain. He knew that was unfair. He couldn’t expect her to defy her husband like that publicly, but the thought still smarted. He left the courtyard, finding a quartermaster who pointed him to his lodgings and allowed him to draw some equipment as he entered a more spacious stormbunker than most. Whichever light-eyes he was bunking with was not within, giving him privacy as he gratefully stripped out of his soaked traveling clothes and donned a Kholin blue uniform with a waxed outer cloak, donning it before stepping back out into the darkening mist, the sun about to set over the hazy plateaus. 

As he walked to one of the scribes' tents he paused for a moment at one of the pitiful cooking fires in the open air, where a few soldiers had obviously heated up some sort of porridge of Soulcast grain to the best of their abilities before giving up. They sat hunched over under one of the gutters of their stormbunker, eating the watered down mush and giving him a wide berth, their eyes gazing at him suspiciously as he stared into the sputtering flames. A few ashspren flickered in and out of view over the amber coals and wet wood, one of them spinning around him a few times before vanishing. He took a deep breath in, the scent of smoke filling his nostrils and calming himself for a few moments. He would make the best of this. He would prove to Dalinar his worth, just as he had proven himself to Gavilar. 

He nodded to himself and continued, leaving the fire, the logs sputtering and sparking as he continued on, one of the ashspren spinning around him a final time as he entered the main scribes tent. A few dark-eyed messengers moved from table to table, taking copied messages from spanreeds to their particular commanders, but the center of the room held a half dozen span-reeds on desks, all with a female scribe at them scribbling away. One of them looked up at the sound of the tent flap rippling open as he stepped inside, and he removed the hood of his cloak, his hand rubbing the pommel of the sidesword on his belt.

“I’m Aroden Kholin, recently arrived from Kholinar. I’m to serve the highprince as one of his battlefield scribes. Please, help me familiarize myself with your routing techniques and the officers you’re communicating with.” He said simply, doing his best to make the request seem as normal as possible. To her credit, the young light-eyed woman with auburn hair only nodded once, her eyes a little wide as the unusual circumstance of a male scribe, and set her pen down on the table. 

“Of course, brightlord. I am Danlan Morakotha, I serve as my father’s scribe. I believe you know him. She said quietly, giving him a quick tour of the space as well as a small satchel of parchment and writing implements used to pass messages to runners. 

“This camp is the main routing location for most messages to generals and officers, battalion lords and higher, though we’ve connected spanreeds to some of our more outlying outposts. I…will you be writing in glyphs, or full script? I’ve…I’ve heard you’re fluent but.” He hesitated, her green eyes flickering to hers for a moment as she stuttered.

“I can write in both, but likely glyphs in case any of the men need to interpret their orders themselves. Frankly I find it ridiculous that a fighting man can’t read their own orders if it comes down to it.” He said frankly, a teasing glint in his eyes. 

She swallowed at that, an embarrassed flush threatening to creep up her neck before she nodded again. “Certainly, I can see the benefit of that, only…it does go against tradition, does it not?” 

“Tradition is only well and good until your forces are surrounded and you’re defeated, Brightness.” Aroden said firmly, sitting at one of the open spanreed desks, one connected to Kholinar. He wrote out the glyphs briskly, little artistry in his strokes as he communicated with the scribe on the other end, informing them of his arrival. He waited until a trusted scribe was on the other end to inform Gavilar that he’d encountered nobody of interest on the road and he was awaiting further instructions. Danlan read the script over his shoulder but seemed none the wiser about the communication as he stood up, rolling up the spanreed suddenly and tucking it under his arm.

“The king has special business for me while I’m here, so I’ll be taking this particular spanreed, assuming you have spares connected to the capitol?” He asked, buttoning his cloak around his neck again.

“That shouldn’t be a problem, Brightlord. I…I look forward to serving alongside you.” She offered, giving him a small bow as he reopened the flap of the tent. 

“Yes I’m told I’m terrific company when arrows are being slung at me.” He quipped, leaving the tent with a smirk over his shoulder. He sought out the sentries first, asking sergeants in charge of the perimeter postings if any foreigners had been sighted riding East besides Vedens, keeping his questions opaque as instructed. There was of course, nothing to report, and as such he returned to his quarters, altogether about as damp and irritated as when he’d first arrived in camp, but he forced himself to think positively about the situation. He was here, doing as his brother instructed, and Evi and her sons were here safely. As he sat on the bedroll in his room he sighed, exhausted.

Gavilar seemed to trust him, even admire him at this point. The thought made him feel odd. After his father passed, it was Gavilar’s generosity that had prevented him from growing up an urchin or an unnoticed ardent tucked away in a temple somewhere, but he had never paid much attention to Aroden growing up, until he had asked for his assistance with a few strange goals. Aroden suspected Gavilar was just one part of a bigger organization, and his goals differed slightly from those of the others. Aroden knew, however, not to question these things. If he could continue to gain his brother’s respect, he’d finally receive validation, and that was enough.

And I’ve discovered something he hasn’t. I’m the first.

He’d sworn what he strongly suspected to be the First Ideal of the Knight’s Radiant. Stubbornly though, nothing had seemed to change. There was precious little knowledge on exactly how the Radiant’s used their Surgebinding, and it wasn’t like he had much privacy on the road or here in the war camp to practice. He didn’t feel any closer to being a Herald or one of their holy warriors, but he suspected there was just one more missing piece he didn’t have that would explain everything. When the time was right, he’d reveal what he’d learned to Gavilar in exchange for…

For what? Respect? A title? What do I want?

To be treated like a full brother. He decided. No longer just a stain on their father’s honor, but a full appointment. Not that he cared much for a particular title over another, but a chance to cease the whispering behind his back. An end to the disrespect with something the courtiers and highprinces would understand. Legitimization.

He settled back into his bedroll, propping himself up on one arm and wishing he had something to read. Something besides Nohadon’s proverbs or strategic maps. A chance to lose himself and avoid responsibilities for a moment. A distraction did come though, as a camp servant rapped on the edge of his door frame. Aroden looked up, surprised as he announced the arrival before departing, and Evi stepped in, dressed in new dry clothes, her safehand buttoned up in an Alethi dress and wearing a small satchel at her waist. She gave him a shy smile and sat on the small camp stool in his room, across from him. 

“You’ve settled in well enough. How is the lodge?” Aroden asked evenly, sitting up and steepling his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Rather cozy actually. Adolin is overjoyed at squiring for his father, and there are ardents here to oversee Renarin’s education.” Evi responded, brushing a damp lock of golden hair out of her face. 

The two looked at one another for a moment, neither wishing to discuss the continued whitespine in the room between them.

“Thank you, for escorting us here, Aroden. Dalinar appreciates it. This appointment to the scribes isn’t meant to be insulting, he only wishes for you to be used to the best of your abilities.” Evi finally said, fiddling with her safe-pouch.

“Mmmh, yes well I’m certainly good at taking notes while the real men do the fighting--overwhelmed with blood lust until they can’t tell friend from foe.” Aroden responded cooly, scratching his stubble. 

“Aroden…you should consider it a blessing to avoid the fighting. I thought you didn’t care for it anyway, what is the point in harboring anger towards Dalinar for it?” Evi pleaded, reaching out towards him and taking his hand in her free-hand. 

“It doesn’t matter what I want, Evi. It’s about appearances. I want to be taken seriously. How am I to do that sitting at a desk with a damn spanreed? I’ve business here, for the king, that’s why I’m staying, but Dalinar repays my service with insult after insult. I grow tired of it.” He said, starting quietly but finishing with a raised voice, standing from his bed and pacing in the small room. 

“Ah, so you’d abandon Renarin, then? The progress you’ve made with him, purely for purposes of ego?” Evi challenged, standing as well and meeting his gaze.

Aroden was suddenly aware of their close proximity together in the small space, the way their breath intermingled, and did his best to step back, his legs hitting the bed behind him. His breath hitched, and he crossed his arms, looking into those beautiful golden eyes of hers.

“If you came here to ask me to stay, and put up with this insult…rest assured I’ll remain here, and I won’t neglect my duties, to the army, to you, or to Renarin. He’s a good lad, our boy.” He said quietly, taking her free-hand again. Her cross features became gracious again, and she smiled, suddenly enveloping him in a warm hug which he returned with one hand, doing his best to maintain propriety despite the intimate setting. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment, then he looked over Evi’s shoulder. He parted from her immediately, his eyes wide as he gently pushed her back. Dalinar stood at the door, his fists tightly closed at his sides, and his eyes like two flecks of coal, stared them both down.

“Our boy? What is this?” Dalinar rasped, stepping into the space.

“It was a jest, Dalinar. I’m fond of Renarin, and I’ve been training him since you departed.” Aroden said quickly, raising his hands placatingly and stepping closer to Dalinar, gently guiding Evi behind him. 

The first punch came like a crossbow bolt, right in his stomach, more than knocking the wind out of Aroden’s stomach and sending him to a knee with a ragged cough. Another punch came soon after, Dalinar grabbing his hair to smash his other fist across his jaw. He tasted blood, could dimly hear a woman’s scream as his vision flickered out, greying at the edges as he did his best to scramble to his feet. Then, Dalinar lifted him, slamming him against the Soulcast wall, his grip tight around his neck.

“Is the boy even mine? I’ll not be made a cuckold in my own camp!” Dalinar shouted, pummeling his face again and again. Aroden felt for anything, a weapon, a handhold, but found none. He did the only thing he could, bringing his knee up and striking Dalinar in the groin as hard as he could. Dalinar grunted, but his blood was up, his eyes red at the edges as the Thrill overtook him. Aroden grasped at Dalinar’s hands around his neck, now utterly desperate as his lungs burned and his vision blackened. He tried to rasp out something, anything, to explain, but the grip was too tight, and gradually he felt his body going slack.

Then suddenly it all relented, as at the edge of his consciousness, he heard a loud smack. He collapsed to the ground, rasping for breath and clutching at his throat, every muscle in his body protesting as he looked up to see a red mark on Dalinar’s face. Evi stood tall and proud as she wrung her hands together, having smacked her husband soundly across the face.

“Your brother has never done a thing improper to me, Dalinar. He has been there for us, while you’ve been at war. That is all. If you would accuse me. Do so to my face. I am a princess, a lady of Alethkar. Your sons are yours, and I have been nothing but true to you!” She confessed, shouting with all her might as she fought back tears. Aroden’s heart broke yet again as he slid back down along the wall, clutching his stomach and groaning weakly. 

All at once, the fight left Dalinar. He seemed smaller now, deflated. And as he looked between his wife and his half-brother, Aroden thought he saw shame cross his features. He never learned more however, his head suddenly feeling very full and heavy. His last sight was Dalinar standing over him, his hands bloody, as he stared down at him.

1168

Aroden

Aroden shouted in alarm as a wave of parshendi archers suddenly crested the other plateau. He barely had time to get his shield up, most of the wave of arrows blessedly missing him and most of his honor guard as they charged in to fill the breach. A line of archers in his back lines returned fire, knocking down a few of the enemy, but many survived to fire another wave of the projectiles as his men hunkered down for the blows. This was the way of things now. A few hundred yards ahead of them, the chasmfiend chrysalis sat tantalizingly out of reach, the parshendi around it cracking at its shell with hammers, even as Kholin forces did their best to surge forward on the plateau, the lines dancing back and forth, but the humans never being able to gain a more serious foothold than a few yards beyond their own bridgehead. Aroden cursed as a parshendi charged him, knocking aside one of the shields of his honor guard. 

This new variety of parshendi was bigger, stronger, and able to leap a chasm easily and fight with strength beyond that of a standard spearman. It wouldn’t stop him. They locked eyes for a moment, and Aroden was suddenly aware of the twinkling light around the creature’s face. Gemstones, he realized, infused with Stormlight and woven into its beard.

“ Reach out. Burn him.” A voice said in his head. 

No. A fantasy. I can’t do it.

Aroden thought back, bringing his blade forward instead, stabbing the creature through the chest with a single, well timed blow. He raised his shield as another parshendi took his fallen comrade’s place, preparing for another attack, when a wave of shining blue suddenly joined him at his right. Adolin’s faceplate stared at him silently, though Aroden could easily imagine the smirking face of his nephew looking down at him as he held his Shardblade out in Windstance, and Aroden nodded at him.

“We’ll be your support squad. Clear us a path, Adolin!” Aroden shouted over the battlefield din, nodding to his honor guard as they fanned out and Adolin began his attack, sweeping the Shardblade over his opponents, a wave of smoke leaving bodies as they fell easily before them. Aroden surged forward, ensuring he kept his distance from Adolin so as to not limit his striking options, but picking up a fallen spear and warding off the enemy to ensure Adolin wouldn’t be surrounded. 

His boots crushed on the crem covered ground, slick with blood as the Kholin forces finally fought out of their bottleneck, surging forward in a charge towards the chasmfiend as the parshendi lines broke. He raised his sword high, covered in parshendi blood as sappers charged forward, wielding massive hammers to crack through the chrysalis as spearmen took up defensive positions, Adolin taking the opportunity in the lull to remove his helmet and grin at him in the bloody aftermath, his other hand still gripping his Blade as he scanned the area. 

“Well fought. This is a big one.” He said with a smirk, brushing his blonde and black locks out of his face. 

“Yes well, I had it in hand before you showed up I’ll have you know.” Aroden responded with a smile of his own, clapping Adolin’s armored shoulder with a dull thunk. Turning to regard the chrysalis and the men chipping away at it, as Adolin approached with his Sharblade to make the work far easier. 

He turned to his honor guard and scribes, already gathering casualty figures as healers approached across the bridge, already tending to the wounded and loading them on stretchers. His focus was interrupted, however, by a sudden cacophony of shouts and disruption behind him. He stood taller, stepping up on a small outcropping of stone near the edge of the plateau and peered back over the bridge. What he saw made his heart jump up into his throat. A wave of parshendi, flanking back around behind his forces, and already leaping onto the plateaus behind him, cutting off their retreat. The forces they had originally routed, turned back now and started slinging their arrows at his men. Thankfully, they’d already harvested the gemheart from the chrysalis, and Adolin responded swiftly, donning his helmet again and joining Aroden and his honor guard, regrouping around him while they fought back the parshendi attack.

“Fall back! Across the bridge! Sappers! Make ready the new weapon!” Aroden shouted as another parshendi fighting pair jumped upon him. He blocked the first few strikes, knocking one back with his shield and managing to slay the other before Adolin stepped in front of him, waving his Shardblade in complex and wide arcs to keep their fighters back while the army slowly inched back towards the bridge. As they reached the bridge Adolin dared a look back, thankfully seeing some lines of spearmen forming to meet the attack coming from behind them. The look also allowed him to sidestep his latest project, hammered into the earth quickly by the sappers behind them. 

He stepped back quickly, waiting for Adolin to finally retreat back with him onto the wood planks of the bridge as one of the sappers stepped forward, igniting the fuse with a torch. The dipped rope burned quickly, sizzling up to the dozen metal tubes hammered into the stone at an angle arced out at the end of the bridge, and Aroden plugged his ears, feeling sorry for Adolin who could do no such thing wearing his Shardplate helmet. He forced himself to watch as the tubes, filled with powder, crem, and arrowheads and stones at the bases, suddenly ignited. Two of the Soulcast metal tubes outright exploded, packed improperly and sending shrapnel flying everywhere, one particularly jagged piece impacting Adolin’s breastplate, cracking it with an eerie shriek. A few more embedded themselves in the wooden support arches of the bridge, but the rest exploded and tore through the parshendi lines. The others fired as intended, and the cacophony of explosions and the shockwave tore through the enemy, killing what must have been hundreds of them as the others further back paused warily, horror on their faces at the destruction.

Aroden could only dully grin at the success, his ears ringing due to the proximity of the blasts, despite plugging his ears, and they advanced across the bridge, dragging it back and allowing it to fall into the chasm. The pashendi may have been able to leap chasms now, but he wasn’t going to allow them to waltz across their bridge to attack them easily if he could help it. He pitied the sight of good wood and materials tumbling uselessly into the chasm below, but it couldn’t be helped, he rolled his shoulders as his officers gathered around him, looking to him for leadership as he prepared for the slog ahead. Lines of spearmen engaged the enemy, officers with their swords engaged in the melee as the Alethi did their best to maintain battle lines in the chaos, but it was clearly a slog, his forces unable to maneuver on the narrow plateau. His eyes searched the horizon, flicking back to the warcamps, hoping Sadeas may be coming for reinforcements, but it was for naught. They had an agreement now, alternating strikes for gemhearts on occasion, and he knew even if he were to come, it would take time to gather his men. 

“Charge them, unleash yourself, burn them all.”

The voice in his head spoke again, but he buried those feelings deep inside himself. They weren’t real. He would fight here. He would live. He would see Evi again. His eyes flickered to Adolin, who nodded silently as they charged into the fray along with his honorguard, and Aroden for once, surrendered to the Thrill. He allowed its embrace to invigorate him, his sword a whirlwind of devastation as he fought alongside his nephew and fellow officers, the Alethi making ground and pushing the enemy back off the plateau. As he brought his blade down with finality, slaying a parshendi man with a stab through the chest, he was knocked to the ground, the breath knocked out of him by an all powerful force. He slashed out blindly at the threat, but the blow bounced harmlessly off of his attacker. A parshendi wearing full Shardplate. He gasped at that, bellowing out a warming to Adolin who turned instantly to meet the threat, their two Shardblades keening against one another as Blade met Blade with a dull ring. 

Aroden scrambled to his feet and swung his sword at the back of the parshendi’s helmet. The armor cracked, but remained intact, and Aroden had to cease his attack and leap back as the parshendi swung its Blade in a wide arc, nearly severing him in half as he stumbled backwards on the uneven ground. Adolin had to turn to protect himself, another wave of parshendi surging forward and launching a devastating series of blows that overwhelmed him, forcing him to give ground, leaving Aroden alone on his back as the Shardbearer stepped forward, its Blade raised for the killing blow. He raised his own blade, though he knew it would be useless, and said a silent prayer to the Almighty, when suddenly, a wall of plain grey Plate flew into his vision. It launched a devastating flurry of blow after blow on the Shardbearer, sending it sputtering back, suddenly on the defensive as its Plate cracked in a half dozen places and it was forced to retreat. A surge of fresh Kholin troops surged forward from the warcamps, and the parshendi, Sharbearer included, decided discretion was the better part of valor, and retreated quickly, leaving their dead behind as they leaped from the plateau, a few pairs of archers covering their retreat, back deep into the Plains.

Aroden stepped to his feet, shakily, and regarded his savior. His half-brother, the Blackthorn. His face was covered by his helmet, but he wordlessly extended his hand to shake while the other held Oathbringer. Aroden, wary, took it anyway, his armored gauntlet groaning in mild protest as it was gripped. Dalinar Kholin had arrived at the Shattered Plains, the king had his general. 

Woe to those who stand against us.

He and the voice both thought together.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

1167

Aroden drifted listlessly through the stone halls of the royal keep, one foot in front of the other, a bottle of blue wine sloshing on the floor with each alternating step. Occasionally he would pause, leaning on a wall or a windowsill to quaff some of it, looking disgusted when some of it would spill on his blouse, unbuttoned halfway down and barely covered by the foul-smelling stench of his black long coat. His face was haggard, his eyes red. His normally clean shaven face, overgrown with stubble. He hadn’t bathed in a week. None of that mattered not with…with-

No I…I can’t.

“You need to storming accept it.”

He retched out of an open window, the sound of liquids and solids hitting the stone below. Thankfully it was an opening overlooking a rocky outcropping above the keep, and not a patio or a city street below. He took another pull from the bottle only to find it was empty. He simply left the bottle on the sill, before suddenly being seized by a fancy and giving it a gentle push with one finger, attempting to nudge it over the edge where it would shatter. Annoyingly, it held there for a moment, softly glowing as he turned and realized one of the sphere lanterns near him had gone dun. He grunted loudly, swatting at the glass to get it to light again, stumbling in the process. Further down the corridor, normal, burning torches crackled, and a single wispy ashpren appeared from it, hovering near him in the form of a tiny man with translucent skin, black clothing fluttering in an unseen breeze, arms crossed in a cross between disgust and anger.

“This isn’t what I storming signed up for. Get a hold of yourself. She’s go-”

“Eat chull shit and leave me to die.” Aroden responded venomously, shoving the bottle out the window as the Stormlight from his Surge ran out, listening for the shattering glass below.

A few parshendi passed him then, wearing strange robes and looking decidedly confused at the sight of the Alethi brightlord apparently cursing himself. He gave them a smoldering, lingering look before turning back towards the view. 

Crab heads think to judge me? They’re only here because Galivar finds them intriguing. Storm them. Storm them all.

Gavilar. After the events on the border with Jah Keved, the distance between them had grown back again. No longer was Aroden invited to meetings with the strange scholars and Western travelers. No longer did he greet him with a warm smile or a pat on his shoulder. He’d been resigned to his old posting as head of the city guard, and even that title was nominal. He’d left Kholinar thinking he was on his way to princedom, and he returned with cracked ribs, a broken nose, a nearly crushed windpipe, and deep and lasting shame, all for a discretion he had never committed. Evi had accompanied him with Renarin, though Adolin had stayed behind with Dalinar at the man’s insistence. His fingers traced the scar over the bridge of his nose from his beating as he stared, dead-eyed, at the setting sun over the wall of the city.

“You were a different man once, with convictions, what happened to him? You’ll throw it all away because of one night?” Ember demanded with a shout, the ashspren suddenly flying into his face. 

Aroden coughed and stepped back, expecting the acrid smell of smoke to fill his sinuses, instead, there was nothing. The smoke wasn’t corporeal, only a part of the ashspren’s form. The scholar in him would have questioned that, if it still lived. If he still cared. Instead he continued down the hallway, looking for drink.

“You’re acting just like him, you know. Your damned brother. He’d even make a better Radiant than you right now. Dalinar Kholin is many things but he seems like he knows how to destroy something!”

Aroden halted immediately, heedless of the guards at the end of the room staring at him incredulously, apparently speaking to nothing.

“Don’t compare me to him. Don’t you dare to presume that I am anything like that monster. He took…he…” Aroden sputtered weakly, leaning heavily against one of the keep walls and a treasonous tear started leaking out of his eye, his hand weakly grasped into fists as a wave of nausea hit him.

“And her? What would she think if she saw you like this?” Ember hissed in his ear, his form wavering like the smoke from a recently extinguished candle.

He rounded on the ashspren, stepping up to another window and resting his arms on the sill. Ember paused, their faces only inches apart as Aroden’s face reddened in anger and drunkenness, trembling with rage.

“ Do not mention her name! ” He shouted in rage, his hands gripping the sill like a vice. A vein in his neck pulsed rapidly, and he dearly wished the annoying little spren were more corporeal. “Mention her again. Weaponize her against me, and I will break the Oath, and you will die, you treacherous little creature.” He growled, his eyes narrowing to narrow slits as he hunched over, meeting the ashspren’s gaze. 

“You…you wouldn’t dare. Think of what I can offer you…” Ember said weakly, suddenly appearing somewhat smaller, more a wisp of smoke than anything else.

“Reality…is whatever I make of it. That is what power is, Ember.” He said with a growl, his scowl deepening even further. “My thoughts are my own. I will aid you in your goals, and in return, I ask for you to leave me to my grief, leave me to my drink, and please…please don’t mention her again.” He finished weakly, suddenly feeling utterly sick. 

He returned to his rooms, staggering, where he pulled out a hidden bottle of wine from a bookshelf, tucked behind old tomes that once held some meaning to him, and drank deeply. He didn’t need to hide his drink from Dalinar in here, and the man preferred purple wine to blue besides, but a sense of what, shame? Kept him from displaying the bottle openly in these rooms. These rooms where he and Evi had once read together, where he’d stayed up on late nights studying the secrets of the ancient days of the Radiant. 

He simply wished for the ache to be gone. For her to…see him again.

But he knew such things could never be. Not in present circumstances. He closed his eyes tightly, sitting on the edge of the bed and pressing his palms into his sockets. His mind grew more muddled as the liquor did its work, and he laid back on his bed. He knew he should be dressed and in the grand hall. He should be at Gavilar’s side when he met his esteemed guests, the Parshendi leadership signing the incredibly generous trading agreement that he himself had helped broker in a small way. An attempt to get back into Gavilar’s good graces. But he found he simply didn’t care. Let him be missed. Let him be the disappointment to the Kholin name.

Ember drifted over him, and he opened one eye to regard the little floating man, noticing for the first time that with every moment, skin and sinew seemed to…evaporate off of him, exposing bone before instantly reforming. He had a complex expression on his face, as if one could express pain, anger, and empathy all at once.

“That was…ill said, Ember. I’m sorry. Grief is…a complex process. I make no excuses, only…give me time.” He said weakly, resting his head against the pillow.

“You will not make it again, Aroden. We swore a pact of our own that day. One I intend to hold you to. I can be patient, my people have been nothing but for thousands of years, but some day, you must fulfil your purpose. Not just for me and mine, but for yourself.” He said genuinely, coming to rest on the post of his bed. “Sober up. Mayhaps tomorrow we can train. Get your mind off things for a while. You’re only a fifth of the way to your true potential after all.” He said with a wry grin.

Aroden didn’t respond, simply closing his eyes and rolling over, allowing a fitful, rocking sleep to take him.

He awoke to screams. Shouting. Dimly aware, he stumbled to his feet as a guard just outside his door screamed in alarm. His chamber was dark, not even a candle lit on his nightstand. In the midnight light of a single moon he stumbled to his feet, buckling on his sword belt as the floor shifted beneath him. He yanked a pouch of spheres off the table, tied shut, and shoved it into his beltline as well. He practically ripped the door off its hinges as he stepped out into pure horror. A guard in Kholin blue lay dead at his feet, not a single drop of blood spilled, but his eyes burned out of his skull. Another guard lay nearby, impaled by…a spear? Like he’d been thrown on it from above. He recoiled in horror, but charged on, following the screams.

Storms! That’s towards Gavilar’s chambers!

He took off at a run, heedless of the dun sphere lamps along the hallway, stumbling towards the chaos. He saw a man in Shardplate battling a child with a glowing blade. He nearly fell as he stumbled around the corner, righting himself and drawing his Blade. The king’s bodyguard was fighting…no, not a child, a Shin man, dressed in white. And he was losing. The assassin leaped from wall to wall, dancing around the Shardbearer in a ballet of death as his Shardblade seemed like a ribbon in the air. It was all misdirection, after catching the Shardbearer in the midsection with his Blade, cracking the plate, the assassin raised a foot there and kicked him backwards into the door of the king’s chamber, splintering the wood and sending him stumbling. The assassin readied himself, likely to take off after Gavilar, who had likely fled, when he saw Aroden standing there, staring him down.

“I need Division.” He thought to Ember, desperately, his knuckles white on the pommel of his sword as he drew it, willing himself to stand upright as the assassin cocked his head, eyeing him to see if he was a true threat.

“Heh, you’re nowhere storming near ready for Division, friend.” Ember said bitterly. “You know Skybreakers train for yea-” 

“Me or my brother will be dead in SECONDS if I don’t have it now!” He interrupted, letting out a yell and running down the hallway with his blade up. He managed a single breath of the Stormlight at his belt and willed the energy out, desperately hoping to…what? Surgebind the air around his blade? Set the assassin on fire? He leaped to the side as one of the tapestries near a regular torch suddenly burst into flames, causing the assassin’s eyes to flicker to the fire. 

The distraction lasted half of a second, not nearly enough time for Aroden to do much. He staggered to the side as the assassin’s Shardblade swiped at him. He dodged it by less than an inch, blindly swiping out with his own steel blade and catching nothing but air as the assassin jumped onto the wall. Desperately, Aroden stumbled back as he was attacked from above, the flames from the tapestry leaping to another further ahead of him, towards the king’s chambers. With the little Stormlight he had left in his body he reached out for something, anything, and as the assassin moved to strike, leaping for him with the white Blade flashing, Aroden fell onto his back, the assassin brought his Blade down where he’d been a second before, his feet stuck in place in the stone.

The Shin man looked at his own feet curiously for a second before willing them to move, grunting against the Adhesion, and Aroden used his moment to attack, swinging his blade in a violent arc to strike at the man’s shoulder. And then the Surge gave out. Mid swing he desperately tried to pull in more Stormlight, but the Shin was already moving, his Blade singing through the air. Aroden collapsed, his legs feeling numb. Was it the drink? Why was the liquor affecting him so strongly now? He collapsed, looking up at the assassin dumbly before looking down at his own legs, and then at the Blade…realizing he’d been sliced neatly at the navel. The Shin man stepped over him slowly, raising the Blade to settle the matter rightly.

“A coincidence, nothing more. I am Truthless.” The Shin man said quietly, perhaps to himself. He once would have questioned that, but he was exhausted and more than ready to meet his end.

Aroden closed his eyes and awaited the strike. He’d die a failure. One who couldn’t protect hose he loved.

He heard a violent crash. The Shardbearer had righted himself and was landing a series of devastating blows on the assassin’s Shardblade, who blocked every strike but was obviously becoming more desperate. The Shin retreated into the king’s chambers, flinging pieces of furniture at the Shardbearer with his Lashings. Aroden tried to follow, grunting in frustration and anger as he dragged his useless legs behind him. The Shin managed a devastating blow on the Shardbearer, shattering his helm, as Aroden realized who was in the armor. Gavilar.

“Brother!” He shouted with all his might, dragging himself more quickly as the flames from the corridor started to spread inside the chamber, splinters of wood and tomes starting to catch alight. 

He took in more and more ragged breaths, dimly aware of Stormlight entering his body and slowly healing him. An ability he hadn’t known he had, but one he desperately wished would work faster. The king stepped back onto the balcony. And then it happened. 

The Shin man lashed the balcony. Aroden stared helplessly at his brother. His one true friend left in the world. The man who had made him, who had once trusted him. They locked eyes. 

The king fell.

When the guards found him later, he was catatonic. His eyes wide as saucers, staring off into nothing. The fire had destroyed the king’s chambers, but that mattered little now…there was no king in Kholinar. Aroden was miraculously unharmed, and he was numbly commended for his apparent bravery by Navani later that evening when it was apparent that he had tried to fight off the assassin. Aroden didn’t care. Aroden barely blinked. Aroden was a shell. Loss enveloped him. Every failure in his life seemed to suffocate his very being. He needed the pain to go away. Needed something to anchor him. Something to keep him whole just long enough to bring vengeance on those who had cost him everything.

Reality is…whatever I make of it.  

1173

Aroden awoke with a shout within his quarters on the Shattered Plains, his side knife in his hand, stabbing at the throat of the Assassin in White, who, in his mind’s eye, was hovering above him with an evil grin. He cursed aloud, tossing the blade back down onto his night stand and sitting up with a groan. Why that dream? Why today? 

Bits and pieces of memories were coming to him now, differently than he recalled. On that night, he hadn’t been drunk, had he? He distinctly recalled a final meeting with Gavilar that night, reminding him of his oaths. Telling him to find the most important words a man could say. In the dim morning light, he saw Ember staring at him, concern flashing across his tiny features. 

“Rough night?” He offered, extending his hand and landing on Aroden’s knee.

“Dalinar’s visions. My insomnia. Elhokar’s stupidity. The better bunch of us Kholins are storming mad, Ember.” Aroden said, brushing the ashspren aside and sitting on the edge of the bed with a groan. 

“If Evi were here she’d calm me. Help me rest. You’d like her.” He said thoughtfully, standing to his feet and stretching his back before starting to don his Kholin blue uniform, one of the facets of the Codes that Dalinar had continued to strictly enforce that Aroden found he didn’t mind.

“Ah yes, her…you humans do seem to do better with a life partner.” Ember said, an odd lilt in his voice as he hovered in front of Aroden, crossing his arms. 

“Evi is more to me than just a life partner. She sees me for who I really am. See's what I'm trying to do with these weapons. Finding a way to end all war, forever.” Aroden responded, buttoning his shirt and pulling on his coat. His uniform was altered slightly, not enough to draw Dalinar’s ire, but enough to remain distinct from the rest of the household. His inner collar was an inky black, along with his sleeve cuffs. He wore dark trousers that met cuffed knee high leather boots, and a sash tied around his belt under his coat was a blood red, perfectly matching the strip of cloth sewn on his left arm, with a set of Alethi glyphs adorning it. “Fire” and “Smoke.” The symbol chosen to designate the sapper corps of the Kholin army. His new pride and joy.

He’d spent countless hours after Gavilar’s death and recovering from his injury pouring over old records. Records from the West, from Shinovar, and even texts from the elder days before the Recreance, and after borrowing a few engineers and ardents in the sudden free time he had following Dalinar’s arrival to the Plains, had developed the primitive weapons he had first utilized five years ago. Saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur, which he had realized crem contained in abundance, produced a flash-quick, igniting powder when left to dry, and when placed in carefully wrapped paper cartridges at the end of a Soulcast metal tube…

“Kaboom.” Aroden said with a wry grin.

Ember eyed him quizzically, both for his earlier comment and his sudden utterance, but only shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and hovering around his head.

“Already thinking about those devices you’ve built instead of learning proper Division?” Ember said with a judgemental grunt, looking down his nose. “You’d rather dig out latrine trenches and gather chull shit than just learn a little self control?”

“I told you, no Division. Its too dangerous. I nearly killed myself the first time I used it.” Aroden said, evenly, his hands tight at his sides.

“Ah yes the…the incident in the chasms, was it?” Ember responded carefully, which Aroden found was odd. The spren was there, after bonding him in his tent following Dalinar’s arrival. He knew the events of that first night, when he managed to ignite the tendrils of roots and decaying fungus at the bottom of the chasm near the warcamps. That first attempt at using the powerful Surge had been a disaster. Everything burned all at once, and Aroden was too foolish to realize that the air from the Stormlight-powered fire had sucked all the air from the chasm. His Stormlight barely supported him before he made it to the top of the ladder, reeking of ash and gasping for breath. 

“Yes it was…it was that. It's too unstable. Flashdust is safe, predictable if measured correctly. Division…its a wonder more of my kind didn’t kill themselves by accident merely practicing.” He said quickly, rubbing his face to get the memory out of his mind and stepping towards the door.

“Yes, many did until they swore at least their Second Ideal. The Skybreakers limit it to those who have sworn the Third. There may have been some wisdom in that.” Ember said glibly, hovering behind him for a moment before vanishing from view as Aroden opened his door and stepped first into the common area of his stormbunker, and then out into the Kholin warcamp. He received a sharp salute from the single bodyguard he rated these days, and waved him off, walking alone along the orderly path before coming to the assembly area he had made into his workshop in recent times. 

Here, engineers and ardents worked side by side, heating and hammering Soulcast bronze and iron, tempering the metal. Soulcast metal was of varying quality, and while he trusted those within the king’s retinue, he knew through painful experience that nothing should be left to chance when dealing with Flashdust. As it was, even with their current control methods, one to two out of every ten flare barrels or mortars they tested ended up exploding spectacularly, in a dangerous blast of shrapnel when utilized, with no way of testing the integrity of the barrels before being used the first time. Aroden would have had the sappers test the weapons more thoroughly and regularly, but bronze was a fickle metal on the best of days. Each test shot potentially risked the integrity of the entire barrel, eventually cracking it. Even if the metal survived, it would be warped by repeated shots, and the tightness of the bore was essential for the mortars at least, to function accurately.

He looked down one of the storage racks of the weapons, nodding at each one and hefting one of the tubes up for inspection. The flare barrel was the simplest and earliest weapon he’d discovered, called a fougasse in some of the ancient texts he’d discovered that were first developed in Azir, though using simple fire and explosive gasses found deep in the earth as their ignition source rather than powder. The concept was simple, a thin bronze tube had a base affixed to it with a single, large iron nail protruding from the bottom. An engineer or sapper would drive the nail into the rocky ground with a large hammer, affixing the tube in place at a set angle, and the barrel would be loaded ideally with a powder charge, and a thin shell full of Soulcast iron balls, though any metal shards or even rocks could be used in a pinch. A fuse was then connected which was dipped in Flashdust. When ignited the mouth of the tube would detonate, sending shrapnel, depending on the amount of powder, blasting as far as fifty yards in an arc around it. 

The issue was portability and ease of set up. Hamming in the devices, setting the fuses, and backing up far enough to not be killed in the resulting detonation took time. Time that was precious when the parshendi and Alethi were both racing for gemhearts. 

Not that we’ve been doing much of that lately.

He remarked to himself bitterly. There was also the issue that the flash barrel required the enemy to willingly walk into their cone of fire, something they were less and less likely to do after Aroden had first introduced the weapon on the Plains years ago. Hence the mortar. A larger tube with a straighter barrel, mounted on a small set of wagon wheels on a cart about the size of a man. Normally another cart accompanied it loaded with the weapon’s requisite powder and ammunition. The carts were man portable, though the enlisted sappers drew lots for the dubious honor of being the ones to push the Flashdust cart with the risk of serious burns or death if the parshendi decided to take flaming arrows to the target. The mortar had a range of several hundred meters, though at that range its accuracy was dubious at best, firing in long slow arcs at a high angle before the balls it fired plummeted onto the enemy from above. 

For its ammunition Aroden again thanked the Soulcasters, who had managed to create hollow iron and bronze shells. Some were simple fragmentation devices, breaking apart and causing havoc as the splintering metal inflicted grievous wounds. The other ammunition types were solid shot for dealing with chasmfiends, and a very very dubious project where the ball was filled with its own charge of Flashdust. That project was being left alone for now, Dalinar personally denying further analysis after a mortar had exploded a few weeks prior, grievously wounding several officers.

Well damn him then. These weapons, in a pitched battle, would absolutely shatter the parshendi, even if they were slow and experimental. He thought back to their last conversation, when Dalinar had revealed that he had been reading The Way of Kings. Seemingly distant memories distracted him as he continued walking through the sapper training grounds, lines of low level officers drilling practiced dark-eyes pulled from battalions of spearmen that had shown a technical aptitude, loading and unloading dummy rounds from the mortars with practiced ease. The dull metal clank of flash barrel teams drove stakes into the rock with efficiency, their muscles trembling in the dawn light as sledgehammers pounded the stakes into the earth.

Dalinar had been…odd to him, since he arrived on the Plains. And even stranger the past few months with the visions. He never mentioned Evi. It was like she had never existed to him. He thought nothing of the annulment, Nothing of Aroden’s previous supposed indiscretion. His actions at the Rift…A headache came over him then, and he grunted, rubbing a temple softly. 

No. We’re not thinking about the Rift, not today.

Regardless of Dalinar’s feelings towards him, he still had Adolin and Renarin. The former was now an odd combination of sparring partner and drinking buddy. Well, when they were off duty anyway. There was just enough difference in their ages where Aroden wasn’t sure whether he should be a mentor to the lad or a fellow comrade in arms. The thought was an odd one. He had always danced around the difference in age between his brothers and himself. How he was closer in age to some of their children than the men who, in their own distant way, had raised him. Renarin though, they continued to have a special bond. The boy made Aroden so storming proud. Despite his sickness getting worse over the past few years, the boy had done his best to continue his training. He would never be a warrior, but he conducted his training katas regularly, at slower speeds, the exercises strengthening his confidence and resolve. 

And through it all, Aroden knew he still had one true friend on the Shattered Plains. A man who had saved his skin and shared his spoils with him more than he could have ever expected. That same man rode up to him now, his eyes scanning approvingly over the sapper training grounds and looking down at him from his horse, adorned in full Shardplate. Torol Sadeas raised his visor, giving Aroden a warm grin and raising his hand in salute.

“Aroden! I suppose you would naturally, be the last to know. A chasmfiend has been spotted. Come on, you’ll be my guest. Dalinar will hate the idea. Bring along some of your new toys as well. If I’m to buy some I want to see their effectiveness.” He said, his grin growing sharp, all teeth. 

“Yes, it is indeed curious how these messengers from the Blackthorn always seem to illude me.” Aroden said, raising an eyebrow and calling over one of his captains, the light-eyed officer with a scar over one eye saluting him smartly, fist across his chest. “Gather up mortar teams one and two. We roll out within the hour. Don’t keep the highprince waiting.” He ordered, purposefully striding back towards his quarters to don his armor, already buttoning up the collar of the uniform. 

“I almost wish the parshendi would attack Torol. I wager a full company of my guns could do more damage in an hour with proper crews in ammunition than you could do in a full day in your Plate.” He jested, his armor bearers meeting him outside of the stormbunker and starting to don the dull steel plates with practiced efficiency under an erected pavilion. He re-buckled his sword to his belt after the metal skirt was tied in place, and Windsinger was trotted over him. The horse scratched at the rocky ground nervously, wary of the proximity to the artillery nearby. That was, Aroden admitted to himself begrudgingly, another issue with his weapons. Untrained horses were horridly skittish around the blasts when firing. Proper training would fix the issue, but it would likely take another generation of breeding before they were truly comfortable around them.

“Bah, you need five men to crew one of your mortars. They’re a fine idea, Aroden, but come now, we both know men in Plate will continue to dominate for years to come.” Sadeas replied, watching Aroden as he mounted his horse and started at a slow trot next to the highprince. The mortar crews were already hauling their carts down the hill, taking up the edge of the packed down road towards one of the bridges out of the Kholin camp, where Elhokar, Dalinar, Adolin, and Renarin were already waiting with their retinue.

If Dalinar were surprised or excited to see him, he didn’t show it, his eyes only flickering between himself and Sadeas. The king though, did speak up, his eyes mirthful as he removed his helmet.

“Well, you’ll be coming too then, Aroden? I don’t seem to recall an invitation being sent to your corner of the camp.” Elhokar said, looking down his nose. 

Aroden was aware of Ember’s presence at his shoulder, likely invisible to the others. No words were exchanged between them, not in such close quarters, but none were needed. Both of them despised Elhokar, the preening axehound. He and the spren didn’t see eye to eye on much, but their shared distaste for the king’s insecurity, despite the pot calling the kettle black, wore off badly on both of them.

“He’s a guest of House Sadeas.” Sadeas said glibly, speaking to the king, but his eyes fixed on Dalinar’s. “And besides, I dearly wish to see if his new weapons will be effective at cracking the beast’s chrysalis. If they’re effective I’d be more than willing to make House Kholin very wealthy indeed to take a few off your hands. 

The mortar teams rolled up into position for the long march, the silence between the group of men drawing long. Aroden deigned not to speak, looking at Torol and giving him a silent nod before positioning his horse next to Renarin’s. His nephew gave him a cautious smile, which Aroden returned as a gust of wind blew over the Plains. The red cloth armband’s tail fluttered in the breeze, matching the standards of Kholin blue flown by their vanguard. 

Ekholar shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, turning towards the gate and needlessly summoning his Shardblade. He held it over his head and pointed it forward. 

“Well then, onward! We have a beast to hunt!”

Chapter Text

1173

"The man is delusional. But he is an asset. The devices work, and work well."

Aroden cursed under his breath as the chasmfiend hauled itself onto the plateau, exactly where he’d feared that it would. The beast immediately started tearing through light-eyed spectators and military commanders alike. Shrieks of horror and tearing flesh and metal ripping through the air. Too many light-eyed non-combatants. Too long a supply chain. This is what happened when war became sport .  Wordlessly he guided Renarin behind him, the lad going pale at the horror even as Aroden saw him reach silently for the sword at his waist, a sword that would be utterly useless against a beast such as this. 

He gave Renarin a shake of his head, nodding for him to retreat, to do what they’d discussed, organizing medics and ardents, guiding people to safety, even as he became dimly aware of the fact that he was shouting orders to the mortarmen. They couldn’t fire, not from this location, a plateau away and into the line of light-eyes streaming from pavilions and tents towards desperate safety. He saw figures in the distance sprinting across the bridges. Dalinar, Elhokar, and Adolin rushed as quickly as they could to contain the beast, all mounting their Ryshadiums even as Sadeas ran the opposite direction. He couldn’t believe that his friend would be running from this fight, but recognition came quickly as the man reached a rack containing a single, massive Shardbow, and then he understood, the man drawing back the massive weapon’s string to send an arrow soaring through the air and impacting the beast with a massive thump that echoed through the air.

The beast raised its head at the intrusion, dropping the corpse of a poor Kholin bodyguard from its bloody maw and recognized the threat for the first time. Three Sharbearers ahorse, with a fourth already knocking another arrow to loose at it the first time an armored joint was exposed. Calculations flickered through his mind even as Ember whispered urgently in his ear. 

“A shot at that distance has a minor probability of actually killing the target. The beast is agitated, its legs are too long to allow for a strike at its vital areas. They need to take down its legs and-”

“Hit it in the head.” Aroden finished quietly. 

The stream of retreating Alethi finally ceased as the last panting and wide eyed civilians finally fled the battlefield. Dalinar charged the beast calmly and with his blade out, Oathbringer slicing easily through the raised legs of the chasmfiend as Adolin did the same on the other side. Evi’s boy was doing marvelously, matching his father stroke for stroke as they worked in tandem to bring the beast to its knees. Until storming Elhokar’s horse sprinted forward. The king swung his Blade in a wide arc, attempting to slash the beast across the face when a large claw swiped him from the saddle. Aroden could see from here that the strap holding it in place snapped cleanly in two. To make matters worse, when the king fell, the breastplate of his Sharplate shattered , immobilizing him. 

Aroden had rarely felt more useless in that moment, the king, for his faults, was the only thing holding this coalition together. He could do something. Should do something. Evi would have told him to be brave, made him a better man. 

His eyes flickered to the ordinance carts.

Dalinar dismissed his Shardblade, leaping off of Gallant as the Blade disappeared in a misty puff at his side. Ekholar shouted uselessly from within his ruined Plate, struggling to move within the heavy armor. He raised his hands as the beast raised another claw to finish him. Dalinar was dimly aware of his son doing his best to slash at the chasmfiend’s remaining legs to bring the beast down, on his own, he was going to be far too late. He charged forward, his Plate enhanced legs cracking the crem of the plateau as at the last moment, the Thrill overtook him and he caught the claw in both hands, shouting in effort as his Plate started to crack from the pressure.

He was forced back deeper into the stony ground, his grieves starting to sink into the earth as every coil of muscle in his frame grunted in effort. His vambraces started to crack, his hands started to shake. The spiraling breaks up the arms of his Plate started to worsen and he could feel gemstones starting to die in protest as molten gobules started to rain onto the ground around him.

The chasmfiend’s face roared before him, his maw open as the beast used every once of leverage to wrench Dalinar into the ground and consume the king. Suddenly there was a presence next to him. He allowed his eyes to flicker over in wonder. Standing there in regular metal plate, was Aroden, he realized. Determination in his features beneath his sealed helm, holding one of the hand mortars he’d insisted were a waste of resources. With a grunt of effort his bastard brother hefted the tube of Soulcast bronze into the beast’s waiting maw. Then, he lit the fuze.

Dalinar expected him to run for cover, expected him to retreat back with the scholars and women. Instead he merely spared a glance back at Dalinar, giving him a nod as he shoved the barrel deeper into the beast, driving the nail in place into the creature’s palate with the back of his vambrace, and braced the plate against his own body. Dalinar expected to see fear in his eyes, or resentment, possibly even anger. But the cold detachment in those storm blue eyes, his father’s eyes, made even the Blackthorn shiver. 

The explosion was like a crack of thunder, deafening and blinding all at once even as Dalinar felt something hot and wet splash against his face plate. He had only a second to throw the claw aside, pulling the king back with the last of the gemstones’ power in his breastplate before the chasmfiend collapsed with thunderous finality. 

Adolin surged forward towards the carnage first, eyes wide as he threw off his helmet. His feet scrambled for purchase in the gore as he shouted his uncle’s name. Dalinar checked the king over for injuries in the meantime, ardents swarming forward with Kholin honor guards surrounding them in case the parshendi chose now to attack. Elhokar waved him off, coughing up lungfuls of crem dust and gunpowder as he was assisted to his feet and his ruined Plate removed. It was then that Dalinar realized Renarin of all people was assisting Adolin with the search for Aroden. The young man looked a little pale, shaky on his feet at the sight of so much ichor on the ground, but he resolutely stepped through the puddles. 

“Uncle! Uncle it’s Renarin! Please, say something!” The lad shouted, scrambling over one of the beast’s large claws, his boots sinking into the soup of remains as he cried out hopelessly.

“Almighty…my head.” A voice weakly responded. 

Dalinar stood to his full height immediately, legs responding sluggishly in his damaged Plate as he shoved one of the beast’s claws aside, staring down at what should have been a corpse blink up at him.

Aroden was covered head to toe in chasmfiend blood. The vambraces of his steel armor were ruined, his helm was completely missing, and his face, where it wasn’t covered in gore was soot-black from the contained explosion. But he was alive. His bastard brother was many things. He recalled he should hate him for…something. But those memories had gone with the Nightwatcher’s blessing. His relationship with Sadeas was another problem. But storms, right now he was thrilled to have one of his most capable commanders alive by some miracle. He’d need an ardent to burn a prayer tonight. A small blessing even as his mind was going and he feared he may need to abdicate, either to this man, or his son.

“Aroden…storms! How are you alive? What insanity out of the hells made you think that was wise?” Dalinar practically shouted, hauling the man to his feet as Renarin stepped forward gingerly to assist him, a single palm pressed to his ruined breastplate.

“Ducked to the side just before the explosion. Beast’s head shielded me from most of the explosion.” Dalinar did his best not to show concern when Aroden flinched at his approach. Expecting what, an attack? He didn’t think he’d ever laid hands on the man. 

“My mortars are good, but not that accurate. There was a better chance of hitting one of you with a round from that distance. There was no optimal firing solution. Calculating the strength of our usual charges I predicted a seventy percent chance that at point blank range the chasmfiend could be killed or at least injured enough to be finished off. The…other statistics aren’t worth repeating.” Aroden said, pausing for a moment after staggering to his feet.

“Statistics or not. That was the bravest thing I’ve seen a brightlord do on these Plains in a very long time, Aroden.” Elhokar said suddenly, now free of his ruined breastplate. “All the snipes, the insults, and you threw yourself into certain death to save me. You have my apologies, and I hope to call upon you again soon for your wisdom and bravery.” He placed a shaky hand on Aroden’s shoulder, staring the shorter man in the eye for a beat longer than necessary. 

“I did my duty, my king, as any man would have done.” Aroden said simply, giving the king a bow of his head as he stepped away, Dalinar’s boys assisting him with a limping gait to his waiting horse for the long ride back to the warcamp. Dalinar took one long look back at the chasmfiend’s corpse, already being chipped away at by workers to pry its gemheart free. He gazed into the ruination that was once the beast’s face, and stooped down low when something glinted up at him amongst all the char and crem. A handful of sapphire broams stuck into the earth there, all dun. 

__

Aroden rode shakily back towards the Kholin warcamp. Too close. Too storming close. He should have found a way to measure how much Stormlight he took in to heal before now. Should have analyzed whether keeping it drawn in would shield him from harm or heal him retroactively. The blast of powder had nearly killed him. He’d felt his jaw shatter. Felt his wrists snap back. The overpressure had cooked his sinuses and shoved his brain back in his skull. It was pure reflex that made him take a breath and that saved his life. 

He’d wanted to do…what? Prove to Dalinar that he could fight? He’d already proven that to himself, and to Evi. So why did he care what the hells damned Blackthorn thought? The man’s wife had left him. He ran away from his problems, or chased them with drink, and now he was supposedly convulsing in the middle of the night during highstorms. 

So why did his praise feel so wonderful?  

“The odds were greater that you would die. Close to fifty-fifty. I assumed you would do it anyway, so I decided your last moments should be a little happier.” Ember whispered in his ear, the spren’s face plastered with a wry grin.

Aroden gave him one of his own, waving him off with a bare hand, still soot stained. An angry scar still lingered there on his wrist, an old wound from a parshendi arrow that itched during highstorms. He rubbed it quietly with the back of his thumb as Renarin looked over at him from his own horse, quietly.

“I thought you’d die. Knew it. By the Almighty, Uncle, warn me next time.” Renarin said earnestly, reaching from his saddle to grab his wrist.

“I’m sorry, Renarin. All life is precious, even mine. Your mother taught me that. Sometimes my…my own internal calculus can’t comprehend that.” Aroden said quietly, suddenly very interested in his saddle horn. 

His mind went unbidden to dark moments, after Jah Keved. When Evi was forbidden from seeing him. When Gavilar had shut the door of his quarters in his face. Even further back, to quiet times as a child when nobody in the Kholin household wanted much to do with him. Fleeting visits from men he had once called “brother” telling stories of conquests he could only dream of, leaving small tokens and toys, only to leave again for years. 

He yanked himself from those memories. He had a reason for being now. Proving himself, for one. Becoming a man worthy of respect from his peers. Sadeas had said nothing after he left the plateau killing field, but he had given him a respectful nod from his horse, and a firm, grasping handshake that had nearly pulled him from the saddle. That was enough. Secondly, he had Evi. Distantly. Quietly. Leagues and leagues away in Kholinar. They weren’t wed. Weren’t even exactly courting. The annulment made things…awkward. The royals not wanting to disturb the quiet relationship they had with the Vorin temple, not with the king only tacitly religious at best, and Jasnah’s proclivities. 

He wondered what she was doing now, his beloved. The last time they’d talked had been before he’d ridden for the Plains. She’d entered his chambers asking to be read to. The Way of Kings, as usual, draped demurely over one of his armchairs, safehand uncovered. Blond hair flowing over her shoulder. A lovely memory, so many months ago now. He tugged on his horse’s reigns gently as one of Sadeas’ bridge crews faltered, struggling to haul one of the bridges from the chasm. One lad with a shash brand glowered particularly at him, giving him an angry stare that Aroden was too exhausted to do anything about. Finally, the warcamp came into view. Kholin flags blue against the bronze rock formations in the distance. 

He was thoroughly spent, exhausted with the Stormlight well and truly out of his veins. He wanted a bath, a meal, and sleep, in that order, and was already barking orders for exactly that to waiting servants at the gates when he saw it. A stormwagon approaching, flying Kholin colors from the carriage. Dalinar saw it next, galloping a few steps ahead quickly, remaining on Gallant, but his face drawing pale. Aroden could see exactly why. Navani Kholin stepped out slowly, wearing a lovely green robe, her eyes flickering in recognition as she saw Dalinar ahorse, wearing his damaged Shardplate and covered in ichor. He suppressed a mirthful chuckle. The widowed woman wanted Dalinar, he knew. And the former queen always got what she wanted. This new crisis, coupled with his visions and command would certainly test Dalinar moving forward.

He gave him a silent nod of understanding and a quick smile that didn’t meet his eyes. Though when he looked back at the stormwagon, his own heart ended up in his throat. There, golden hair gleaming, eyes scanning the camp and then towards the horizon, and then, alighting when they saw him, was Evi. 

Chapter Text

"It sounds as if a match between them would be ideal. I've accepted I am an embarrassment to this family in the eyes of the commoners. But perhaps him being wed to her will soften his awkward edges, and endear him more to our people. If her father supports the match. Thank you for keeping me informed, Mother. Stay safe. I should be there with my ward soon enough."

Evi was here.

Evi was here.

The thought made something ache deep in his head, his molars grinding tightly in his jaw as his hand clutched up to his skull instinctively. His vision swam and he slumped in the saddle, feeling suddenly ill. Renarin rode up alongside him quickly, catching him and shouting in alarm as guards surged forth to help pull him from the saddle. They laid him on the ground as he panted for breath until one of his sappers approached, waving all but a few of the onlooking men away. He chuckled inwardly at the sight. Dalinar hadn’t thought much of Aroden’s new equipment when he’d proposed the cannons and mortars. The man wore surplus Alethi dress uniform trousers and boots, the pants and boots stained black from powder burns. It was a good thing he’d decided those should be their official colors anyway.

Is my mind really that addled that I’m worried about dress codes? Maybe the Stormlight truly hasn’t healed everything.  

“Blast shock! Our storming commander gave himself a concussion with his stunt! We need to get him into a quiet and dark space, and don’t let him choke on his own vomit.” Ahlod shouted brusquely, waving over two litter bearers and helping roll him onto a waiting stretcher. Aroden tried to weakly wave him off, only to have his hands pressed against his chest as straps were tied across his chest.

“Brightlord, Almighty knows you’d bark out orders to follow concussion protocol if it was any of us. Now let me do my job.” Ahlod said with a toothy smirk. 

Aroden relaxed against the stretcher, resigned. He tried to ignore how the gentle rocking of the litter genuinely did make his stomach churn as he swallowed the bitter taste of bile at the back of his throat. As they passed, yellow eyes locked with his own. Evi gazed at him, standing stock still by the storm wagon, and despite his condition, his heart fluttered in his chest.

He was eventually blessedly brought to his quarters, the storm shutters being shut methodically with a clunk as Ahlod stepped into the room. The healers performed a basic series of tests--holding a sphere to each eye to check pupillary response, using a tuning fork to gauge potential hearing loss, and Ahlod shaking him roughly by the shoulders and growling questions about properly drilling standoff distances when using powder munitions to gauge his cognition. That last encounter may have been more of a personal slight than a true clinical evaluation, but Aroden couldn’t be offended. He’d have had a mortarman lashed for abusing his equipment so severely. Not that it would happen. He’d picked his men specifically because they respected their equipment. When it was all said and done Ahlod ordered him to rest. 

“You know, you’re several dahn’s below me, Captain. I should probably protest…” Aroden quipped, propping his head up on another pillow as he laid back on his bed.

“Its your body I suppose sir. You want your brains as scrambled as jam, do as you please. Otherwise, I’ll see you bright and early for loading drills tomorrow morning at the earliest. ” He replied, bowing mockingly. 

Storms but he enjoyed the officers he’d chosen. Not seeing him as a beedy-eyed scholar, but as a man with ideas that they were genuinely interested in. He allowed himself to close his eyes for a few blessed moments, his pulse pounding in his head as Ember flitted nearby. The spren wasn’t in humanoid form anymore, instead coalescing as a flickering collection of flame and ash in the corner of the room.

“He’s right, you know. You’ve only sworn the First Ideal. Half the Stormlight you breathed in was gone before the explosion hit. Leaks out of you like a sieve. There’s a 62% chance you do have severe cerebral bruising.” He said with a lilting tone, hovering over a candlestick and doing his best to set it alight. 

“Well, next time I won’t try to get eaten alive. In theory we shouldn’t need to ever do that again. The fougasses were always a stepping stone. Our true cannons should be ready soon.” Aroden muttered, palms pressing into his eyesockets until they ached. 

“And all this to avoid using 50% of your Surges. When you’re healed, you should practice. ” Ember said, hovering closer until he rested on Aroden’s chest.

Once, Aroden would have recoiled at the simulated contact, but months of experience had taught him that the coals of Ember’s form didn’t physically burn. So he sat stock still at the contract, resting a hand behind his head. 

“You sound dangerously like you care, my friend. I thought I was just a means to an end.” Aroden sardonically replied.

“Yes well…years of contact increases probabilities of mutual affection forming. I need you whole if we are to achieve our goals.”

“Months.” 

“Yes, correct. Months.” Ember replied stiffly. 

“You keep…getting things wrong for one so statistically inclined. Is there-”

A rap on his doorway startled their conversation, Ember flitted back to the quick of the candlestick, hovering stock still in a manner so close to real flame that almost nobody could tell the difference besides the lack of wax melting.

Evi leaned in, hands tucked in front of her, the sleeves of her robes concealing both hands. 

“I hope I’m not intruding.” She said quietly, carefully stepping into the room.

“No, not at all dearest. I’m just…I’m astonished you’re here.” Aroden responded, ending in a whisper.

“I thought you hated war. Hated…this. You were to remain in Kholinar with the Queen until this was over.” 

She froze at that, eyes wide for a moment before sitting down on the spartan chair in the corner of the room. 

“I didn’t think that you…cared enough where I spent my time. Regardless, curiosity won out over fear, and I decided to join Navani here. I hoped to find work as a scribe, either for Dalinar or you. And come now. I’m not some hopeless thing. I’ve served as a scribe in many warcamps.” She said with a small smile. 

He hesitated for a long moment, sitting up on the edge of the bed in a way that seemed to make the world spin. He leaned over, taking her free hand in his own and squeezing it softly. The contact made her breath hitch. She stared at his knuckles for a long moment before quietly squeezing back, the contact sending lighting up his arm. They sat like that for a long moment, before his eyes flickered back up to her golden irises. 

“Of course I care. You’re here now, and that means everything. I’ve missed you terribly. I’ve needed you, as my reason to do better. You’ve seen my weapons, I take it…you should hate them. And hate me, I’m sure, for building them. But if they end this war quickly…” He trailed off, a flush creeping up his neck as he unbuttoned more of his uniform shirt, suddenly breathless in the small space.

“Hate you? I…”She trailed off, a mixture of emotions flickering across her face, her gloved safehand suddenly palming his own as she leaned forward. 

“Who do you think I am?” She asked, suddenly very quiet.

His heart ached at that question, and he leaned forward as well, a scant few inches separating them. Slowly his free hand cupped her cheek gently, brushing her cheek with his thumb.

“Evi…I never dared to hope you wouldn’t judge me for this. But trust me when I say all I’ve done is to keep your boys safe, and to get us all home.” He rasped, throat suddenly dry as she froze, eyes locked on his for a long moment, before nodding once, then again abruptly. 

“Aroden…my love. I know that. How could I not?” She said, standing suddenly before joining him on his bed, their legs brushing together for a moment. “I’m here now. I’ll seek some form of scribe work to occupy myself while you fight, and keep myself close for you. I’ll help you carry this burden until we can end this fighting and return home.”

He stared into her eyes for another long moment, Ember their sole source of illumination in his cramped quarters, the candlelight obscuring half of her features as it burned behind her, her golden hair burnishing in the flickering light. He cupped her face again and captured her lips. After a moment, she kissed back.

The next morning found Aroden alone. Still forbidden by his own officers from overseeing training due to fears of repeated concussive episodes, he mounted Windsinger and rode alone out of the warcamps. His bodyguards tried to dissuade him as he rode off south, towards the direction of the Frostlands, but he rebuffed them. This close to the Plains patrols were regular enough that he didn’t fear brigands or parshendi raiders. The excuse bought him a little leeway, but as soon as he rode out of sight down the road he peeled off the wagon-worn path Those same patrols would burn him if they saw what he was about to do. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Dalinar or Sadeas. Though he quietly realized that if either man now knew what he was capable of, he would be in the middle of a tugging match between them both. He simply…wished to be established in his position before he came forth with the revelation. Too many of the Alethi nobility had dismissed him in the past for him to come forward with this discovery openly. Danilar had quietly admitted his new weapons were effective, but would he be so welcoming when there was a budding Radiant in his retinue? Would the highprinces vye for his attention in true respect, or aspiration to take what he had earned? 

“I chose you because of this calculus. I observed others of a similar station to you. The bastard son of the king of Jah Keved. Brightlord Amram. Even your friend Sadeas. All were too…combustible. Nuance is required of Releasers. Self-control. Not necessarily overwhelming destruction…although I calculate that if you can achieve self-control, your Surges paired with your weapons which I begrudgingly admit are becoming quite successful, you’ll be devastating on the battlefield.” Ember said over his shoulder, floating around the horse’s head just long enough for Windsinger to chuff and snort, raising a hoof in protest over the uneven terrain.

“Easy there, girl…” Aroden said, soothing the mare with a pat on the neck and flicking his eyes at the ashspren in irritation.

“We’ll try it today, but no promises.”

Eventually they came to his destination, a hollowed out bowl in the earth, one side tucked under an overhanging rock formation teeming with life. On one end something resembling wild axehounds nested, but they slunk away quickly at his arrival, subverbal trills echoing in his toes as he dismounted and hobbledhis horse and stepped down into the depression. He reached into his saddlebags and removed his training gear, wrapped neatly in a travel blanket. An even dozen small jars, a bottle of lantern fuel, and two sacks of heavy lead shot. Finding a relatively flat space at the bottom of the impression he rolled it all out, pouring an even measure of oil in each jar and spaced them out in a semi-circle a few yards apart from one another and then stepped back.

He drew in a tiny amount of Stormlight from the pouch at his hip, pulling out a single diamond chip glowing dimly in the late-morning light, breathing it in like fumes from firemoss, and then stretched his hand out at the first jar. He reached out tentatively for the power. Grasping the Division like it was a living thing, writhing and snaking in his palm like a skyeel. With a crack the air around the first jar ignited, burning brightly for a second before fizzling out with the snap-hiss of air escaping a sealed container. Stubbornly, the jar remained un-immolated. 

“Your focus is too broad. You need to see in your mind’s eye the oi-” Ember started.

“Not helpful…” Aroden said sharply, raising his trembling hand again. Memories rose unbidden. Rathalas. The night of Gavilar’s assassination. He swallowed harshly and tried again.

Energy surged from his fingertips, the chip flashing well and truly dun and cracking in his other palm as the jar exploded spectacularly, burning oil spraying several yards in all directions and setting the shrubbery on fire. Windsinger neighed in alarm, straining hard against her hobbling, and Aroden stumbled back, eyes wide.

“No no no! I calculate twenty to one odds that this conflagration will burn out this entire micro ecosystem!” Ember shrieked, buzzing in his ear.

“NOT HELPFUL!” Aroden shouted just as loudly, surging forward to yank the blanket of oil away from the flames and kicking away the other jars as the oilslick spread across the ground, seeping into crem-filled cracks and crackling in the air, flames now rising higher than his chest.

He pulled another chip from his belt pouch and drew it in quickly, reaching blindly for Abrasion and kneeling down to touch the puddle where the jars spilled. The oil suddenly stopped stock still, coalescing rather than continuing to spread out. Vaguely he reached deeper, the flames sitting still on the ground as just a little added surface tension caused the liquid to lick over the flames instead of burning at the surface, extinguishing the blaze. Panting he collapsed to his backside, scrambling backwards from the scorched earth. 

“That was, however, quality Abrasion work. I’d call this practice an unqualified success.” Ember said to sardonic praise, coming to rest a few inches from his face.

“Success. Huh. And this is an ancient gesture of mutual friendship and respect.” Aroden said, raising a particular finger between himself and Ember.

“Indeed? Hmm. I’ll keep that in mind.” Ember said, materializing in his human-like form on his knee, experimentally raising that finger in the air as he looked at a cremling skittering away into a crevice.

“Abrasion. Let’s stick with Abrasion for now.” Aroden said shakily, slowly regaining his footing and stepping over to the wrinkled blanket, quietly securing the lead weights to his legs. 

Several hours later he rode wearily back into the Kholin warcamp. His coat, sootstaned and ruined, and his legs foot sore. The Abrasion training had gone better than he expected, though he questioned its utility. In battle now he would likely be doing any real fighting on the frontlines. Especially as Dalinar had quietly come to him and given him permission to expand his artillery program, the results of the flashpowder speaking for themselves. He’d be directing fire from behind the lines now, as the Sapper and Artillery Corps of the Kholin Army was officially standing up. Weary days would no doubt plague him now as he hustled for more time with Soulcasters, reviewed the quality of cast metals, and steadily improved on his iron designs that he hoped would replace the bronze ones soon. 

His time with Evi flickered warmly in his heart, even as Ember buzzed around his head before resting on his shoulder as he approached, and was gently rebuffed from entering, the testing grounds. The muted thumps of charges being detonated within the safety of metal containers called to him, the rather addicting phantom smell of burning powder driving him to ignore the instructions from his officers and calculate explosive potential and get his sleeves dirty anyway. Something Ember agreed with by giving him a gentle hum. But they were right. He was tired, and his head was pounding. Fatigue it seemed had worsened the concussion even though it had been nominally healed by Stormlight. 

He was stopped on the way by Renarin. The young lad picked at the sleeve of his Kholin uniform awkwardly, flinching as another blast echoed through the warcamp basin.

“Uncle. I couldn’t find you before. Are you well?” He asked quietly, his green eyes glimmering in the setting sun.

“Never better.” He lied, tucking his burned sleeve behind his back. “Though I appreciate the concern, lad. I’ll be even safer moving forward. No need to take any more parshendi arrows or shove powder into chasmfiend mouths moving forward.” He joked, giving his nephew a full smile.

“Father said he was proud of you. Well…he didn’t say it exactly, but-”

“I know. Your father isn’t much for words, he prefers bludgeoning his problems to death.” An unfair assessment, especially after his coming to the warcamps. Whatever Old Magic he’d sought out had…had worked quite well actually. He was calmer now. He still had a temper like a highstorm. But he treated him better than in the past. With less suspicion. And he hardly mentioned the divorce. Storms it seemed that everyone avoided that particular cremling in the room these days.

“That was unkind. I know he’s had some difficulties as of late.”

“Its not just that. He…worries about your friendship with Sadeas.” Renarin whispered, even as another cannon-blast made him flinch again, growing pale.

“The three of us. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. I only wish to bridge the gap, Renarin. Sadeas assisted me greatly before your father arrived here. We’ve fought and shed blood together. Not just here, but at the R…” He stopped suddenly, a hand trembling unbidden. Memories of flame coming back to him. 

Not here. Reality is what I wish it to be.  

Ember flickered invisibly on his shoulder. His latent heat almost comforting. He closed his eyes tightly. Pressing his palms into his sockets until he saw stars. When he opened them, Renarin stared at him and clutched his coat in genuine concern. 

“Migraine. Nothing more. You already have your father to worry about. Don’t need you losing sleep over me.” He said weakly.

Renarin stared at him for a moment, stepping back and resting one hand on his sidesword. An accessory more than anything else. Though he did use it to practice his katas every morning. That day in the training yard all those years ago must have been a capstone event for him. Something that made Aroden feel exceedingly proud.

“You’re my favorite uncle. I forbid you from dying on me in this place. You go to a healer if it happens again.” Renarin said seriously.

“I’m your only uncle. But I appreciate it lad.” 

He gave him a hug after that, Patting his back before they separated. Renarin looked like he had more to say, but didn’t walking away after their encounter and Aroden finally allowed himself to enter his rooms. Waiting there, of course, was Evi. Her hair almost dark brown in the light. Neither said anything. Neither had to. She laid back on his bed and beckoned with a single finger, and as his coat came off, he decided he would allow himself a few moments of true contentment at the end of this hells damned day.

Chapter Text

I write in haste to report my predicament. And to ensure my safe extraction should this go wrong.

Aroden dreamed that night

Not a pleasant dream of quiet evenings spent in his study in Kholinar. What-ifs about his mother he never met. Gavilar visiting him to teach him swordplay. These memories swirled around in a torrent. Half-remembered truths. Falsehoods mixed with emotions he’d tried too hard to bury. 

He was on the family estate. Running from corridor to corridor. Desperately searching for someone. Each door he tried to open was locked. Each call for help, unanswered. As he ran around another corner, he caught it in his vision, the flicker of a Kholin blue takama. He surged forward as fast as his too-small legs could carry him, chasing what he sought. The corridor darkened as he ran, shadows lengthening in the gloom and tapestries blackening like the Everstorm of legend as his breath came in pants. Torchlights flickered out one by one as he followed that person. The thing he needed that would complete him.  Finally he made it around the corner, shouting to the silhouette at the top of his lungs. To a face he’d never seen alive.

“Papa!” He shouted with all his might.

The figure turned around slowly, eyes flinty and judging, giving him a silent stare. The same stare depicted on his Soulcast statue that now adorned the royal palace of Kholinar. He said nothing. He didn’t move. Neither walking away, nor kneeling to embrace the boy that shared his name. Aroden Kholin, he'd been told, was a hard man to love. A blow to the head during a duel had changed him when he was a younger man. He knew dimly that Gavilar had essentially raised Dalinar after the injury…but storms did it hurt that nobody had raised him .

“You’re…no son of mine.” 

His father shoved him back. His arm catching on a sconce and sending him tumbling, eyes wide, unshed tears at the edges of his vision, and tumbling into another nightmare.

He shot up, shouting something incomprehensible as the smell of smoke filled his tent. He clutched his chest where his father had shoved him, a burning pain in his chest that was more than just physical. The other side of the bed in his tent was empty. Something that should have worried him, but didn’t. Consciously, he realized none of this made sense. But damningly he knew that unconscious emotion was something he couldn’t control. It was something he buried beneath work and scholarship. He couldn’t be what his father had wanted. Or his brothers wanted. But if he just tried hard enough, maybe…he’d earn their respect.

Those thoughts became fleeting as he stumbled from his tent, mouth in a silent scream as Rathalas burned before him. He surged forward, not even bothering with armor as he grabbed his sword belt. Running past gawking messengers and ardents as the flames licked higher over the Rift. He stormed through the throngs of soldiers preparing barrel after barrel of pitch and powder, forming human chains to ensure every drop they possessed was dumped unceremoniously into the city below, all to ensure that the Blackthorn’s will would not be questioned, an insult and act of war treated with the violence the Thrill required. When he finally reached the wall, Sadeas nearly swung at him with his hammer, only stopping at the last second when he realized whose colors he wore. He said something, but Aroden saw only a silent mouth moving, as his eyes locked with Dalinar’s, whose own glowed red with the Thrill he detested. He should have said something that night. Should have stopped him from that retribution. But his loyalty kept his mouth closed. His feet stubbornly anchored to the stone below him. He stared down into the family manor below as it smoldered. As thousands of civilians, whose only crime was calling this place home, burned alive. 

But as his waking mind stirred, he found he could only remain rooted to that spot until Dalinar began moving again. Across walkways, bridges, and finally halting at a metal door cut into the cliffside. He ordered more barrels to be dumped there, and set the blaze himself. Aroden had no Plate, and didn’t have the Blackthorn’s constitution. He was forced to retreat back to the battlements before he could see the end result of the devastation. Hours seemed to pass as thousands burned before him. Sadeas stood silent vigil beside him as the Rift died. His arms crossed across his breastplate as both stood flash blinded by the devastation. Eventually he too retreated, leaving Aroden alone there until the flames lowered long enough for him to look down below. Eyes following the path they’d taken when they entered the city.

In the last moments of the dream, he was carried back before that door again. Unease filled him as he and Dalinar approached. His half brother falling to a knee and… weeping? Ordering a bodyguard to pry the ruined metal away, he stepped into that room. It smelled of pitch and suffering inside. A final redoubt, paired with a prison. The ruins of what must have been a sitting room were on one side, a burned ruin where the pitch had settled. To the other was… was…

He shot up with a scream. Sideknife drawn, eyes wide like an animal. Panting desperately as he fumbled for a sphere from the pouch at his nightstand, desperately needing light. Ember buzzed with alarm, flashing before him as someone stirred in the bed, shrieking in terror. 

“Beloved! My Radiant!” Evi shrieked, clutching the wrist that held his knife with desperation. Her body trembling in fright as she turned his face with the other, eyes locking on his.

“A night terror! Nothing more. I’m here, my love! Breathe.” 

His pulse pounded like a war drum as he tried his best to slow down. To focus. Four seconds in. Held for four. Out for four. An old training trick. It did little to settle the pain in his chest. The wrongness that settled in his mind. As he pulled himself back into reality. One terrifying thought crystalizing in his addled mind. 

That wasn’t what I saw.

He stood up wordlessly, dressing in his trousers and throwing on his uniform coat, stepping out into the cool night. Ember invisibly followed behind him. He’d turned in early tonight. So the moons were still high. Midnight, if he had to guess. The cool air soothed his burning skin, flushed hot from the terror. But he could still smell the burning flesh from his nightmare as he walked away.

I should go back. Storming apologize to her.

But his feet continued to move of their own accord. Past the yard where cannons sat silently, ammunition and powder sashes stored neatly in carts. Normally Aroden would have smiled at that quality of training. At standards held high even when he wasn’t present. But he couldn’t bring himself to care tonight, not with ghosts chasing at his heels. He needed a drink, and company. Sadeas would mock him, of course, for being so upset over a bad dream of all things. But he didn’t need to tell him that. He’d been absent at the Pinnacle for too long. And he was sure as a highstorm was wet that Elhokar was hosting a party up there. And they’d be serving wine.

Windsinger whinnied in greeting as he patted her affectionately. Mounting the horse with only a small flip of his stomach, his head still throbbing from the trauma of the past week and the phantom smell of dreamt flames. The ride to Elhokar’s palace was likely not wise in this state, but he trusted his horse, letting her lead up the trail as he handled the reins loosely. 

“Your emotional state is not ideal for greeting others of a similar cultural rank, Aroden. I predict a high chance that you’ll be mocked for this.” Ember whispered, coalescing in his human form and resting on his saddlehorn, sitting with his legs hanging off.

“You’re probably right. And I should probably listen to you more.” Aroden admitted, rubbing his eyes. 

“You’re pushing too hard. I wanted a wrecking ball when I picked you and I storming got one. But avoiding unresolved traumas…being a Dustbringer and not Dustbringing? Calculations are that if we don’t act soon the odds of a catastrophic loss to the parshendi in battle by happenstance increase by fifteen percent every season. Someone will make a mistake.” Ember pronounced gravely, flickering away into a ball of firelight. 

“Give me a little more time. As I’ve told you repeatedly. I’m merely an officer in the army. I technically have less authority than even General Khan.” Aroden said quietly, dismounting his horse and hobbling it at the stable. 

“Which is why you should take control. I calculate a sixty two percent probability of most of the Kholin forces supporting your ascension to highprince. Adolin likely would require emotional restructuring, but Renarin would-” 

“We are not imprisoning her boys. They won’t be locked behind a metal door waiting to die. Do you hear me, spren!” He shouted, rounding on Ember with his fists tightly at his sides, unconsciously summoned Division flickering between his fingers. 

The echo carried across the yard, thankfully abandoned, before he took a few shuddering breaths and centering himself.

“Fascinating outburst. I calculate that in this emotional state your odds of successfully managing your primary Surge increase by-” The spren stopped, blinking rapidly for a moment before his form dimmed momentarily, bobbing in the air as Aroden shot him another fuming glare.

“I…apologize. I did not realize how much that kind of imagery would affect you.”

“Affect me how? It was just…just a metal door.” Aroden muttered, suddenly nauseous again, flames licking at his memories.

“It was not. And a part of you knows that.” Ember said quietly, hovering before him and materializing in his human-like form. He hesitated, almost reaching out for a moment before vanishing from his sight.

“Enjoy your ethanol, Radiant…I hope it…calms you.”

And then he was gone, leaving Aroden alone to climb the last few steps up to the feasting basin, towards its sphere lanterns strung high and low points filled with water. He didn’t understand why the dismissal stung so much. Why two sets of memories seemed to lie dormant within him. A problem for another time. 

Despite his prior promises to himself, he snatched a cup of blue wine from a serving platter as a servant walked by, and without invitation he walked along a Soulcast stone walkway towards the king’s platform. The usual highprinces were there of course. None of them would have spared him a second glance if not for his disheveled appearance. One of his shirt buttons remained undone. His coat wrinkled and dusty from riding here on horseback. But he ignored them all. He wanted a quiet place. Didn’t want to speak. He just…wanted to be near people. People that weren’t her for a while. 

Dalinar found him first, standing near the edge of the platform as he clutched the cup, not a single sip taken. He just wanted to…smell it for a while. Surely that would be fine, right? Wouldn’t be against the Codes.

“Aroden…we need to speak. I’ve asked Elhokar officially. If I’m made Highprince of War we could finally end this conflict. Really u-”

“Unite them? Dalinar please. Save your sermons. I’ve always supported the idea…hells I’m the one that originally suggested we try to end this conflict quickly. You suggested the siege.” He grunted with sudden ferocity. His knuckles wrapped around the cup so tight they shook.

“I…I don’t understand, Aroden. Then let’s work together on this if you agree. With your new weapons, and…friendship, with Sadeas our forces could really do this!” Dalinar urged, raising his hand as if to clap Aroden on the back before hesitating. Aroden watched as the arm slowly lowered, before returning to his side like a wilting tree branch. It was never affection from Dalinar. Always the Blackthorn, always angling. 

“Mmm, my new weapons. Yes, they’ve made quite a nice mess of my grey matter these last few days. Though you needn’t worry about Soulcasting expenditures any longer. The king’s Soulcasters are under my employ now for most of my fabrications. I wouldn’t want my projects taking away your resources or time.” Aroden replied icily, pointedly taking a step back from his half-brother. 

He let the silence stew for a moment, taking a deliberate sip of his wine, willing his hands not to shake. Memories flooded him unbidden. His beating in Jah Keved. Cruel laughter at a child who once struggled to hold a sidesword.

“They were nothing but useless vanity projects, designed by a foolish scholar at one point Dalinar. Do you remember? What’s changed between the time you tore the designs up in front of my face and deciding they were vital to your conquest? Ah yes, the convenient fact of these visions. That you’re the hero who will save us all. Except you didn’t save anyone at Rathalas did you?” 

Dalinar leered back as if struck, flinty eyes narrowing as his hands balled into fists and opened at his sides. His weight shifted from foot to foot before becoming steadier. The same headlong stubbornness that had kept him alive in battle a hundred times over.

“I…actually don’t remember. Aroden, listen I…respect you. I want you by my side in this. The boys adore you. I need a man who I can trust when I make this move. I’m close, I think, to finding out what Gavilar told me. This is the key, ending this war and truly uniting this kingdom against the threat that’s coming.” Dalinar said with increasing confidence. 

Aroden closed his eyes, the taste of the wine growing bitter on his palate. 

Respect. Trust. That’s what I want, right? So…why can’t I accept it?

“All that…and you can’t call me ‘brother.’ Can’t say you care about me. Am I such a foul man, Dalinar? Such a disappointment? Because I read? Because I can storming count? What part of me is so detestable?” He stepped forward between them, closing the distance and resting an arm on Dalinar’s shoulder. Even now the man locked up at the contact, eyes flickering between the hand and his face. 

“The sad fact? Gavilar trusted me more than you. Even after the whispers about me and Evi. Even after the Rift. I discovered what he was looking for. A part of it anyway. We share blood, you and I. I’m…sorry if that disgusts you. So…for the sake of the father who sired us. I’ll keep quiet about your visions. I’ll remain a loyal officer in your army. But this? The Blackthorn becoming a lord of war in all but name? This Sunmaker’s folly? I can’t support it. I won’t.”

He released his grip and stepped away quietly, turning his head to look at his half-brother one last time. “There were things we were never meant to be to each other, you and I…brothers, being chiefest.” 

He walked away, a small part of him hating himself for the way he did so, and turning to the king’s table. Sadeas sat there, and moved his chair over, inviting him to sit with a small smile.

“Ah how I’ve missed you, Aroden. Head feeling better?” He asked easily, patting him on the shoulder with what he thought was true affection.

“Bell was rung fairly well, but I should be on my feet again soon. Wine soothes most problems I find.” He said with a smirk. “I haven’t been…sleeping well.”

“Yes well, with a woman like that warming your bed I can’t blame you.” Sadeas said with a barking laugh, helping himself to another morsel from his plate. His eyes crinkled in continued amusement as Aroden shuffled uncomfortably in his chair.

“I…we’re not officially betrothed yet.” Aroden muttered, consciously taking a moment to sip his wine, noting its flavor. Heralds, how long had it been since he’d had some? Months, or…years? He didn’t trust his mind any longer to know the answer.

“As if that stopped any light-eyes before! She’s good for you, your scribe . I approve wholeheartedly. You’re a good man, but storms are you too sullen sometimes. Too locked in your books and geometry.” 

The joke cut deeper than it should have, and it seemed Sadeas realized it. Though to his credit he didn’t bother apologizing, merely moving past the comment and asking about his progress with the artillery. When shipments would be ready for his own forces. Casually asking about the next hunt they’d go on together. The mundanity soothed his nerves. Filling the hollow that had carved into his chest.

He is a friend. A true one. Dalinar mistrusts because he only craves power. This is a man better than any brother.

He ignored the way he seemed to chant the thought to himself like a prayer.

Elhokar stood up, knocking him out of his thoughts. Looking first at him, and then at Sadeas. Aroden swallowed the sip of wine in his mouth as he did. He’d waved off the servant bringing him a platter of food. Finding that solids didn’t appeal to him tonight. He was glad that he had, because the next announcement made his stomach coil. The king stood up, looking like a fool. Nobody here truly respected him. He was merely tolerated. The man had never really set foot on the Plains properly. And so long as each highprince sent his due from the gemheart spoils, he was largely forgotten. His brother’s great work had died with a whimper. Dalinar was right about one thing. This was no kingdom. Not in reality.

“My friends. The attack on my life has threatened the very fabric of our kingdom. An assassin has tried to kill me. To get to the bottom of this incident, following the tragically short internal investigation conducted internally. I’ve made a decision. One that will bring justice to those who would see me dead! Lest we forget the Assassin-in-White is still at large! My father’s killer runs freely, slaying those in power unchecked! As such. I name Torol Sadeas as my Highprince of Information, and charge him with discovering the nature of this incident will all haste!” 

Sadeas stood and bowed, a humble smile on his face as all present applauded, Aroden included. Pride welled in his chest for his friend. A noble title, bound with history, he knew. When the highprinces all served their king in different capacities. Dalinar was wrong. Nothing needed to be united here. He and Ember would get their due eventually, once they were ready. Whoever he ended up serving would be one worthy of respect, and would give it back to him. The only thing he’d ever wanted.

“And for my Uncle!” Aroden hitched his breath, scanning below the table for Dalinar, whose own face snapped up to the king’s, practically trembling with anticipation. Surely the king still wouldn’t give him what he wanted. Not the Blackthorn who would turn the armies of the highprinces into his own band of murderers. He stood up to protest, too quickly, his chair nearly clattering to the stone below.

“So eager! Good, we’ll need that moving forward.” Elhokar said with a grin, stepping from his place to clap Aroden on the back. “Good to see you up and about, Uncle. There will be busy days ahead!” He continued, raising his cup with his free hand. Nausea suddenly flooded his stomach again. His throat tasting of bile.

“I name Aroden Kholin my Highprince of Justice! He’s certainly brought it to my father’s murderers on the battlefield, and I’m sure he’ll deal swiftly with whoever has tried to cut me down as well!” 

The highprinces let out a unified cheer that was too forced. Too warm in its enthusiasm. All raised their cups to him in toast, Sadeas included, who gave him a toothy grin and another pat on the back that made his wine slosh in the cup. 

Below, as he stormed off the platform, Dalinar gave him one last smoldering look. Aroden sat back down, offering his well-wishers a smile that didn’t meet his eyes, and wondered why a part of him felt like something had twisted and died.

After several hours of feasting and too much wine. Windsinger took him back to his quarters. His head buzzing and his heart still pounding in his chest. Evi waited outside with the dawn, her arms crossed. And surprisingly, not a flicker of discontent or anger in her eyes.

“I heard. Dalinar will certainly be irate…I’m proud of you. You deserve this.” She said quietly, arms tucked in her sleeves as she approached, her free hand emerging and wrapping his in a warm grasp.

“I shouldn’t have left you last night. Not after that. I’m sorry.” He rasped, squeezing her hand back.

“You’re a warrior. I expect night terrors, Aroden. I only ask that you talk to me about them. Perhaps starting with these new fire tubes you’ve invented?” 

His breath halted in his chest at that, closing the distance to brush her cheek gently.

“You’re a treasure. I…know it's difficult being here for you. I won’t ask you to look at weapons of war when you detest them so. But confiding in you…I’d appreciate that. I had dreams again last night…about Rathalas.” 

“You fool.” She responded, quietly leaning into his touch and closing her eyes. “Those thoughts about war? They were like a child’s. I…I want to learn of what brings you joy. Your creations. Though I ask…not in front of Adolin, or Renarin. Not yet. I fear they may not understand. I’m almost a different person now, after these years. And us? They may never be ready to fully accept it.”

She took his hand, guiding him back to his rooms. Flashing him another dazzling grin. Her eyes flickered in the morning light, more a hazel-gold than their usual iridescent yellow. Different than he remembered. But storms if he hadn’t changed too.

Highprince of Justice. Lead Engineer of the Kholin Army. A Knight Radiant. Lover of a beautiful woman. All were a far cry from the sobbing bastard of yesterday’s nightmares. And he would ensure that the child stayed buried…whatever it took.

Chapter Text

HAVITH habitually smoothed the front of her havah flat again. She’d checked it a half dozen times before she’d left the house this morning. Not a winkle, crease, or stain anywhere on the garment. It was one of her mother’s. Her favorite when she still lived. Havith allowed herself a small smile in the mirror the day she learned that she fit within it. The garment had been hanging untouched since it had returned from the laundry a week prior.

Only…she wasn’t sure their maid could be trusted anymore. Whispers had started about her family’s estate. That they underpaid their workers. That Father was a cheat, sending only their worst grain to soldiers of the princedom sent to protect their lands and the hinterlands around Kholinar. She knew them to be falsehoods, of course, but word had of course reached the public now, and rumors had legs of their own. It was the little things at first. Meals cooler than they should be, despite supposedly being fresh off the stove. Less and less outfits making it back from the washers. Nerah, their maid, no longer sharing laughs with them at the dinner table, pointedly returning home to eat alone rather than dining with the family. And now, barely disguised mockery and insults when she walked the streets of Kholinar from certain light-eyes of higher dahns.

She stepped up to a stall, intent on buying an some fruit as a quick snack, as she hadn’t trusted the breakfast the cook had prepared for her, the women's stew looking all the wrong shades of brown with a thin film floating on top, but the man pointedly ignored her. Serving three dark-eyes before her, and finally regarding her with an icy stare before saying.

“Apologies, Brightness, closed for break.” And slamming the stall cover shut with ferocity that made her jump.

Perhaps Bevidon would make things better. 

That was where she was heading now, an engagement with the light-eyed officer several dahns higher than her or her family could hope to dream of reaching. She brushed a stray lock of brown hair out of her eyes with her freehand, blinking away the tears she refused to let form here, her safehand opening and closing in its sleeve as it clutched her mother’s necklace tucked in her safepouch. Bevidon Ralethkar, a brigadelord assigned to the Royal Guard. He’d been stymied in his career path by being refused the honor of fighting out on the Shattered Plains, she knew. But he’d created a reputation for himself of being stern, but fair to his men, and holding Kholinar in a firm grip. 

Whispers of rebellion traveled far, but none of them had taken root in the Kholin princedom with his guidance. And he…saw her. Her family status hardly rated invitations to any of the queen’s regular and frequent parties. But one evening when she’d been trying to negotiate a contract with a merchant caravan heading out for the Plains he’d stopped her on the street and asked to escort her home. She still remembered the feeling of his gloved palm delicately holding her freehand, the lack of judgement when she’d told them her family name. 

She entered the shop quietly, eyes flicking around the darkened space as she pointedly ignored the few glares she received from a cluster of dark-eyed spear men in the corner. 

Shoulders square. Chin proud.

She told herself, remembering her mother’s lessons. She would not be intimidated by a few men so far below her station. Bevidon sat there in the corner nursing a cup of purple wine, standing when he saw her and giving her a dazzling smile, which she returned demurely. Waiting until he stood and pulled her chair out for her and sitting with her hands folded. The smile dropped as he stood, and suddenly she felt, not shame, not indignation, but a deeper wariness somewhere in her chest.

Perhaps he is just tired.

Exhaustion she could handle. Manage. Her mother had taught her the basics of how to be a proper wife. How to run a household. It was simply about understanding a man’s inclinations. Guiding expectations. Being proper about things. Her father had taught her his accounts. How to be handy with numbers, and despite the concerning decrease in income over the past few months, her ledgers were spotless.

“Brighness, looking radiant as always.” Bevidon said, with an easy smile. He was a tall man with shoulder length brown hair and green eyes. A few amber specks near his irises. His nose was a bit too large for his face. But…she could ignore that. The way he looked at her. The unspoken promises of helping her salvage her father’s name…

Looks matter less than promises.

She thought, flashing her lashes across the table to him like her mother had demonstrated. The instructions echoed in her ears now. Be inquisitive, but not assertive. Mindful,but not overbearing. Be interested in the conversation. Control the flow of things. The man leads, but the woman upholds.

“Brightlord Ralethkar, it's enjoyable to see you again. Tell me, how has your week been? I’ve spent too long in my father’s ledgers I fear and haven’t seen how the patrols we spoke of have improved the stre-”

“How about this? We simply sit and enjoy one another’s company, I don’t wish to speak about my duties.” Bevidon interrupted, a strange look in his eyes that disappeared as quickly as she saw it, replaced with another disarming smile.

Too much. Anticipate his needs.

She thought. Perhaps  this was a man who needed to be listened to . She supposed that made sense. He was a leader of men after all. Still manageable, and perhaps even pleasant to deal with. She could work with that, and mold it into something that could shield her family.

“Very well, my apologies…” She said quietly, the waiter finally coming over and delivering her own glass of yellow. One she hadn’t ordered. 

“Drink, please. I think you’ll like it.” He said with another smirk. 

The alcohol made her head buzz after the first few minutes of conversation, sitting uneasily in her empty stomach. She tried her best to keep up with the conversation, but Bevidon talked a mile a minute. About himself. Complaining about his stunted career. The lazy dark-eyes serving under him. She nodded respectfully all the while, her safehand palming her mother’s necklace unconsciously.

“Pah, the world’s gone upside down, is what’s happened, with the queen running things. We need good men back running this place. Men my father followed, like the Blackthorn.” He said, louder than he probably should have. The other light-eyes sitting next to them did their best not to notice the outburst.

Storms. Greater men have been flogged for such talk.

Whispers had spread of the queen’s…unsteady state, since the dowager had left the capital. The prayer chimneys never ceased their smoking now, even as Queen Aesudan threw lavish parties for her most established sycophants. Her father had even delivered some of his finer grains to those parties, only to be gently rebuffed. One of the carts had lost its axle on the streets during the return. Palace Guards had simply stood by while urchins and vagrants had taken every sack. Hundreds of spheres lost.

“Beloved...I believe that is dangerous talk.” She offered quietly, instinctively smoothing down the front of her havah again.

She saw it then, a flash of true anger on his features. Fleeting, but genuine, before his face smoothed over again, before his smile returned, with dimples that in the right light, were pleasant to look at.

“I appreciate the candor, Brightness…simply be careful how you offer it.” He responded more quietly, finishing his wine and sliding it across the table with finality. A worker stepped from behind the bar, but he held him off with a silent palm in the air.

“I dare say you’ll do splendidly. We understand one another I think. I shall call on your father soon enough to finalize our betrothal and set a date for the wedding. Sooner rather than later I think. I dislike such long fraternizations.” Bevidon grunted. He guided her out of the shop, clutching her freehand on one hand, the other guiding her by the small of her back. She started to make a quiet sound in protest. Her glass was still half full, she’d meant to order a real meal. Food prepared for others that she knew wouldn’t be spat in. But she found herself back on the side-street before any words could leave her throat.

“Yes I…I feel the same. My father will be pleased. Honored.” Havith said. Willing her voice not to break.

“Good, wear yellow at our next engagement. That color doesn’t match your eyes, gemheart.” He kissed the knuckle of her freehand before departing from her quickly, looking over her shoulder to give her one last smirk. 

Something like a sob boiled in her throat before she swallowed it, suddenly aware of her position in the middle of the street before clutching her hands together. Hesitating before returning back to her home. It seemed she was to be married. The need for stability warred with the unease that rested in her chest. She hesitated at the alleyway, smelling something burning for a moment, but dismissed it quickly. There was to be another meeting with a representative with the Aladar household in a few hours. Hopefully this one would meet with greater success than the past four.

KALADIN awoke with a grunt, eyes blurry from the effort of prying them open as he sat up, dull shouts and alarm bells ringing throughout the slave quarters. Confusion racked his brain. This was Bridge Four’s off time. They’d completed a run less than a day ago, and lost two men as a result. Men whose names he’d never had time to learn. They were already using Shen every run at this point, and some of his wounded could barely stand. 

Teft met him at the doorway as he dragged on his padded vest, his eyes flinty. He was just as mad as he was. That should have concerned Kaladin, but instead it filled him with just a little hope. When he’d arrived these had all been broken men. Genuine anger at their treatment meant they actually cared about themselves. That was good, he could guide them from there. His own resentment at losing sleep certainly matched their own.

Syl flickered on his shoulder, concern across her miniature features as her feet kicked against his collarbone.

“They need every crew up apparently. Something about new equipment that needs special considerations. So we’re helping haul it.” Teft grunted as they stepped out into the yard.

Not a bridgerun then. Moving equipment. A part of him was curious. What equipment needed hauling that couldn’t be towed by chull? Siege equipment? But the parshendi, from what he’d seen, didn't bother building any defenses on the plateaus. The answer came rolling in a few minutes after they’d assembled. A mixture of Sadeas green and oddly modified Kholin blue uniforms pushing a dozen carts between them. Some contained nothing but odd, large spheres of metal and bulging sacks of burlap. Others carried downright bizarre looking Soulcast bronze tubes, about the length of a man, angled upward with a hole at the end. 

“Odd looking things aren’t they?” Sigzil intoned, arms crossed. “Doubt even my Master has seen something like that in his travels.” 

Something even stranger happened after that, as a slight man in Kholin colors arrived on a horse. Halting the beast with his reigns and giving them all a raised hand in greeting. Syl became oddly quiet as he approached, then vanished from Kaladin’s shoulder. 

“Bridge Four, I’m told?” The man asked quietly. 

“That would be us, Brightlord…” Kaladin said, daring to meet the man with his eyes. 

“Ah. Well I’m Aroden. Aroden Kholin. I’m afraid we’ll need you for the task ahead. My men will need help to move the cannons in place for this assault. Sadeas prefers that we move quickly for this gemheart. Though worry not, my men have been ordered to share rations with you. I only ask that you treat the equipment with respect.” Aroden ordered calmly, giving Kaladin one last nod before riding off, joining Sadeas in the van as the soldiers continued assembling. Ahead of them, Bridge Seven surged forward at a punishing pace, racing to place the first bridges while the other crews gave them a wide berth. 

“Did a light-eyes just apologize for calling on us?” Kaladin found himself asking, eyes drifting incredulously towards Teft, then Moash, who merely shrugged.

“It's still a run. We just won’t have men at the front protecting us.” Moash said darkly, stomping off towards the cannons . 

Storms, even the word sounds off.

“He’s hiding something. He has someone else with him.” Syl finally said, reappearing on his shoulder.

“He’s a light-eyes, they’re always hiding things.” Kaladin muttered.

Like dead dark-eyes and stolen Shardblades  

“Bridgemen. Engineer First Class Juesel Dakajid.” A man in Kholin colors said with a crisp salute as they approached. “We’ll simply need you to help haul the carts. Mind the power charges. No lighting up firemoss near them. Nor sparks. I see a flint out of a pocket the results won’t be pretty.

“They’re slaves . Who cares if they blow themselves apart? I could buy half this lot on my salary.” Said a Sadeas soldier with a grunt, sergeant chevrons obvious on his wrinkled coat. He barely suppressed a chuckle before resting his hand on his sword pommel.

“And you’ll respect the Bronze Chulls too. I don’t plan to be buried in a bottle.” Juesel said sternly, rounding on the sergeant. 

A warhorn sounded before the debate could continue as Kaladin rested his hands on the holds on either side of the cart. It was, admittedly, easier going than the bridges. Even if the wheels did stick on occasion. Then they’d have to heave on one side while the Kholin engineers hammered wooden wedges under the stuck wheel. But they made surprisingly good time.

The Sadeas troops all but ignored them, only paying attention and muttering curses when the carts were stuck for more than a few moments. Muttering about the ridiculous notions of Aroden Kholin thinking a party trick could become a weapon. The Kholin troops would be quick with a response, describing a frankly insane story of their commander using a similar weapon to break a chasmfiend in half, or using a handful to wipe out entire formations of parshendi with a few shots.

That was ridiculous. Light-eyes always had delusions of grandeur. He knew nothing could break a solid formation of spearmen behind shields. Not even focused archery or a cavalry charge. But as they settled in for the next wait for the bridges to be placed, he found he did enjoy the change of pace. His shoulders burned unpleasantly, and his hands ached, but he’d settled into a steady tedium far different than the mad sprints that bridgeruns turned into. At one point a Sadeas soldier had pulled out a whip to spur them on faster. But then Juesel had actually backhanded the man, shouting a warning about spilling any powder sacks open. That was fine. Let Aroden have his delusions, so long as it kept his men safe, and allowed them easy trips like this. 

After another few hours the sounds of cracking carapace crackled across the plateau. Followed by the sounds of arrows and shouts of battle. It was odd being at the back of a battle instead of at the front. Kaladin allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. His heart still hurt at the thought of other bridgemen dying. But Bridge Four would actually complete this run without an obvious casualty, all because a Brightlord’s science project needed testing. Likely before Sadeas would waste an obscene amount of spheres buying them.

Then Juesel shoved him roughly into the dirt. 

His instincts flared for him to grab for the man’s face, to throw a punch and fight him off, until he started hearing the telltale whistles of parshendi arrows and sing-song calls of alarm from across the chasm.

“Firing alignment! Standard dispersion!” Aroden suddenly shouted, riding up on his horse. The men all snapped to attention. The Sadeas troops notably slower than the Kholins as they adjusted the carts.

“Sorry for the rough landing, bridgeman. Tell your men to stay down and plug their ears!” Barked Juesel, patting Kaladin on the shoulder before standing again, barking his own orders to his crew. 

The carts with the balls and sacks were hastened in line with the tube carts. The Kholin troops moved in strange ways but with a mechanical precision similar to those he’d seen loading trebuchets or catapults. He watched curiously as one of the sacks was torn open to reveal smaller, parchment wrapped packets that were rammed into the holes of the tubes with wooden sticks, rags wrapped around the inside of them. Followed by one of the metal balls. Each settled in the barrels with a hollow sounding thunk. 

“On my command. Volley fire! FIRE!” Aroden shouted, drawing his sword and pointing it forward, heedless of the danger of the arrows landing around him. Kal hugged the ground to avoid the arrows. But kept his hands planted. Ready to shield himself in case something went wrong. 

That was a mistake. 

Juesel sparked a wick mounted at the end of a bronze stick, and placed it in a tiny hole at the base of the cannon that Kaladin hadn’t noticed before, and the world *exploded* like a lightning bolt had just struck. The cart rolled back several feet across the uneven terrain, the engineers already realigning it even as the next cannon fired. Kaladin plugged his ears that time, but the shockwave still made his teeth rattle. Then another fired. Then another. Before long all six barrels were smoking, and he thought he was over. He moved to adjust himself, but the first crew was already reloaded. The ramming rod having been shoved down the barrel for an unknown reason before helping load another powder charge, then ball. 

His eyes finally flickered up to the other plateau, and Kaladin was shocked. 

Half of the parshendi that had been firing on them were simply…gone. Smoldering craters remained where dozens of them had been standing. And the rest were already scattering. A few remained near the chrysalis, desperately trying to access its gemstone as the Sadeas troops simply waited for further devastation. Anxious sergeants and low-ranking light-eyed officers holding eager men back.

“Adjust fire…twenty degrees left, fifty yards forward. Fire!” Aroden barked with an odd cadence. Almost like he was waiting on a scribe to make his calculations. The cannons fired again, and Kaladin watched in fascination and horror as six more balls landed in the center of the plateau. The few parshendi brave enough to remain behind, being obliterated and the chrysalis shattering. He could see its glinting gemheart even from here.

“Cease fire, hold loads!” Aroden commanded, sheathing his sword as Kaladin watched Sadeas ride up, removing his helmet and fixing the man with a grin.

“ Well worth the wait! I’ll take twice as many, and carts and crews to man them!” Sadeas exclaimed, reaching from the saddle to clap Aroden on the shoulder.

Kaladin fumed silently, his ears popping as he realized his hearing had yet to come back, the conversation between the two light-eyes sounding muted, like hearing underwater.

“I can’t spare the crews, but your men can train with mine.” Aroden said in his usual quiet tone, giving Sadeas a small smile.

“It’s probably best if my men avoid your brother’s warcamp for now. Perhaps you could send your engineers over…”

The conversation continued as the men rode away slowly, back towards the bridge and out of Kaladin’s hearing. Slowly he regained his footing. His legs shaking as his inner ears vibrated in his skull. But after a moment the feeling passed. The Kholin engineers continued their methodical stowage. They gathered the opened package of powder and  doused them in water barrels and heaved over the chasm edges rather than risking the return trip in their exposed state. They also soaked rags in vinegar, swabbing down the barrels and cooling them before their return trips. Juesel turned and gave him a knowing smirk and a nod, as if mocking him for not taking his advice. 

Teft found him soon afterwards, looking as shocked as he felt. Neither said a word. Neither needed to. They’d both felt the same shift. The conscious understanding that a storming light-eyes may have just made spearmen irrelevant.

NAVANI finished her latest drafting. Another letter written to Aesudan to give her advice on how to handle the representatives of the highprinces back in Kholinar. One she knew would yet again be ignored. She was surprised at how busy she’d been since she had arrived to the Plains. Assisting Dalinar as she’d been able, despite the…awkwardness, between them. Helping organize House Kholin’s actual accounts, separated from army expenditures anyway, she found that Aroden had actually organized those with imperial precision, not a sphere unaccounted for. And now actually swelling quite nicely with Sadeas’ purchases of his new devices. House Kholin was by no means destitute , its relationship as a separate-but-de jure ruling house through Elhokar meant it had access to resources and wealth through taxes that other princedoms simply couldn’t compete with. However, supplying tens of thousands of fighting men with arms, armor, Soulcast rations, horse-feed, and everything else an army marched on was certainly not cheap. The other highprinces appreciated boons in the form of gemhearts being captured, Sadeas most chiefly, but Dalinar’s forces had not captured one in months.

She had a dim plan in mind, if Aroden had been agreeable to it. Siphoning more wealth from Sadeas, and thus, projected power, by overloading him with more of those cannons and mortars than he would ever find useful. The idea had soured recently as Aroden’s presence in the Kholin camp had been scarce the past few weeks. Dalinar had said little about it, and Navani knew better than to press. She knew the difficulties the brothers faced. Aroden was simply…odd. Confident one moment, when in a fight or performing a calculation that baffled even her. Awkward, or staring off into the distance the next. And his relationship with Evi had been…trying. As a younger man he had been head over heels for her, and she for him, though quietly. She remembered a day when he’d given her a tour of the capital wall he’d helped design. Navani was sure most of the mathematics had gone over her head, but privately, the few times she’d spoken to Dalinar’s former wife, she quietly admitted she admired a soldier who built things. It helped that Aroden had never accepted the Thrill that Dalinar so thrived on. He was reluctant to draw a blade, though when he did he was admittedly skilled. No prodigy like Adolin, but better than he gave himself credit for. And he’d pulled Renarin out of his shell. The man would never be a fighter, but he practiced katas daily like he was.

In the end she had never believed the rumors or scandal. She knew Evi better than most. She had stayed true to her oaths, and Adolin and Renarin were clearly Dalinar’s. She and Aroden had been close friends, ones who had understood one another, nothing more. Dalinar rarely even commented on the events of those fateful years any longer. She wondered if it had something to do with the Old Magic he’d sought out.

She sighed as she clicked off the spanreed, standing and stretching her back as her new scribe passed an additional document for her to review. 

“An additional request for Soulcasting provisions, Brightness, from Brightlord Aroden.” Danlan said with a respectful bow. 

Ah yes, another problem she had to deal with. Danlan Morokotha had practically begged on bent knee to accompany her to the Shattered Plains. The girl was good, already a practiced scribe who had accompanied Kholin forces across several campaigns, alongside her father. The asking had been a common one, she had many lower dahn women of betrothal age under her direct employ. But Tahan Morokotha was always one seeking to increase his status. No doubt her real reason for being here was seeking a marriage opportunity with someone in a higher caste. And now she had proof.

“Yes, Aroden’s new equipment does indeed require additional resources to remain relevant. Tell me, is that what you discussed on your unchaperoned walk through the market yesterday?” Navani asked with feigned nonchalance, raising a single dark eyebrow. 

“I…that is, Brightness…Aroden is a good friend. We served together in Jah Keved!” Danlan exclaimed, fiddling with her safepouch, her eyes widening in alarm.

“Relax, Danlan. I only fear for your reputation…I approve.” Navani said with a smirk.

“You…do?” Danlan said with a breathy voice, daring to take a halting step forward.

“The man’s reputation would improve drastically if he found himself a wife. You may…smooth his rough edges out a little. Only, take a chaperone. My brother-in-law would never do anything untoward, it's not that I fear. But rumors have a way of spreading. Be discreet.” Navani said with a sterner tone, giving her one last lingering glance before returning to the paperwork. 

“I’ve already been quite discreet, Brightness…chaperones when in public, though…we are keeping these things a secret between us for now. Aroden wants to focus on the war effort. He believes with his new equipment and the potential for joint assaults the war may be truly over soon.” Danlan responded, bowing slightly before leaving Navani’s tent.

She sighed as the scribe departed, rubbing her forehead. Yes. If that man were wed perhaps he’d be easier to deal with. If nothing else he and Dalinar would have something to bond over. 

Vedel didn’t bother screaming. Her throat had long since been slashed anyway. She could sense someone else here, but couldn’t see them. Chana, perhaps. Another female presence, anyway. A blade on the road. That was how she’d died. A simple highwayman panicked when she hadn’t immediately handed over her spheres. And here she was, back in Braize. To fresh agony every waking moment. 

She was going to break, she could feel it. And whoever was here with her was going to as well. Walking away from the Oathpact hadn’t healed a thing. It had stretched her thin. The last hundred years she hadn’t even bothered establishing a clinic. She’d simply wandered from place to place, helping a few here and there and then vanishing before she’d made too many attachments. 

The next agony was somehow worse. Something that felt like burning pitch scorching her body, suffocating her. This was it. She would break. The True Desolation would come. She couldn’t take it. Nobody could-

I felt worse once…I’m here…to listen.

A voice, inside her head. Another presence. “W-who?” 

She tried to rasp, but she couldn’t. She had no mouth here. Or they’d sewn it shut. She strained against her bonds. Willing this fresh new intrusion out of her spirit. Physical agony she could bear for a time, but mental torture? She’d broken first that way once before. A vision of a family she knew she could never have. Taken away from her piece by piece.

I’m real…I’ve lost too. Share your pain with me. We can face it together.

Someone who would take her pain willingly? This had to be a trap. Some fresh new damnation from Odium. Honor was dead, and he reigned. She twisted in her bonds, slowly loosening. Ready to give up.

Give them time. Just a bit longer. Just try. I…I understand. The pain that comes with it. You don’t have to bear this alone.

Gods help her. She did. She released some of the agony she’d felt. The voice…the presence. It bore it. She could feel it recoil slightly. But then withstand it with quiet dignity. She halted from giving it all the pain, doing her best to shoulder her own burden, but… storms… it felt good to not…be torn apart completely every second.

See? We can do this. Together.

“What…who are you?” 

Someone who's been through fire, too.

Chapter Text

ARODEN sat forward on his camp stool, eyes wide as he strained to recall what he’d just heard. He needed to reconcile the suggestion that had just come from Sadeas’ mouth with the friend he’d been for the past few years. But he hadn’t misheard, and the taller man was staring at him expectantly from across his desk within his war tent. Eyes glinting in the dim light within.

“Me…as Highprince…Torrol, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t take that from Adolin.” He said quietly, a finger picking at the bottom of his earthenware winecup. 

But storms, even as he said it, he hated the feeling that settled in his gut. First Ember had suggested it, and now his best friend. If he were Highprince he could fund his projects with abandon. He could keep Evi safe, truly safe, ringed with an iron halo over Kholinar. He could defeat the Parshendi with his new weapons and return home . No more visions. No more laughs behind his back, or a thin veneer of respect because he could wipe out battalions of men with a spoken word. 

“No. My brother rules. And his sons are his heirs. Her boys deserve better than a life in chains,” he stood, clasping his cup in both hands before setting it down on Sadeas’ map table before continuing. “And I shall not dishonor her, she still cares for him, in her own way.” 

Sadeas raised an eyebrow at that, a long silence dragging through the tent. Slowly, the man stood and stepped around the table. The only sound within the cloth walls of the space his heavy footfalls, and the ever-present wind buffeting the fabric that surrounded them.

“And that…is why we are friends.” He said, giving him a wide grin, all teeth. From within their bond, Ember shuddered in alarm, whispering something about betrayal with a high probability. Aroden swallowed harshly, moving to speak before Sadeas raised a hand.

“I am the Highprince of Information, after all. I’d have to report such attempts as treason to the crown, after all.” Sadeas growled, crossing his arms over his chest.

The attempt at levity and distraction fell flat, and both men knew it. Aroden pointedly looked straight forward, eyes lingering on the map that marked the warcamp positions. 

“He…remains my blood, Sadeas, it wouldn’t be right. Not like this, and you know it.” Aroden finally said, suddenly reaching for the cup and draining it. “I should return to my investigation. My interviews. I still have yet to even finish reading the Codes of Wartime Justice.”

“This whole investigation is chull dung, and you know it. The Assassin-in-White didn’t need to cut a saddle strap to kill a king.” Sadeas spat. “But, we should stand united on this. We may need to name someone just to keep Elhokar happy.” He continued his pacing around the table, taking another measured sip of wine as he did so. 

“If you used this to better your position, you wouldn’t be a lesser man, Aroden. Just a smart one. Your brother used rank ambition to become king. Why take the dregs Dalinar throws you? Why not use that brilliant mind to serve yourself?” 

Why not indeed?

Because betraying his family was beneath him? Because Gavilar for all his faults cared about him in some small way? Because a small part of him, one he loved and loathed in equal measure, still wanted his surviving brother to respect him some day? He didn’t have an answer. When it came to Dalinar, his calculations failed. He wished Evi were here. Years in Kholinar had sharpened her wit considerably. She would know what to say. But she’d been conspicuously absent these last few days. An illness, she said, and her duties serving with Navani as a scribe. A part of him wondered why she needed to work so hard. Perhaps he’d ask Navani to take it easy on her. 

This war had taken so much from them both. Storms, his head still ached sometimes, especially after the chasmfiend hunt. The migraines made it not only hard to function physically, but mentally. He found himself staring off more often now, screams echoing in his ears, imagining flames that couldn’t possibly be real. 

“He is still a capable fighter. Civil war would destroy not just the princedom, but Alethkar itself, as a concept. And besides, it would further undermine Elhokar’s legitimacy at a critical juncture.” He heard himself saying. “This isn’t a disagreement in the yard, Torrol. This is about legitimacy. Legacy. If a brother can simply kill another and subvert his line, what does that say about the line of kings?” 

Sadeas halted his pacing, eyes narrowing for a moment that stretched on far too long. But nodded once, sharply, and dismissed him with the wave of a hand. Aroden stood up slowly, brushing the crem dust from the tail of his coat. 

“I’ll see to the interviews then, and we’ll make our decision at-” 

“I believe I dismissed you, friend.” 

Aroden swallowed harshly, then exited the tent. 

Ember floated lazily around his head as he walked stiffly through Sadeas’ warcamp. There were no words between them for a long while. Not until he’d walked past the guards at the gates, leaning lazily on large halberds, looking disinterestedly at the odd light-eyes in Kholin colors. His fist closed around power he knew he shouldn’t utilize there. The threads of Division weaving tightly around sinew and marrow. A dismissal. From his friend.

“He never truly cared, you know.” Ember whispered, the cloud of ash that made up his essence dissolving as Aroden walked through it.

“You can’t know that.” Aroden responded evenly. Heading, for a chance, to the training arena. He’d beat a training dummy to within an inch of its life. That would soothe not just his worries, but maybe his headache.

“I can, actually, to a high degree of probable certainty. You’ve known this to be possibility. You merely refused to see it.”

“Sadeas is my friend , someone who respects me for what I contribute to this campaign.” Aroden hissed, ignoring the wide-eyed look of a dark-eyed slave, likely confused at the idea of a man of his dahn talking to himself.

“Exactly, and that’s the hell’s damned problem. For what you do , not who you are!” Ember shouted in his ear,transforming into his anthropomorphic version and hovering in front of him. A gust of wind sent some of his skin and tissue rending off from that side, regenerating even as he lost it. 

“And why do you care, Ember? This partnership was for a singular purpose, was it not?” 

A heartbeat passed as Aroden stepped quietly into a side corridor of the training arena. Human and spren squared off against a pillar of Soulcast stone, both arms crossed, neither willing to give an inch of ground.

“That was years ago. Before I knew you.” Ember admitted quietly. “I begrudgingly accept that your mental health is a mathematical necessity for our continued partnership to survive. Some of your kind…they are not the ones that destroyed my people. That is not honor, or empathy speaking. Merely statistical probability.”

Aroden froze at the statement, his own mind processing the implications. They came up blank. A memory came to him unbidden. One that had him seeing stars. A night in Kholinar as he stumbled drunk down a stone hallway. A threat he’d made.

“I threatened you with death , you can’t tell me what you’re saying now is anything beyond self-preservation.” 

“It could be…but human. It's alright to accept that sometimes, people like you.” Ember said quietly, his human form vanishing into a puff of smoke. 

He stood there for a breath, leaning against the pillar before he composed himself, absentmindedly grabbing a training sword from the rack and beginning a string of katas. He tossed his uniform jacket over a nearby bench, working through the motions faster than he should have. But this wasn’t relaxation. It was a desperate need to calm his spiraling thoughts. Memories of a life unlived coursed through him, and he didn’t know why. Or who had changed them. It terrified him. Even more than the thought of a man he called friend plotting against his family.

He spun in his kata, his sword coming down against an imagined enemy, before it was met with a resounding thunk of wood on wood. 

He blinked in shock, as Renarin deftly riposted. 

“You’re thinking loud enough for me to hear, Uncle.” Renarin said with a grin. 

Aroden deflected the blow, disengaging with three steps back. 

“I thought I told you no genuine sparring? Your brother is right. You shouldn’t be training until you have Plate of your own. Your mother would kill me if she saw us like this.” Aroden said sternly.

Renarin thrust again, harder, which Aroden had to leap back to avoid. The lad performed a dizzying array of flamboyant strikes, intended for training katas rather than proper dueling. An oversight in his training that Aroden had never considered when first teaching the boy. However, he was fast enough that he was still a genuine threat.

“And I thought I told you that I’m my own man? If I want to spar. I shall. Besides.” Renarin said with a toothy grin, stepping back into Flamestance. “You look like you could use the distraction.” 

“The second you feel a fit coming, you lie down, boy.” Aroden barked…and then attacked from his own Smokestance. The blade’s weight was wrong. All heft at the point, intended to build strength in young light-eyed soldiers rather than being a true broadsword. But Aroden had something Renarin lacked: real battlefield experience. Though he took some measures to ensure he didn’t truly injure his nephew.

Aroden ducked one of the wide Flamestance strikes, driving forward at all costs, his blade point forward to deliver what would be a killing blow on the field. Only for Renarin to sidestep at the last second, tapping his blade quickly on Aroden’s shoulder.

“Attacking against all odds will cost you something, Uncle.” Renarin teased. 

“Been listening to that ardent too much, boy, you’ve lost your footing.” 

“Wha-” 

Aroden swept his foot outward, catching Renarin’s ankle and sending both men tumbling into the sand. Aroden seized the opportunity, crawling his way up Renarin’s form and pinning him there, a wild smile on his face even as he felt sand in his boots that wouldn’t come out for ages. And Renarin? He smiled back up at him, even as his spectacle clad face beat red with exertion. 

“Dueling’s well and good son, but on the battlefield. A killing stroke is only true when the other man stops moving.” He said, offering a hand and hauling his nephew to his feet.

The silence that stretched between them was so large it could fill the stands of this arena. But neither seemed brave enough to break it first.

“Father misses you.”

“Don’t…please Ren. Not today.” Aroden quietly rasped. Turning and placing his sword back in the weapon rack.

“He loves you…he truly does. In his own way. It’s hard for him to say it.” Renarin continued, adjusting his spectacles. Aroden smiled a little in pride as he realized that Renarin’s uniform coat filled out at the motion. Muscles, lithe as they were, filling out his frame. 

“The Rift is what’s between us, lad. That and your mother. Some wounds…they don’t heal. Not well anyway.” He said softly, eyes gazing somewhere very far away.

“I hear…whispers. Uncle. Questions hard to ignore. What…what was she to you?” Renarin asked, a quiver in his voice as he clutched the pommel of his sword.

Aroden closed his eyes tightly. The pain fresh in his chest, even if he didn’t know its source.

“Is…what she is to me. My conscience. Every time I question whether I’m making the right choice. Get back to your father, son.” He whispered. Stepping out of the arena. 

Sadeas had made himself scarce in the following days. Aroden had tried to approach him. He wanted to at least make a showing of performing a legitimate investigation to Elhokar, even if he too, quietly doubted the veracity of the king’s claims. He’d known his nephew as he was coming up. And aside from the bitterness of Elhokar actually being shown some affection in his youth, he felt he could rationally analyze his mentality. 

The man wanted stability. Legitimacy. All the things his father had but he lacked. Quietly, he understood. Dalinar was all the things Elhokar was not. A shared pain that should have united the two men against him. But Aroden knew better than to keep trust in Elhokar’s appointment to his current position. Too many whispered insults behind his back and judgemental stares had ruined any chance they’d had at familial appreciation for one another. He would do his duty to the man, as honor demanded, but nothing more. He was finding his trust was less and less free to give these days.

Torrol…was any of it real? 

Or was this another slight. Aroden puzzled over it later that night at the feasting table. He’d retained his honorary position sitting near the king. Sadeas made a grand showing of lavishing praise on him. Patting his shoulder in a paternal fashion. Sharing jests during the assaults they’d been on. Praising his new cannons and how his casualty rates had decreased exponentially. How bridgemen actually enjoyed the runs with the new equipment. But all of it rang hollow. Was he simply being groomed as Dalinar’s replacement? A pawn that Torrol Sadeas thought he could control? 

Sadeas stood up suddenly, his voice booming as Aroden realized that the man’s guards had ringed the platform. Not enough to raise an alarm, but enough that he’d noticed it. He sat up straighter in his chair. 

“My friends. I’m proud to announce that the Highprince of Justice and I have completed our investigation into the king’s assassination attempt. I assure you, all involved have been questioned thoroughly.” 

Aroden went pale. His hand reached out unbidden for the cup of wine that had sat in front of him untouched, but he stopped himself from grasping it. Instead, his eyes focused on Ember’s tiny flickering form on the table, pantomiming the action of setting the wood on fire. Phandom smoke drifted past his face before his eyes focused on Dalinar on the platform below, his hands squeezed into tight fists. Adolin was with him. And storms …Renarin as well. They had a handful of Cobalt Guard accompanying them. Which only meant one thing. They meant to accuse Sadeas…or to fight their way out if he accused them.

“There can only be one rationalization for this plot. Only one responsible party-”

“Sadeas is right. It was too coincidental. I’ve questioned the stablehands and the king’s leatherman personally. The strap failed due to stress. The lad responsible for changing it was distracted with a washerwoman rather than changing it. He faced six lashes and was demoted a full nahn, as per the Codes.” Aroden announced loudly.

He realized then that he was standing. His arms braced on the table. His eyes locked on Dalinar’s. 

The entire table was silent for a long moment as Elhokar processed the revelation. Giving Aroden only a single silent nod before staring back down at his plate. Sadeas said nothing at all, only giving Aroden an unreadable expression before quietly leaving his seat, stepping out of the sphere-illuminated haze and disappearing into the night.

And on the platform below, Dalinar gave him a single, subtle nod, before turning and walking away. Likely returning to the Kholin warcamp. Aroden remained stubbornly standing, legs unable to move or sit again, taking shaky breaths as the other highprinces started to notice his awkward position. Leaving the table might cause more concern, or worse, requiring him to face either man after the choice he’d made. One he was beginning to realize was in the name of an uneasy peace, rather than open war. 

The thought made Aroden feel strange. He was a man who preferred to destroy his problems outright. Not seek a resolution that kept others breathing. 

Or…is that only what I want to think? Do I run from my own problems?

The thought lingered there. A part of him wanted nothing more than to chase it away with the cup of wine that still sat untouched in front of him. But the next time a servant passed, he grabbed it again with a surprising intensity, setting it on the serving tray with a clunk. 

“Water.” He barked. The servant departing wordlessly with the alcohol in tow.

“Well then. Seems that’s settled. I thank you for your thorough investigation, Uncle.” Elhokar said evenly, leaning in his seat. 

“Seems the job suits me. The law is earlier to manage than most men. In truth the stablehand was a good lad. He claimed that he thought he had inspected the strap, Elhokar.” Aroden found himself saying. His senses slowly returning to him.

“Yes well, what lad wouldn’t when they found themselves with a pretty maid. Do me a favor? Find him in a week or two and return his nahn to him. Seems the right thing to do. I didn’t have any lasting harm from the strap’s failure. You seem to be in good health, and Dalinar and Adolin are certainly alright.” 

Aroden stilled, choosing his words before responding. “Mercy? To someone who failed in their duties? Wouldn’t that serve to weaken your image?” 

“I don’t intend for you to make the notice from a rooftop, Uncle. Merely…I wonder, on occasion, what kind of king I’d like to be. I feel that mercy, at times, can be a blessing.” Elhokar responded, taking a long draught from his cup.

“Gavilar, that is…your father, used it on occasion. Good men know when to stop filling graves.” Aroden said, taking his own sip from the water cup delivered by another passing servant, stepping quickly back into the darkness to be available, but not obstructive.

“Yes. My father. I’m always measured against him. And not my own merits.” Elhokar admitted, suddenly looking sheepish.

“You’re aware of your shortcomings. Or at least aware that you have them. That means you’re a good leader. Or at least trying to be.” 

Elhokar winced at that, eyeing him from his chair with a look somewhere between wary respect and hostility. He should have apologized, or retreated. But he’d been bold once tonight. And something. An inner fire in his gut made him keep speaking before he stood.

“You forget that I knew him too. Gavilar was many things. A good ruler. But not a good man. You could be.” 

He pushed in his chair with a scrape of wood on stone, and departed for his quarters. 

The weeks afterwards had been fraught. Despite everything, Dalinar had actually convinced Sadeas to join him on joint assaults. The results had been horrifically satisfying. But Aroden was exhausted. Exacting perfectionism meant that he lived almost non-stop in the saddle between runs, organizing both his own men, and Sadeas’ gun crews on assaults. The results on the battlefield had been beyond satisfactory. But for Aroden’s person? He was saddlesore, irritable. And Evi’s visits to him had been brief at best. Nothing like their first few passionate nights.

The Kholin army still held the bulk of his artillery. Sadeas’ gestures of personally buying more cannons and mortars had never solidified, even if he was back on speaking terms with him. Though Aroden still refused to meet with Dalinar directly. He…regretted. What he had said that night. Someday, reconciliation between him and his half-brother may have been possible. But not yet. Not with the threat of a final assault still looming over them. His meetings with Renarin in the arena continued as the lad did his best to single-handedly mend the rift between men that a war crime and beatings had created, but he was just a boy. And while Aroden hated the looks that Ren gave him when he refused to meet the lad’s father…he had meant what he said. Some rifts didn’t mend.

As for the rumors that had started regarding his parentage. Well, Aroden had dealt with them personally. He had no concrete evidence as to who had paid the criers in the marketplace that suggested that Renarin was anyone but Dalinar’s. But as Highprince of Justice, it was certainly his right to ensure there were consequences for such slander. After the first few men had been stripped of their nahns, the whispers had creased. The punishment had been surprisingly easy in their issuance. He would not see Evi slandered in such a way, even as she feigned non-chalance when he told her of the issues. But as for Aroden? 

I know the sting too well. I would never father a bastard of my own.

The dark stain on Kholin honor was what Meridas Amaram had called him once. At a feast in Kholinar. Only the barest sense of propriety had stopped him from hauling off and introducing the Brightlord’s teeth to his fist. That and the quiet fact that as a scholarly youth, the blow wouldn’t have wounded much but his own pride.

Today he was enjoying a chance to finally relax, sitting outside of his own quarters, a cup of water resting on the table in front of him as he drafted his newest design. Water, not wine. Another improvement. One even Ember begrudgingly admitted was a good choice. The problem wasn’t that he wanted a glass of blue or violet. The problem was he wanted eight. The spren had been confused at that, asking why he couldn’t limit himself. Aroden didn’t have an answer, only that he knew it was a truth about himself.

“A cryptic would love that. But me? I’ll just be happy when you start setting fires without your fancy toys.” The spren had joked. Aroden had laughed at the insult. Genuinely. He could tell he was close to something. Maybe…beginning to make choices for himself. He’d needed time. To adapt and grow. The Shattered Plains had given him that, even if they’d cost him other things. 

He raised his pencil to his draft again, intending on adjusting the curvature of his newest weapon’s barrel, when the war horns sounded. Parshendi spotted. He was out of his seat before the pencil hit the ground. Armored before the horn stopped blowing, and on his horse and at the staging ground quickly enough to see Dalinar and Sadeas arrive, both of them ahorse and armed and armored in Plate. 

“Scouts say this is the largest group of Parshendi we’ve seen so far. All congregated on a large plateau. The chasms on two sides are too large for them to jump from. This could be our chance, Sadeas!” Dalinar said urgently, steely eyes meeting Sadeas’ own. 

“This will be a good fight. What we’ve been waiting for. Like we practiced. My men will engage and pin them, while yours surge forth. Just like at Revolar.” Sadeas intoned in measured shorthand. The two men discussing strategies of old campaigns like it was second nature. 

There was nothing to worry about then. Aroden breathed a sigh of relief as the two men talked like old friends again. A friendship forged in an early war he was too young to fight in. He was glad that his peacekeeping at the feasting bowl had amounted to something. Relaxed in his saddle even as his fingers twisted around the pommel of his blade as adrenaline regarding the coming fight gnawed at his gut.

“Aroden…I’d appreciate you at my side. We’ve no time to bring our own cannon on this one. We’ll be relying on Sadeas’ carts and bridgemen alone for this. His men are well trained now. Let’s fight side by side, as brothers should.” Dalinar said suddenly. His features forming into a tight smile. 

Aroden hesitated. Eyes flicking between Dalinar’s and Sadeas’. He hadn’t fought at the front for a few months now. But more than that. To fight alongside Dalinar, properly…that coiled like a skyeel in his stomach. He could have said yes. A part of him wanted to. To feel familial pride like he hadn’t felt since Gavilar had first asked him to serve his organization.

“Sadeas’ men will need me for coordination. Perhaps next time.” 

Sadeas gave him an easy smile, leaning in his saddle to pat his shoulder.

“I’ll take good care of him, Dalinar. You should know that by now.” 

The first bridgecrews were finally ready, dragging their worn lumber into positions as they began jogging ahead, quiet sounds of strain carrying on the wind to Aroden’s ears. He nodded to Sadeas, and gave a final wave to Dalinar as he rode off to his station, between the bridgemen pushing the carts towards their destination.

“This is the large plateau far to the East then? Good. The cannons will have enfilading fire on their positions.” Aroden called out mechanically to Sadeas’ riding form.

“The Tower, I believe it’s called. And that, my friend. Is where we end these little games.”

Chapter Text

"While the Ideals of the Releasers all had to do with mastery of the self, the Second was the most practical. For while the Skybreakers withheld Division through their own means. For this order it was their primary Surge. A Radiant that could not control their flames could consume innocents, and themselves."

Words of Radiance, Chapter 17, page 12.

“Bring the cannons onto the line!” Sadeas shouted over the sounds of dying men. His Shardhammer singing through the air and cracking a Parshendi’s carapace, a handful of them leaping the chasm in enthusiasm, barking in their odd cadance. Their actions were absurd and foolish, their meager numbers wouldn't stop a single bridge from being set. Their fellows were more intelligent, targeting as many bridge crews as they could before they could place their structures across the chasm.

Aroden repeated the command in proper parlance, a line of bridgemen and his own engineers surging into action and starting to push the cannons forward, aligned with the bridge crews on the plateau’s edge as they prepared the crossings onto the Tower proper. Spearmen fell around him under unrelenting arrow fire, but Aroden continued on foot, shield up and ahead of the bridgemen and cannon teams. The blue uniforms of his men stood out against Sadeas green. Handpicked volunteers for the mission ahead that would require every ounce of skill his engineers possessed.

“Set sir!” Juesel shouted, shoving a load of shot behind each cart wheel, already barking commands to his own gun teams. Aroden blocked a Parshendi arrow intended for a bridgeman already scrambling for cover after his crew had set his bridge, one of the odd ones wearing desecrated carapace as armor. He and three of his fellows had charged ahead of the other crews of their own accord, willingly putting themselves in jeopardy as targets to ensure more of their fellow slaves survived. Aroden could only respect that. These men may have been criminals or worse, but their drive to protect one another was honorable in its own way. 

“Fall out of here, bridgeman! We’re targets enough as it is!” He shouted to the man, bearing a shash brand on his forehead. He only nodded silently at Aroden before barking commands at his own men and seeking cover, doing their best to tend to their wounded.

The first volley cleared the other side of the Plateau with devastating effect, allowing Sadeas’ men to secure a bridgehead that fresh troops exploited. Sobbing cries in the Parshendi’s strange singing language carried over the roar of battle, and Aroden wished that he had some wadding for his ears. The Kholin forces advanced then, exploiting the gap that Sadeas’ troops had so dearly earned and charged across the bridges, surging onto the Tower. Hammer and Anvil. Sadeas’ lighter troops clearing the way, and Kholin forces cutting their forces in half. A perfect tactical maneuver. One Aroden hoped to assist with if all went according to plan. 

“Close advance! Prepare for direct fire support!” Aroden called, the gun crews packing up and advancing quickly. 

No ammo carts behind them. Men bodily carried powder bags and shot by hand. Canisters of swarm shot only. Ball would be useless at such close range. This was a tactic his crews had practiced, but had not yet implemented in actual battle. Normally the crews would set up on the opposite plateau of the fight for a gemheart, or preferably several plateaus away from the actual fighting. But with so many forces crammed onto this particular plateau, he couldn't risk firing from such distances into such a tight packing of humanity. 

As such when they crossed the bridge, Aroden found himself and his crews in the midst of the battle, scant yards away from lines of spearmen fighting a massed wall of Parshendi. They advanced into the defensive circle, several hundred yards into the bridgehead that Sadeas had established. The man gave him a nod as he passed and Aroden called out the commands to the specific gun crews. The cannon crews entered the battle lines proper. Spearmen kept the Parshendi back as they moved loaded cannons into position, fuses igniting their loads at point blank range into enemy lines. The results were catastrophic for morale, positive for theirs, devastating to the parshendi. Hundreds of them soon littered the ground in states between severely wounded and dead. Clutching missing limbs, gaping holes in carapace breastplates, or holding their war-bonded as they breathed their last. 

Some breathing room. Good.

He thought, though his eyes narrowed when he realized the crew furthest forward on one flank hadn’t fired. Its crew and protective spearmen were overwhelmed. 

“Statistical certainty the line will break if that gun falters!” Ember shouted over the sounds of dying men.

“Sadeas! Eyes forward!” He bellowed, rushing forward with his broadsword drawn. He didn't look to see if the man had heard. 

Aroden may have been described as cool by his own men. But all of them recognized that he would readily fight for any of them, and the Kholin Army Engineers were his , more so than Dalinar could ever claim them. As such he felt no fear when he charged forward alone, blade slicing through the air as Ember materialized at his shoulder. He would hold them back. Juesel’s gun crew was certainly doing their best to fight back, but their morale surged when their commander joined them on the line. In three strikes, Aroden killed three Parshendi, blade dripping with blood as a fired arrow deflected off his breastplate, denting it. The crews weren’t armed as proper infantry, equipped only with side-swords intended as weapons of self defense, gambesons or breastplates alone their only protection. A critical oversight that he now realized left them vulnerable as a loader was overwhelmed by a flanking warpair, hacked to pieces by stone weaponry before his fellows avenged him, their weapons shorter reach putting them in greater peril.

“Load Juesel! Double swarmshot!” Aroden called as he intercepted another Parshendi surging forward bravely, stone axe held high over his head. He caught the axe on it’s wooden shaft, the wood shattering in pieces as he bashed the male with his shield, dazing it and sending it stumbling back.

He didn’t have time to see if Juesel had moved to follow the order as another wave of attackers charged forward, intent on disabling the cannon and killing its crew. 

“Fall back!” 

Aroden whipped his head around to see who had called the order. A foolish mistake. A Parshendi seized the opportunity, his axe cracking hard against Aroden’s shoulder. He roared in anger, his vision turning a hazy red as with strength he didn’t know he possessed, he cleaved the attacker in two. The Thrill trickled into his consciousness, but he shrugged it off, switching sword arms as his right now hung limp at his side. He tried flexing his hand experimentally. The phantom sensation of damaged tendon the only response.

Damnation.

He slipped his arm from his shield’s straps as he parried the next strike desperately. He’d trained with both hands, but foolishly always favored his right over his left. Stormlight could of course heal it, but in front of his men?

Am I ready to reveal what I am to Dalinar? 

“Buy us five minutes friend!” Sadeas yelled from behind. “We’ll rally and try another assault!” 

Aroden didn’t even have time to formulate a response before he assumed that Sadeas had departed. Cannon shots around him came at longer intervals now. The spearmen must have been getting overwhelmed. And in desperate breaks between slaughters, Aroden could see Dalinar’s forces still fighting on their own side of the plateau. Their lines appeared strong, if pressed. He didn’t understand it. If they continued their violent assault they could break this force. Why order a retreat? 

Aroden realized too late what had Sadeas worried. In a split second between another desperate parry--this strike a two handed axe made of stone that made his whole good arm rattle--Aroden saw it. A second Parshendi army, flanking them from the other plateau.

“All crews retreat to the bridges! Defensive circle!” He barked.

None of his men bothered to reply, all fighting their own desperate battles. But to Aroden’s overwhelming pride, not one broke. And the crew in front of him did their best to drag their weapons back with them. Team leaders and loaders guarding porters as they dragged the Bronze Beasts with them. These savages wouldn’t be able to use their own equipment against them. More than that, the crews had started to grow fond of their weapons. Glyphs and titles graced some of their barrels now. Streamers and prayer scraps tied to their carts for every victory. The men cared for their weapons, and wouldn’t let them fall into enemy hands so easily. Many good commanders would honor such commitment, but Aroden knew equipment could be replaced. Not men. 

“Leave them where they stand! I said fall back! ” He bellowed to a dark-eyed porter, no older than twenty namedays, eyes wide and bleeding from a wicked slash across his brow. 

The youth nodded shakily, snapping a salute even as he ran, knuckles white around his side-sword’s grip. It couldn’t have been more than one hundred yards to the chasm now. But Aroden ached terribly, and he hadn’t time to look back. For every Parshendi he killed, another war pair took their place. And while he was admitting to himself he was a far more capable fighter than he gave himself credit for, repeated strikes blocked his one arm had it hanging limp at his side between attackers. Each breath against his dented breastplate came with greater difficulty. Arrows soared so thickly at times that he could scarcely see the sun. He desperately hoped Sadeas’ counter-attack was nearly ready. Or he’d achieved a useful defensive position in the…storms, it must have been an hour, that he’d held. A half dozen gun crews holding back a tide of attackers that seemed endless.

Finally, the enemy's numbers relented, the line of Parshendi pausing where they stood fifty or so yards back. He became aware of two things at that moment. Firstly, the dent in his breastplate was worse than he’d realized. The arrowhead had snapped off cleanly after the strike, and blood pooled there, soaking into his arming coat. Second, Sadeas’ battle standard, with his own unique glyphpair, was indeed not holding strong against the second Parshendi army. It retreated, west, towards the warcamps. 

As the last of his men fell around him, Aroden clutched one of their dying forms, holding his hand tightly as the man tried to say his final words. A Death Rattle that chilled him to the bone.

“ I see him! On the storm! The Bloodeyed Regent reigns now!” 

Finally, Aroden realized why the Parshendi held back. They had siege weapons of their own. A rumbling, cracking sound filled his ears, even through hearing muted by the sounds of battle and lost blood. A line of boulders released from a position near the top of the tower, rolling towards him, and the handful of Kholin men still standing. He braced as best as he could, but before oblivion took him, the ache of his wounds suddenly felt like the heat of flames. Flames from that day.

Havith did not tremble as she waited in her wedding chamber. Her lady-in-waiting, picked by Bevidon, fussed over her hair. In a tight braid that Bevidon preferred. Her safehand trembled in her drooping and formal havah. Blue, in contrast to tradition, rather than her mother’s red gown, as Bevidon preferred. She tipped her chin up as she looked into the mirror, her already painted prayer clutched in her free hand. Glyphs for Honor, Integrity, and Discipline , their lines immaculate, placed in the pyre, as Bevidon preferred. Though as she stood, ready to leave the chamber for the last time. She allowed herself a private reprieve, grieving the  final moments of Havith Jevilil. She brushed her safe-pouch one final time. Two minute rebellions were hidden within it. Her mother’s necklace, and her own prayer, painted the night before. Control.

Danlan did her best not to fidget as she exited Dalinar’s chambers. Hasty copies of Navani’s drafts tucked in her satchel. She brushed her auburn hair from her eyes as she walked quickly through the orderly lines of the warcamp that had been her home for the past months. A place she had long overstayed her welcome, and gone far beyond her originally specified duties. Actions far beyond her ken. A foolish plan based on a delusion she had no control over. Navani suspected. There was no way she hadn’t. And that spectacled boy had been the one to spoil it. But she only had half of what she came for, and her betters had insisted that they were interested in far more than the ravings of merely one mad Kholin.

She cursed herself for taking the chance. Her Surges would be useless if she were caught. But after taking a moment to collect herself…she walked towards Aroden Kholin’s chambers for what she hoped would be the last time.

Dalinar swung Oathkeeper desperately in a wide arc, buying himself and the men around him a precious few feet of breathing room, chest heaving beneath his Plate in exhaustion and desperation. Parshendi pressed in on all sides, Adolin fought on his own section of the line a ways away, still blessedly unharmed, but the spearmen supporting him were falling one by one. He spared a thought for Aroden, wondering what had happened to him. His guns had fallen silent what seemed like ages ago. He wasn’t sure which possibility that meant hurt more. That he had joined Sadeas in his treachery, or that he had fallen with his men in battle. Either way, he knew in his heart that he would never see Aroden again. He would never mend whatever rift had formed between them. If he survived this battle, he would need to contemplate that, especially if he were to unite what remained of Alethkar’s honor for the war he knew was coming. 

He turned from the battle, taking one final look towards the horizon, desperate to see anything, perhaps another highprince sending their forces, or meager reinforcements from his own warcamp, when he saw it. A single bridgecrew had come back for them. An impossibility, but that had become his entire life now, since the visions had started. He raised his voice to call for their forces to stage a breakout, when the single loudest noise Dalinar had ever heard tore through the battlefield. An explosion louder than even the thunder of a passing highstorm. Grim determination filled him as he saw the smoke rising in the distance from the other edge of the tower. It seemed Aroden had gone out in a final blaze of glory. Pride and desperate sadness clutched his heart at the thought, but determination won out over all of them. He wouldn’t let Aroden Kholin’s sacrifice be in vain. He turned to Adolin and shouted, pointing as the brave crew shoved their bridge into place.

“We've got one chance!”

“The flames are too much! I can’t let you on the battlements, let alone inside the city proper!” 

“You don’t understand! She’s inside!” Aroden shouted at the top of his lungs.

“You won’t last a minute. Hells you won’t last seconds! Dalinar-”

“Is a monster. A murderer. Damn him, and damn you!”

“We’ve orders to keep the gates sealed!”

"Am I a Brightlord, or am I not? Stand aside, and then open them!”

He roughly shoved the officer, climbing the siege ladder and leaping over the wall of Rathalas and into the city proper. Heat immediately assailed every sense, Stormlight steaming from pores rent open by the flames that seemed to reach the stars themselves. He rolled as a structural beam collapsed overhead and did his best to ignore the screams of those who knew the very air they breathed was cooking them alive from the inside out. Each puff of Stormlight was precious to him now. And Ember, in his ashen form, was nearly invisible. But Aroden trusted him to guide him. He leapt from another walkway, one that collapsed as soon as his feet left its wooden surface, falling a dozen or so feet onto the cut stone below. Along the way he kicked doors open, shouting instructions to sobbing families that the gates were weren't barred and to get to safety. He had no idea if the nameless officer would honor his commands, but…he knew it would be better for them to die clinging to a desperate hope than with hearts full of despair.

A burning wooden beam crashed across his shoulders, forcing him to release another hiss of pain. More Stormlight lost through open lips. He’d entered the Rift with a bulging bag full of spheres, but could tell most were dun now. But he only needed a precious few minutes. Seconds even, to save the life he cared for most. Finally, he found it. A metal door embedded in a stone wall. The one Ember had described to him previously. The one she was being held behind. His fingerprints melted off as he ripped the metal door from its hinges. 

“ Aroden.” Ember whispered in his mind. 

He ran into the passage, head low to stay clear of the smoke. 

“ Aroden .” Another call, more insistent. 

A child lay there, eyes lifeless, already dead from the lack of air passed in the arms of his mother. And alongside them, golden hair untouched, eyes closed in resignation. A final peaceful expression on her face…

“ARODEN!” 

His eyes snapped open. A fury flooding him beyond any the Thrill could have granted. The lost days. The idle fancies. The dreams of years after this war he would spend with the woman he loved. All of it a lie. One told to himself . The thought should have fueled him with sickening weakness. He’d betrayed his own mind to play out a delusion when reality had been too difficult for him to bear. 

He had allowed doubt to cloud his judgement for years because of his failure…and now he knew the truth. He had entered Rathalas to save Evi. She'd confided in him that night. Told him her plan to find a peaceful solution. He'd agreed with her. He'd let her enter the city alone, and promised to pull her out if things had gone badly. He failed. They’d never had their promised final conversation. About them. About their future together.

But did that matter when he knew what she would say anyway? That she would gladly give her life a dozen times, facing even an eternity in Braize if it saved only one person. That she knew he had the potential to be a better man? To use his abilities to end these senseless conflicts forever?

I tried…Evi…I’ve tried. 

A few dozen Rifters had escaped the blaze. Hacking up soot that was, in part, made up of the bodies of their friends and family. Dalinar had wanted them killed. Sadeas even thought it was wise. But he’d shielded them personally. Seen them resettled in different cities. It had cost him relationships with men he’d wanted to call brothers. And every single one of those he’d saved still cursed his name for the association.

“What good is it to save a handful of lives, against thousands dead, Ember?” He whispered, eyes very far away as he regained his footing. Parshendi swarming around him. The remnants of the boulder lay in pieces around his broken form. Only mended by the handful of gemstones he still had tucked into his belt pouch, Stormlight breathed in unconsciously after the Parshendi attack.

“Ask the ones you’ve saved that question. I venture they would say…everything. Despite their hatred of you personally. The question is, are you willing to take on the burden of using this power to do what is necessary? To be so capable of destruction, that minor struggles become an impossible equation? That's what it means to be a Releaser.” 

Aroden didn't answer. He merely removed his belt. His scabbard and gemstones dropping to the rock of the plateau. He gazed past the Parshendi lines. Thousands of them between himself and his half-brother. Fighting desperately on one edge of the Tower. Division coursed through his hands as he breathed in the rest of his Stormlight. The steel of his sword was already waving faintly from the transient heat. He would never make Dalinar’s mistake, engaging in senseless brutality. But he would use his abilities to fight as best he could. To protect those that he could, yes. But also to prove to himself that Evi had been right about him.

“I will master my flames. They will consume only what I choose.”

Stormlight poured through him. His wounds sealing instantly, and energy singing from every pore in his body. The urge to fight was nearly overwhelming. He stood tall, flourishing his blade and letting out a wordless scream…

And then he dropped to the ground. Head flat against the stone. Slapping the crem-brushed earth with an open palm. The parshendi stood confused for a few moments, a few stepping forward questioningly before lines of Division crackled through the earth, up into each and every wagon, and each of the half-dozen loaded cannons. Weaving through the volatile powder packed within, detonating together. The deafening explosion created one large crescent shaped crater, but he bent the blast around him, even as the devastating shockwave ripped through the wall of Parshendi like a hot knife.

He was up before the shockwave ended. Diving into their line as Stormlight surged through him. Cutting a path of destruction towards the wavering Kholin standard. He skated forward on Abrasion slicked feet. He carved through the first few Parshendi too dazed to fight back, but when Aroden met the first that actually swung his weapon, he halted, boots sticking, and allowing the strike to miss entirely. Aroden didn’t give him a chance for a second stroke. With an open palmed strike of his healed arm, the warform caught fire from the inside out, the flames spreading amongst his fellows in a wide radius. No smell of meat burning or char, the flames were too hot for that. A second met his blade, now burning red hot and intoning oddly as the metal bowed with heat, his gauntlet fusing to the grip as its leather wrapping sputtered into flames.

Removing the gauntlet, Aroden grasped the burning blade instead, using the weapon as an improvised hammer as the metal armor still clung to the grip, bashing through three more warforms. With a final crunch of carapace, the sword finally broke, snapping in the middle under the stress as he surged forward, slicking his feet again and accelerating to deliver a punishing blow to another Parshendi’s jaw, yanking his stolen Alethi warhammer from its grasp. Its balance was different than what he was used to. He had always trained with the same blade, but it mattered little with such power at his fingertips.

He continued his bloody path of destruction as he skated along the Tower’s uneven surface, each practiced stride perfectly performed after months of training with his secondary Surge, rage still pulsing in his temples, he raised a hand to crack the ground beneath another group of fleeing warforms. Focusing specifically on the surface as explosions of crem shattered ankles and sending forms flying. He was beginning to feel invisible, bellowing out a cry of anger and raising the hammer high.

When his Stormlight gave out. 

The effect was immediate. Exhaustion returning to his limbs. His Abrasion wore thin for a fraction of a second before dissipating entirely, giving him barely compensating to avoid sprawling into the sand. He realized that he must have fought his way halfway through the Plateau, well into the second army’s main body. These warforms were larger, perhaps some sort of vanguard. Gemstones lining their coarse beards. Ember materialized at his shoulder, his anthropomorphic form hazy in the smoke of war and the destruction he’d wrought behind him.

“Twenty to one odds, Aroden. But if you can draw in their Light…”

He did just that, pulling in their Stormlight and attacking again, invigorated by their stolen power. No more flashy tricks, Division, it seemed, drained his Stormlight at a vastly higher rate, especially with the wide destruction he was wrecking. As he cracked the carapace of the final warform, he allowed himself a moment to breathe, and when he looked up,he saw absolute devastation. Thousands of fallen men in blue, torn to pieces by the savages that had surrounded them. All killed by the hubris of one man. A man he’d called a friend. He buried that sentiment, exhausted eyes flickering across the devastation to see that some of the men had stabilized their lines, and were actually retreating. Astoundingly, he realized that a single bridge still spanned the chasm, landing at a point a half mile away from where he and his men had made their last stand. The sight could have made him weep. This betrayal wouldn’t be the end of House Kholin.

But then, he saw his brother. He saw the Blackthorn.

Dalinar stood alone, his Plate failing, wielding Oathbringer like an extension of his body against a Parshendi Shardbearer. They traded devastating blows against one another. Aroden realized the man was fighting with nearly dead legs and a missing gauntlet. And despite being the single greatest fighter besides Adolin that Aroden had ever seen, he was faltering fast. His own fight must have been even more brutal than Aroden’s. His legs carried him towards the fight. Consciously for a change. Warhammer raised in silent fury.

A few hours ago, he’d hesitated to make this same choice. However, this one came as easy as breathing. Perhaps his brother may truly never love him, but he would go to damnation before he’d let him die a senseless death on a plateau caused by betrayal. He owed him that much. 

He took in another precious breath of his Stormlight, rejuvenating muscles crying for relief. Warhammer raised as he charged the Parshendi from behind, ready for an honorless, but killing strike.

And suddenly, a bridgeman was there. The man in the carapace armor that he’d assisted before. Spear spinning in his hands like he’d been born with it. Leaping away from blows with unnatural grace from blows that would have smote him instantly. Aroden hesitated, leaping back as he and Dalinar locked eyes. 

“Aroden… how ?” Dalinar gasped.

“Get out of here!” The bridgeman shouted, avoiding another strike and stepping between the Shardbearer and Dalinar. 

“He’s right! You’re wounded, Dalinar! Get to safety. The bridgeman and I will handle this.” 

Dalinar hesitated for a single heartbeat, then two, before finally nodding, retreating in his ruined armor as Aroden and the bridgeman locked eyes.

“You too Brightlord!” The man snapped, already striking the Shardbearer again, aiming for a gap in their armor at the shoulder.

Aroden didn’t have time to bristle at the command barked at him from a slave. He leaped back as another wicked slash came forth from the Shardbearer, the blade singing so close that it made a mark in his already ruined breastplate. 

“They’ve wiped out our army, bridgeman! I won’t ask you to avenge our honor alone!” He shouted, sliding his hand halfway up the hammer’s shaft, stepping close to crack the Shardbearer’s armor at the wrist, then diving to avoid a retaliatory strike.

“I’m doing this to save Dalinar! Not avenge you storming light-eyes!” 

Aroden ignored the retort, grimacing as the Blade sang in a wide arc towards the man, too fast for him to dodge. He acted on instinct, using some of the last dregs of Light to glide forward, his warhammer hooking around the Shardbearer’s elbow to pull the Blade aside, narrowly missing its target and cutting through rock. The Shardbearer dropped the Blade as Aroden twisted the hammer, the embedded spike cracking the Plate at the joint. The Parshendi was well trained, however, and retaliated with a brutal closed fist with their other arm, which forced Aroden to contort his body, the fist grazing his already compromised breastplate with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. As they raised their fist again, he caught it with both hands outstretched, the hammer dropping to the stone below as he pushed back with all his strength, grunting desperately in effort as he willed every last drop of Stormlight to fuel his body, even as he was forced to use Abrasion to bind his feet in place, the ground slowly crunching beneath them.

He was aware of the bridgeman staring for a moment, eyes wide, before he realized the opening, stabbing his spear into the only gap accessible, the back of the Sharbearer’s knee. The creature recoiled, groaning in pain as it assessed the wound, expression unreadable and alien behind its helm as Aroden retrieved his hammer, intent on finishing this fight even as other Parshendi warily encircled them. But the Shardbearer barked orders at them, gutteral and strange in its alien language as they slowly backed off. 

It’s eyes lingered on Aroden first, followed by the spearman, before it nodded, retreating with backward steps, before leaping off the Plateau, clearing the distance easily even on its wounded leg. 

It took Aroden every ounce of strength he had left not to collapse right then, but the spearman helped keep him upright, even though he looked as exhausted as him. The descent from the tower was wordless, though he did see something curious as they supported one another. A puff of white leaving the bridgeman’s mouth when he thought he wasn’t looking. 

Could he be…

But he couldn’t form the rest of the thought. Not now, with how drained he was. And not with vengeance looming so readily on the horizon. Sadeas obviously needed to pay, but more importantly, he needed to have a conversation with whoever had been in his chambers these past few months.

Chapter Text

ADOLIN was alive. That alone should have been incredible to him. His Plate was cracked in a dozen places, he ached from muscles he hadn’t even known that he possessed, and his head pounded from dehydration and the concussive force that had shaken the plateau a half dozen times over during their desperate fight for survival on the Tower. But that wasn’t the astounding thing. Nor was the fact that a bridgecrew had been the ones to return for them, helping what remained of his father’s armies survive the battle, their leader even advancing alone of his own volition to get his father to engage a Shardbearer without being ordered…even if the dark-eyed man’s comments towards him had been grating, at best. 

No, the most astounding thing of all was that Aroden Kholin had survived the battle, seemingly alone, and had cut his way through the bulk of an entire Parshendi army. A feat nearly impossible for a single man even wearing full Plate.

And incredibly dim odds, even for a full squad of them.

Already their few remaining soldiers were whispering about him as they marched past. References to the Burned Engineer , and Honor’s Ruin whispered by dark-eyed spearmen and superstitious sergeants as they assisted wounded colleagues or marched on sore feet. 

“How did you do it, Aroden? How in the storming hells did you survive?” Adolin found himself asking, sitting low in the saddle on Sureblood.

Aroden didn’t meet his gaze for a long moment, fingers threading through the mane of his own borrowed horse. Neither man knew where Windsinger had ended up. Either dead in a chasm or stolen by a storming officer. His uncle didn’t know it, but he knew he was pained by her loss. She’d been his mother’s first, before Rathalas. 

“A great deal of luck. When we were overwhelmed, I set my cannons off. And then I-” Aroden stopped suddenly, eyes locking with the bridgeman who had lead the crew that granted them salvation. The dark-eyed man gave his head a single shake. Aroden sat stock still in his saddle, before nodding. An entire unspoken conversation apparently occurring right before his eyes.

“Tied the fuses together in sequence. Each blast bought me a bit more breathing room…none of my other men made it. By then most of the Parshendi were disoriented or fighting your own men. It was easy to sneak through.” Aroden finally said, squeezing one palm tightly where the charred and ruined steel plate gauntlet was singed and battered. 

A hollow answer. And one Adolin would seek the truth of eventually. He meant to ask another question, but suddenly his father was there, his Plate partially restored with the gemstones they’d been able to gather together on the long march home.

“You fought for the Kholin banner in the end. Fought to save me…why?” Dalinar asked quietly. Adolin watched his father closely. There was no suspicion in his features, just genuine curiosity. He had never seen his father treat Aroden this way. And for some reason, he found himself opening his palm, ready to summon his Blade, just in case.

“She would have wanted me to.” Aroden said, blinking rapidly and clearing his throat. 

“I would have…my brother back. If you want it.” Dalinar said carefully, hand outstretched from the saddle.

Adolin held his breath, watching his father and uncle closely. Once again, a conversation carried on entirely in front of him, and he had no storming clue what it was about.

“You have one. For my part” And Aroden clasped gauntlets with him. Damaged steel meeting Adolin’s blue painted Plate, borrowed by his father for the time being. 

“We’ll need to stand…united. For what is coming. Though our paths diverge at the warcamps. I’ve a meeting with my scribe.” Aroden said firmly. “I’ll be ready with the rest of the men. For when this meeting with Sadeas goes wrong.” 

“You…you won’t be there? He betrayed you worst of all, Uncle!” Adolin shouted. 

This confounding man. A betrayal, and he has a meeting to attend?

“I’ll reveal everything, nephew. When the time is right.” Aroden grunted, looking pointedly at Dalinar one final time. 

“He’s right Adolin, we’ll need the men we have left if things go sour. But I don’t believe they will. I’ve a plan, a proposal that Sadeas will not be able to refuse.”

His father refused to expand upon that point as he rode off to the head of the column, leaving Adolin alone with his uncle. He looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since his perceived abandonment of the family. He looked…sure of himself, at peace, if not a little resigned. He knew his mother’s ghost haunted him most nights. He had never been blind to the rumors about them. Some quiet nights, especially recently, his mind had traitorously wandered to the accusations of infidelity, but he’d never truly believed them. Now, he knew them to be absolutely false. A man with honor enough to survive the Tower couldn’t have sired a bastard.

“You’ve changed. You’re more sure of yourself, and yet sometimes I feel like I never really knew you at all.” Adolin said, a hand entwining with Sureblood’s mane. 

“I’m not sure I ever knew myself. But…I’m trying to be better, Adolin. Like your father.”

He rode off ahead as Kholin bridges rolled forth to meet them, and Adolin knew the unspoken words his uncle couldn’t say.

Like she wanted me to.

ARODEN tore through the Kholin warcamp at a gallop, entering the stronghold and not even bothering to tether his borrowed horse. He stormed through the Soulcast stone corridors, likely looking like a beast that had come from Braize in his ruined armor. Ember whispered alarms in his ear. Statistics about improbable traps. Calculations for the best ways to handle deceit. But he shoved him back roughly through their bond. And when he came upon the doors to his rooms, the sphere lanterns lit to either side dimmed severely as he wrenched the door open. Division weakened the handle as he ripped it open, barely containing energy at his fingertips.

The woman was there. Dimly familiar, hunched over a bundle of documents she was copying, eyes alight with fear and trembling. Even now, her form shifted, auburn hair fading to gold, irises shifting colors. He fixed her with a rageful stare, stepping into the bedroom slowly, one step after another, unconscious Abrasion Surges making his boots stick to the floor, making each one heavier, reverberating through the stone floor.

“You’ll answer each and every question with care and consideration. And if I hear one I do not trust. You will die, painfully.”

“You’ve no right to speak to me that way.” The woman responded, as recognition flooded Aroden’s features. Danlan. Danlan Morakotha, a scribe he’d served with at Jah Keved, who had been with him at the Rift, when Dalinar had relegated him to those duties as an insult, and a punishment. He’d bristled at the time. A time when Gavilar had closed his doors to him completely, leaving him silently fuming and alone in the years before Rathalas, and especially afterwards. 

“I have every right. You’ve committed treason, and dishonored not just me, but yourself.” He growled, a fist tight at his side.

“And if word got out about this? That you’ve defiled a light-eyed daughter of one of the most important men of Kholinar? That you lust after dead women ? Brightlord? Danlan asked with a daring smirk. Her grin was all teeth, animalistic whites of her eyes visible as she dared to test him.

“She knows about us.” Ember whispered weakly through the bond.

His fist cracked the Soulcast stone wall inches from his face, cracking two knuckles that healed instantly with the Stormlight in his body. He hardly felt the impact.

“You will not mention her, scribe..” Aroden rasped, using his free hand to rest on the other side of her head as the Stormlight reflected in her eyes. She practically glowed with it now, but to her credit, she did not tremble. She in fact seemed…oddly detached about the whole situation.. 

He looked down at his hand, shoving it forward with force against her chest, as it passed straight through. 

“You-”

“This has been fun, Aroden, truly. But my master long since bid me leave the warcamps. I will see you again. Do greet me as sweetly as you did on our first night.” 

The illusion vanished. Leaving Aroden faintly glowing with Stormlight that he allowed to hiss free between clenched teeth.

Damnation.

The anger fluttered in his chest for a moment longer before he sat down with a grunt on his bed, head in his hands. He’d saved his brother and claimed an Ideal. One that had evaded him for years. He’d mastered Division. Another potential Radiant budded in a bridgecrew of all places. He should have been elated, but even now that same self-doubt rang hollow in his chest. He should have been running to gather the troops he’d promised. He should be raining fire on Sadeas’ warcamps. Instead, his eyes glossed over into the middle distance, ignoring the quiet gasps of servants and ardents peering into his rooms from the corridors. 

He allowed them to stare for exactly ten heartbeats. Then stood again, barking commands with confidence he didn’t feel.

“Gather what remains of the Cobalt Guard, tell them to stand ready for my command, we ride for Sadeas’ warcamp.

Juesel’s awareness came back in fits and spurts. The sensation of being dragged bodily across crem blasted stone. Insults spat in a strange sing-song tongue as someone roughly tied a strap of fabric across a hollow pain on his side. Racking coughs and bile rising from his throat. When he finally returned to true consciousness, he retched violently as water from a skin was poured mercilessly down his throat as carapace-covered hands wrenched his jaw open. He tried to signal with his right hand, only to find that he couldn’t, letting out a wordless moan as the tepid rainwater filled his sinuses and overfilled his stomach. 

He whimpered in distress, eyes opening to see a handful of Parshendi surrounding him, holding him down as the waterskin kept pouring. He let out another racking cough, bubbling against the liquid as his vision greyed out and mixed with bile. 

He tried to shake his head, but the claws only dug deeper, pinning his forehead against rough stone as burbling agony coiled in his chest. Drowning on a dry day, being held by bastards that didn’t take prisoners. The thought was funny to him for some reason, as his already dizzied head grew truly light.

“ Enough .” A command came from across the small plateau. Juesel craned his head to the side and vomited water onto the stone. He did his best to repress an amused snort as he realized some of it had landed on a Parshendi malen that had been holding him on that side. The warrior punched him in the stomach, making him coil over on himself as he let out a fresh scream of agony. Rolling on his side made him realize two things. Firstly, his right arm was gone, blown off cleanly at the shoulder joint, singed by a powder blast. Nausea flooded him again unbidden as he realized he could still feel fingers clutching his sword that were no longer there.

Secondly, the command had come from a limping Parshendi in full Shardplate, who sank to one knee before him uncomfortably close, words hissing from beneath its mask in oddly intoned Alethi.

“Hello human, we have much to discuss, you and I. But not here.” 

A canvas sack was thrown over his face. He had no right hand to tie to the left, so they hobbled him instead, tying his left wrist to a strap that bound his ankles, contorting his shattered body in a way that had him groaning again. His captors hauled him up again, as he realized he was being carried over the Shardbearer’s shoulders, each step sending a dull thud of agony down his stump.

He lost all track of time, only recalling moments when he was grabbed like a sack of lavis and thrown over another carapace covered shoulder, or when they would apparently stop to rest. At those times he was simply thrown to the ground without warning, twisting awkwardly in the air in the fleeting half second where he needed to decide whether to land on his chest and have the wind knocked out of him, or on his last arm or stump, each was painful, but he eventually came to expect the drops, during those times his arm was let free and he was allowed to stretch, and worry at the stump with trembling fingers, though they never again removed the hood. 

Finally, as the sun appeared to finally dip lower on the horizon, the canvas was ripped from around his neck. He blinked back crem dust and squinted at the sudden light, letting out a racking cough. Wordlessly, a parshendi pressed another wineskin to his lips, not in torture this time, merely for a few seconds. Juesel hated that he drank so eagerly, nodding once when he’d gotten enough. The warform simply nodded, staring at him for a beat more before stepping away.

“What…what happened?” He asked quietly, recoiling instinctively in case a blow came in response.

But none did. Instead the Shardbearer stepped over him again, looming in their cracked Plate and closing and opening their fists.

“We attempted a gambit, and we lost. Your light-eyes are far more clever than we gave them credit for. Dalinar Kholin we expected. But not your commander. Nor his Surgebinding.”

Surgebinding? What in the storming hells are they on about?

“If you mean the Bronze Beasts, aye, we’ve been using ‘em for months now, killing scores of you murdering bastards.” He growled with pride he didn’t feel. He squeezed his phantom fingers tightly, biting back a groan at the dull ache of an arm that no longer existed. He braced again for another strike, his head swimming from dehydration and what must have been a concussion at the very least. He could barely hear, aside from a dull and constant whine in his inner ear.

“No, though we will find a way to defeat those eventually, Alethi. I know your people. I know how you fight. Did you know I was there that night? When your king died? I did not give the order, but I spoke to him before the Assassin-in-White slew him.” 

Juesel popped his neck loudly, this time twisting his remaining arm as the rope pulled taut. His back was in agony now, hurting almost as badly as his missing arm. He did his best to sit up in defiance, but a spasm sent him sprawling to the ground again.

“Eshonai, release him. He won’t get far if he runs. And I won’t feed him bite by bite.” Another voice, deeper, not muffled oddly by Plate. 

As if he would let these things keep him captive for long. Surely they hadn’t brought him that far. The idea of escape died the moment he looked up, a second after the Shardbearer silently stepped behind him, slicing through his bonds with a stone knife. As he collapsed flat on his back, panting in relief, he saw stone and crem huts looming over him. Ancient structures and ruins dotting one of the largest plateaus he’d ever seen on the Plains. Nothing looked familiar to him as he looked towards the direction he thought was West. Finally staggering up on legs weaker than a newborn axe-hound’s. 

There were thousands of them clustered around the group of warriors. Made up of different shapes than he’d ever seen, some of them thin and nimble looking, others only coming up to waist height.

Children.

He realized. Women and children. The Shardbearer removed her helm, still towering over him as he looked at her features, as another smaller female joined her. 

“He is one of their fire spitters. I leave him in your hands.” Eshonai intoned in her odd sing-song rhythm as he was dragged forward by another warrior. 

“Hello there. You and I will speak now. And you will show me how you make this flash-powder.” She said plainly, crossing her arms across her carapace covered chest.

“You’ll have to kill me first.” Juesel spat. Torture he could handle. But the thought of betraying his people. Betraying his commander to these…not things, they had children he saw now, a culture, but…enemy? That he couldn’t stomach.

“Oh human. We certainly won’t kill you. Your companions? Certainly, but you are under our protection now, until you give us what we need to hold back the tide until I win this war for us.” The female said quietly.

Madness. He could see now that there was no way these people would survive this conflict. Their numbers here couldn’t be more than a few thousand. Highprince Dalinar’s plan of a slow siege had been working. But the surety in the Parshendi’s tone? 

That made him shudder. 

Chapter Text

"The Dustbringers were halted there, for their forces were limited in fully sworn Radiants. Many bonded spren saw fit to limit Division to those who had sworn the Third Ideal, like the Skybreakers. While others allowed their emotions to fuel their Surges to even greater heights. Iron discipline was the template of their Oaths, but not all held to them with such strict doctrine." - Words of Radiance, Chapter 22, page 4.

KALADIN left the king’s stormbunker exhausted, rubbing his eyes as Syl flitted around his shoulders. His captain’s coat hanging limply off his depleted figure, and a day’s stubble itched at his jawline. His freedom should have been simple. The return to army life, an easy thing to grasp. However, he’d never been an officer in Amaram’s army, and he’d never had such a heavy set of responsibilities. Guarding a king, a highprince, and their family. One family member in particular proved more difficult than most, somehow being more difficult to keep track of than the princling, Adolin.

That man stood leaning against a stone pillar now, just outside the doorway. And storms, he looked even more tired than Kaladin felt. Aroden’s stubble looked more like a short beard than midday shadow, and his storm-blue eyes stared out into some middle distance. After a meeting regarding the state of the Kholin army following the disaster at the Tower, it appeared the man had intended to say something to Dalinar, before standing suddenly and coming out here. Kaladin hesitated for a moment, before remembering to snap a crisp salute. This man was in theory a superior officer, even if his current rank was…muddy at best. He thought him somewhere between an Infantrylord and a General, though he himself was in theory a Brightlord of his own making, claiming the old branch of House Kholin’s lands before they’d settled in Kholinar. Light-eyed politics and preening, all of it. But Kaladin knew better than to stick his nose in that chasm for the time being.

“You’ve been disappearing more frequently, Brightlord, and avoiding the guards I’ve posted on you. If I may. The Assassin-in-White is still out there, and doubtless, the parshendi still want your head for the beating you helped deliver to them. Your weapons are valuable, and you alone have the expertise to produce them.” Kaladin said deferentially, eyes flickering to the ground exactly once before meeting Aroden’s again.

A pair of middle-dahn officers walked past them brusquely, giving Kaladin the barest nods of respect, and ignoring Aroden entirely. The quiet din of the Pinnacle echoed around them. Officers and porters milling about between assignments. 

“I think we both know I’m more than capable of handling a few parshendi assassins, Captain.” Aroden replied quietly, turning to cross his arms and regard him with a closed expression. 

“I…I don’t think it would be wise to rely on tricks, sir.” Kaladin responded, clasping his arms behind his back. Syl flitted away, nothing more than a glowing speck near his right shoulder. She’d been…cagey, lately. And was especially hesitant to materialize in meetings when the Brightlord was present, even if she knew Kaladin was the only one who could see him. She’d said something about refusing to stay in the same room as that kind of spren.

“It's not a trick we use though, is it? I killed a dozen Parshendi at a time with the snap of a finger. A power you…may be familiar with. Which Order?” Aroden asked, cocking his head to one side as he gave him a small smirk.

“Order?”

I don’t care what I’m a part of. Order or no. I just want to keep my men safe. And Syl.

“Yes, Order. I’m a Dustbringer, naturally, I heard about your leap across the chasm, though I was preoccupied and unable to witness it in person. So, are you a Skybreaker or Windrunner then? And why the secrecy? Dalinar would make you a third dahn and a Highmarshall if you revealed your nature.” Aroden continued, fiddling with the sleeve of his coat, now lined with black cloth at the cuff. The Smoke and Flame glyphs at his sleeve designating him as a member of the branch of Dalinar’s army that dealt exclusively with the explosive weapons he’d designed.

“I’d venture to guess it's a similar reason to why you haven’t revealed yourself, sir.” Kaladin whispered. Staring down the other man and taking a step closer.

Aroden looked up, somehow appearing more exhausted than before. Kaladin could see dark circles around the man’s eyes before he gave him a weary smile, with just a bit too much teeth.

“Yes…my brother can be many things. But…his judgement can be overwhelming. I…thought I was alone for years. I wanted to prove myself eventually. But…its that unnatural fear, isn’t it? To think someone can take what is precious to you. Even if you know it is impossible.” 

I don’t just think it. I know it. Amaram took everything from me.

“That’s part of it, yes. But your family will be better protected if the Assassin-in-White doesn't know what guards them.” He lied, swallowing a grimace even as he said it. 

This was a man who had inadvertently saved dozens of bridgeman lives with his weapons. Towards the end, before their liberation, runs spent running the cannons alongside borrowed Kholin troops had been safer than bridges ever had been. The men in blue and black had been kind, understanding, and freely shared their provisions with them during rests. Furthermore, the times Kaladin had seen Aroden, he’d shown them something close to respect. He likely did deserve honesty. But the only light-eyes he knew he could truly trust to keep his word at this moment was Dalinar. 

“Well…I don’t feel comfortable disclosing my nature at this time either, Captain. When you do, we should do it together, and probably just to Dalinar. In the meantime, perhaps we could train in secret. Abrasion came to me quite quickly, but Division continues to prove troublesome. And doubtless we’d better protect the others if we knew each other’s abilities.” Aroden said, head inclined in offering. 

“I’ve been too busy rebuilding a royal guard and dodging Parshendi arrows to get much practice with mine, I’m afraid.” Kaladin responded, nodding his head and starting to walk away, kicking up crem dust with each footfall. He’d hoped that would be the end of it, but the storming light-eyes followed him.

“The truth then, I…I’ve failed my family. As I always do. And…knowing there’s someone else? Someone who could be better than me? It helps to know I don’t bear this burden alone.” Aroden had crossed the distance between them quickly, and Kal realized he’d grabbed the sleeve of his uniform coat. Storm blue eyes bore into him, seeking…something. Understanding maybe? Solace? What did a light-eyes need any of those things for? Least of all from a dark-eyed spearman.

Kaladin realized exactly where they were then. Right in the middle of the storming main pathway to the Pinnacle. Light-eyed officers and marching bridgemen had to walk to one side or the other to get past them. Yet clearly, this man was so hurt in a way he couldn’t fathom, that he didn’t care about the impropriety. 

Kaladin hated the fact that he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I’ve failed too many men to count. Brightlord. It weighs on you, every single one. If I find a way to ease my own conscience, I’ll let you know.” He said cooly, gently peeling Aroden’s fingers off his sleeve.

He stepped away, back towards the barracks, breathing a sigh of relief before the Brightlord spoke a final time.

“Just Aroden. I never cared for titles. Every man I’ve trusted called me by my name alone.” 

That wasn’t right. Light-eyes were supposed to be smug and superior, throwing away dark-eyed lives like they were nothing. Or at the very least worth three emerald broams. He trusted Dalinar in as much as he’d freed his men, and held true to his word to this point. But trusting another light-eyes? Especially this man, who commanded weapons so powerful they’d already made entire ways of fighting irrelevant? 

“Aroden…yes, when I can find a spare moment…I prefer to train in the chasms.” 

Aroden sat quietly outside the meeting room for an hour after his discussion with the Captain, then a few minutes more. He suspected that he was free to simply walk in unannounced, but found it impossible to do so. 

He calls me brother…for the first time in years. And I greet him with failure.

A deeply personal failure. That was the worst of it. How could he even begin to explain? Dalinar’s boon, as near as he could tell, had been specifically to forget her, and Aroden had lied to himself for years that she still lived. To add insult to injury, he had no idea of Danlan Morakotha’s current whereabouts. He’d discreetly set out scouts from his own forces, black-sleeves loyal to him alone, but she was long gone. Likely days down the road south to the Frostlands, or looping back north to Kholinar. Frantic, and then methodical searches of his quarters had revealed nothing. He didn’t even know which organization she was working for. 

Does Gavilar’s organization still exist? 

He found himself wondering, ducking his head as he sat hunched on a bench in the hall. Two ardents passed in grey robes, fleeting over the Soulcast stone floors, blessedly, neither of them stopped to sermonize or judge, though the female did give him a quizzical look before continuing on. 

“You must master these wandering thoughts. I surmise doing so may improve your combat efficiency.” Ember whispered in his ear, his anthropomorphic form perched on his shoulder. 

Aroden took a deep breath that smelled like soot and regret, standing and stretching his legs. There was nothing for it. He owed it to Dalinar to let him know, regardless of the consequences. He opened the heavy doors with both arms, and found…the chamber empty. For all save the king, who sat leaning on the balcony railing. He overlooked the warcamps with an unreadable expression before his body snapped quickly to the sound of the heavy hinges. 

Elhokar looked…worried. Eyes bloodshot and obviously swallowing a grimace as Aroden paused at the entrance.

“Apologies, my king. I was looking for…for Dalinar.”

Dalinar. Not brother not yet.

The king raised a single eyebrow before stepping back inside, sinking into a chair and rubbing his eyes. From the balcony, the sounds of the warcamps echoed up from the crater below. Spearmen training. The occasional echoing boom of his men testing new loads for the cannons. Normalcy, or as near as there could be these days. A dull pang rang in his chest as he realized how much quieter it was. Thousands of dead had lessened House Kholin’s presence over the last weeks. 

“He left a few minutes after you departed. Planning, he said, for Adolin’s next duel. My mother went with him. Though she wanted to speak to you at some point.” He took a small sip from a bronze cup beside him. Water, Aroden realized, instead of his usual wine. “It appears most of my family is content to make these decisions without my consent, or input.” 

Aroden simply looked at the king’s hunched figure for a long moment. He was certainly not one to give inspiring speeches, and didn’t feel the picture of confidence himself at this moment. He found himself sitting down anyway, within arms reach of the king, simply present in the moment. Slowly, he reached for the pitcher, pouring himself a small glass of water and taking a sip. The liquid was refreshing, quenching a dry palette and making him realize he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a full meal sitting down. Before the Tower, certainly. He leaned back in the wooden chair and sighed.

“I…know something about awkwardness in familial relations.” Aroden offered weakly, mentioning Dalinar and Navani’s public courtship in the most delicate way he could. “Doubtless you heard the rumors, back in Kholinar, and here. Likely started again by Sadeas after I spurned him.” 

Elhokar looked up, a hand fiddling with a piece of parchment on the oak desk. “Heh…it must be a family tradition of ours…desiring a brother’s wife. I never believed those rumors. In truth…I’m glad you had a friend in her while you did. Almighty knows…I did a horrible job of being your brother.” He finished with a quiet chuckle.

“Yes…you did, nephew.” Aroden teased, a small smirk crossing his face. “I never blamed you for it. You were the heir to a throne , while I inherited…what? A spit of land more rock than crem, three days ride from Kholinar? A few hovels? And the honor of knowing I was a stain on my father’s honor. Didn’t help that I spent more time coming up in the libraries than the training yard.”

Their age had always been an oddity. Ekholar’s and Jasnah’s both. He’d spent most of his youth on the Kholin family’s traditional estates, where their father had been quietly relegated after his injury. He’d only come to Kholinar in his gangly teenage years, and by then, distance and time had made Gavilar’s children strangers. He was certainly not someone either would care to look up to. Jasnah had ignored him since the day he arrived, and Elhokar had been cool—longing for Gavilar’s favor more than he wanted friendship with a bastard. 

“Still…it was ill done. I’ve thought about our discussion quite a lot. From that night in the feasting basin. I want to be a good king. Better than my father. I want to pass on a whole kingdom to my son.” 

Aroden drained his cup, pouring himself another, and suddenly wishing it was something stronger. An odd impulse he hadn’t lost, despite the Ideal he’d sworn a few days ago. He grasped the cup too tightly instead. 

“The fact that you wish to be? Makes you a better king than Gavliar already. His charisma is what united the highprinces I think…and the threat of another…you know.” He trailed off, eyes in that same familiar middle distance. Odd, that when he thought of the Rift, he could still feel the flames. His grasp tightened over nothing, remembering the feeling of his palm prints melting off. 

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt becoming familiar with my own nation. Its own laws and customs.” Elhokar said with his own smirk, reaching out suddenly to grasp Aroden’s hand. “After all, I’ve a Highprince of Justice who could truly teach me the Codes…if you wish it.”

A whole chull cart could have been driven through the silence that followed. Aroden swallowed harshly, eyes flicking to Ember’s current form, a single mote of ash near the chamber’s ceiling. He didn’t much know himself these days, and certainly didn’t feel confident in his shifting roll. He’d failed his family bitterly, himself, and even the memory of a woman he’d loved. But Elhokar’s hopeful gaze. So much like Gavilar’s—the brother who at one point anyway—had cared, and he answered with confidence that surprised even himself.

“Yes. I’ve got a copy of the Codes back in my chambers…we’ll begin tomorrow..” 

Ekholar gave him a true smile, one that reached his eyes, one that Aroden eagerly returned.

The march to Dalinar’s chambers was the longest Aroden had ever made. Windsinger was dead. A dull loss that ached painfully whenever his thoughts turned to the poor creature. He hadn’t even been there when she’d died, and did not know the manner in which she’d passed on. 

Another part of Evi gone, perhaps the last part.

She had been her horse. A poor choice for a mounted fight in truth, but a sacrifice he’d happily made, unconsciously at least, to keep a part of her close. Dalinar sat behind his own desk, obviously trying to focus as Navani read him the latest casualty reports. Always growing longer these days. Those most severely injured were finally passing of wounds that had festered, and many more had been maimed by Parshendi attackers and thus could no longer return to frontline duty. 

Navani sat up first, giving him a glare that could have cut glass, slowly folding her writing tablet shut, one hand resting atop the other, her safe hand sleeve covering both. Dalinar looked up next. Aroden didn’t see judgement in his eyes, but his blue eyes made it clear he had little patience in them. This wasn’t the Blackthorn…but in some ways it was worse. The judgemental brother from his youth, who thought him a pitiable creature at the best of times, and The Stain on House Kholin’s honor at the worst. 

“Breathe. In and out. These things tend to work out better if both parties remain calm.”

Ember whispered in his mind, settling as a hazy wisp of smoke near the window in the corner. 

“Danlan Morakotha has been suspiciously absent from my team of scribes, Aroden. Her father writes via spanreed nearly every day at this point—” Navani started, when Aroden interrupted.

“She was a spy. For which party I don’t know.” Aroden said, perhaps a little too loudly. He stepped closer, but did not sit. He kept the chair between himself and Dalinar, not leaning or relaxing. Merely keeping a steady distance between them. He wouldn’t lower himself, and allow his brother to tower over him. 

“And what would make you think that, brother?” Dalinar finally said, steepling his fingers on the desktop. 

She disguised herself as your wife, in part. She used me to gather information that would mark you as insane.

“Copious questions about my weapons. Troop deployments…and insinuations that with rumors of your mental state…Alethkar would be better served with myself as highprince.” A partial lie. One that sat bitterly on his tongue. The final point had been Sadeas’ suggestion. Only, he found that he couldn’t reveal his true disgrace now. Not when, he realized, Dalinar couldn’t remember Evi in the slightest anyway. He ignored the little whisper in his mind telling him that was the easy way out.”She also attempted to seduce me. I surmised she was either attempting to improve Morakotha standing, or working for a third party. Unfortunately, she fled before I could act on my suspicions. She…may have stolen or copied documentation from your own chambers as well.”

Silence stretched in the room for a long moment, each of them processing the implications before Navani spoke carefully.

“Doubtless, she’s well into the Frostlands by now. We’ll send out more patrols as we are able, discreetly, and hope she doesn’t possess a spanreed of her own. In the meantime…Aroden, did you sleep with her?” 

Aroden’s eyes widened, coughing in alarm.

“I don’t mean it as a question of judgement, only that…if she claims to be with child. It would have a claim, however weak, on House Kholin’s lands.” She continued carefully, setting her tablet down on the desk with finality. 

A bastard…I may have fathered a bastard. Like me.

He nodded once, silently and closing his eyes. His breath caught hard in his chest. Another child, black of hair with storm blue eyes, always being judged for circumstances beyond their control. Always seen as a weakness of passion. He found himself…praying that it was not to be. Perhaps the first time he’d ever done so. His eyes remained shut. When he opened them, he realized that Dalinar had stood, and was moving the chair from between them, grasping him by both shoulders. 

“If we were all judged by our weakest moments…well. I don’t know where we would be. All of us in Braize, certainly, and not the Emerald Halls when we pass.” Dalinar said, patting Aroden on the shoulder. 

Aroden froze, locked up tight as his eyes locked forward and tried not to flinch. His eyes snapped to Dalinar’s as he took a hesitant step back. Recognition bloomed in Dalinar’s features as he realized he had overstepped, releasing his hold and grimacing.

“Nevertheless, you have my apologies. For all of it.” He rasped, stepping back and nodding once. A jerking motion that made his uniform collar catch against his stubble. 

“We’ll keep it quiet. You’ll retain your position. I believe you were injured when she first arrived, yes? Addled in the mind. It stands to reason that she took advantage. For your sake, and our house. I know you wouldn’t intentionally betray us, Aroden.” Dalinar finished, stepping back around the desk with a quiet sigh. “Go, see to your men. Apparently some of the bridge crews are interested in becoming engineers. Also, in speaking with Elhokar, you’ll have no more issues in your Soulcasting requisitions. We’ll need your firepower to make up for the men we’ve lost in the battles to come.” 

Sensing the dismissal, Aroden gave a shaky bow, turning to leave the room. He swallowed another unspoken truth. One he realized he hadn’t wanted to admit, even to himself. 

He had been willing to side with Sadeas. 

He had wanted the true Kholin standard to fly over his own forces. 

And in his heart, he damned himself for it. 

Chapter Text

Havith ritually smoothed the non-existent wrinkles out of her havah. There were none, of course. She had ironed the garment herself after Bevidon had retired for the evening the night before, only…this was her moment. Her time before the day that she could control herself. That she could spend her own time controlling what she needed to. In her safe pouch, her prayer and her mother’s necklace sat protected, unseen. She knew it to be so. She had checked the pouch again and again for hours in the evening, silently in her chambers. Tucked just so, to ensure that they did not bulge or pull her sleeve in such a way as to make them obvious. 

In case Bevidon saw it and it caused offense. 

This was her life now. One she had willingly entered, and yet, it was its own sweet form of torture. In public Bevidon was a perfect husband, and son-in-law to her father. He’d quieted the rumors almost as quickly as they’d begun. Her father’s business was thriving. Contracts came in faster than ever now, and he’d needed to hire two full time scribes to keep his books. They were less thorough than she had been, at least, that is what she’d been able to ascertain the last time she’d been at her father’s estate. Bevidon didn’t appreciate her working. She wasn’t allowed much at all in the way of hobbies besides running his household. Her husband preferred things just so.

She exited her rooms, stepping demurely around a parshman servant carrying a rolled up rug outside to be beaten clean for the day, down the corridor from the bedrooms upstairs, past tapestries depicting battles her husband’s ancestors had fought in, and quietly down the stairs. She sat at the dining table where a maid was already serving her a bowl of womens’ food, a sweet stew of fruits simmered overnight and a tallew porridge. She barely tasted it as she ate. Her gaze did drift to her new apparent companion while she consumed her meal. Some form of spren she didn’t recognize, hovering over the stovetop. But while normally ashpren were nearly invisible to the naked eye, this one lingered, a form black as soot with a single glowing red ember inside it. She didn’t know why she was apparently the only one who could see it, but nobody in Bevidon’s household had commented on her new…friend was wasn’t the right word, but companion. The silent being that watched her suffering.

A suffering I brought upon myself, for my family.

She stood up with the meal half-finished, the serving maid taking her plate without comment. The dark-eyed girl didn’t even look up at her. So unlike her father’s household, where servants were nearly family in themselves. Bevidon preferred his help seen, but not heard, and even then, rarely seen. When one failed in a duty or caused distress, Havith heard what became of them. Her husband dispatched justice himself, usually with a whip, though occasionally with his fists. She detested when the servants didn’t meet his expectations, because on those nights, he would usually visit her chambers. Though he’d yet to strike her. Something for which she was blessedly thankful.

“Arana, has the master-servant begun preparing the tents in the outer courtyard for the feast this evening?” Havith asked quietly, wiping her mouth as the strange ashspren took its usual position, over her left shoulder and just out of her vision.

The serving woman nodded once, eyes purposefully at her feet. “Yes Brightness, all is being prepared, but of course, the Brightlord wishes you to oversee the final preparations.” The woman lingered for a moment, her nearly black eyes daring to meet Havith’s yellows for the first time. She gave her a pointed look, one that spoke volumes. Bevidon expected this party celebrating his ascension to a new rank to go perfectly. Dread filled Havith at the thought of failure, but a larger part of her appreciated the woman’s confederacy. Someone in this house was looking out for her. She could have screamed for joy, but even with her husband likely gone from his house for the day, she knew she couldn’t risk it.

“Thank you for informing me. Could I…could I ask your name?” Havith dared to ask, smoothing her havah again.

“Rima, Brightness. Just Rima. No family name.” 

“Rima, good…I like to know the names of all my friends.” Havith said easily, giving her a small smile.

“Are we friends, Brightness? I’d…I’d hate to cause a scandal. And your husband,” Rima stopped speaking suddenly, clapping her hand over her mouth.

“We don’t need to tell him, do we?”

And with that, Havith gave her new friend a wink, and walked quickly from the kitchen to the courtyard. The household was settled near one of the south-facing walls of Kholinar, where space was most at a premium, but Bevidon had clearly mortgaged a large sum of property, or the land had been passed down by his family for generations. The property covered several acres, including the main house, two guest houses, and the courtyard connecting them all. His house had never achieved the status of being true Brightlords, but had come quite close, and were two dahns higher than Havith knew her father had ever dreamed of reaching, being a merchant family in name. Though she suspected her father, in his good years, made more than House Adaelik ever did. 

A small part of her, she knew, would always carry that pride. A part of her would always be Havith Notheldon, her father’s scribe and accountant. She carried that proud bearing as she approached her husband’s lone master-servant, wearing his ever constant white-on-black outfit, and began commanding the positioning of tents and tables, as befitted a light-eyed woman of her stature. She had a friend. Two friends, if she counted the ashpren smelling faintly of sulphur over her shoulder, and tonight? Tonight she wouldn’t bow. She would do her best to be Havith again.

Aroden slid down the final rung of the ladder and wrinkled his nose, coughing lightly at the stench of the place he found himself in. Kaladin leapt down easily from the last few rungs of the ladder after him, and behind him came men Aroden had hoped wouldn’t be here. Three of Kaladin’s old bridgecrew. Aroden bit back a remark about that. He had specifically wanted privacy when practicing his Surges, but Kaladin had simply remarked that the men were “Bridge Four” and wouldn’t betray their secret.

“So let me get this straight, you won’t trust my brother, a man who wears honor like a cloak, with this secret. But you’ll trust…” He gestured vaguely to the two men, one of them old enough to be his father, if he still lived, and the other who only had one storming arm.

“He trusts us cause we’re his friends gon! Practically brothers! No stormin’ light-eyes gonna have his back like we do! The Lopen always supports his friends. Tell ‘em Teft!” Lopen apparently shouted, his voice echoing in the narrow chasm. 

“He’s…out of line, but he’s right. The captain first learned of his abilities through us. We fought and bled together, Brightlord.”

Aroden thought about that for a long moment, thoroughly confused. He’d certainly bled for his men, and had been willing to die for them. Indeed, when he held what remained of his men, saw Juesel’s corpse especially, he’d been willing to make that final sacrifice, as a commander should have. But he realized that this bridgeman meant something else entirely. He had always lead men, not fought side by side with them. Even when he had held the line, it had been as a leader. Now, here he was, the only light-eyes surrounded by men he would have sent into battle without a second thought. 

“You’re right of course. It's always good to stand alongside comrades.” Aroden finally said quietly, a hand coming to stroke his chin, thinking better of it when he realized what had been growing on the ladder he’d just climbed down.

“For what it’s worth gon, most of the bridgecrews like ya. You ain’t Bridge Four, but you ain’t no stinkin light-eyes neither!” Lopen offered, rather unhelpfully, stooping to examine one of the strange glowing fungi that littered the chasm floor.

“What he means is, intended or not, your cannons gave the crews hope. When we were picked to push them, it was always safer, and your men gave us breaks. A steady pace. I put my wounded men on the crews whenever possible.” Kaladin offered, suddenly speaking up as he picked up a spear from a cache he apparently kept down here, offering it shaft-up towards Aroden with a determined smile. 

“To me, a man is a man. I can hardly judge one’s character when I fail spectacularly by many metric at being a good Brightlord.” Aroden offered with his own wry grin, though he shook his head at the offered spear, palming the pommel of his sword at his side. His new one. The grip was wrong, more of an old fashioned bastard sword than a proper one with a one handed grip, and it rubbed frustratingly against his middle knuckle. However, he doubted that he would be fighting with a shield again soon, especially with Division at his fingertips. No metal or wood would last long with that Surge coursing through him.

“Eh…what’s he mean by that?” Lopen asked curiously, standing up again and looking between Teft and Kaladin for answers.

“I’m part of an Order that’s long been hated for abandoning our people. I loved a woman that wasn’t mine to love, and most scandalously of all, bridgeman…I can read.” He gave the one-armed man a grin that was all teeth as he stepped further into the chasm, trampling over fungi beneath his feet that crunched under his feet. 

He removed his uniform coat and tossed it onto a nearby rock, rolling up his sleeves, looking back at Kaladin.

“It stands to reason we’re both capable fighters. I’d prefer to practice our Surges. Since apparently you didn’t know what yours were called a few days ago, it stands to reason you could use the help. As a Windrunner you can utilize Gravitation and Adhesion. The former is what you used for your leap. Beyond that I’ll be of little help. My Order’s abilities are different.” Aroden said, pulling in a puff of Stormlight and letting the energy settle, his skin glowing faintly in the dim light. He allowed it to course through his veins, rejuvenating him for the practice ahead, stepping further into a large crevice, settling into a stance and clearing his mind.

“And his spren is different too. Where is your little friend?” A girlish, teasing voice said out of nowhere, materializing as a small, blue, translucent woman hovering over Kaladin’s shoulder.

Ember took that moment to manifest as well, in his anthropomorphic form, his skin sloughing off and reforming, hands on his hips.

“Ah yes, the honorspren snark. My Radiant swore his Second Ideal with incredible effect! His Division control alone has improved thirty-five percent in certain situations, to say nothing of his flawless Abrasion technique! Have you even instructed yours on the Three Lashings yet, Ancient Daughter? Foolhardy, as usual from your people!” Ember shouted, hovering over as the two spren started…bickering. Aroden could only stare wide-eyed at the interaction rapidly approaching something that could be violent if such a thing were possible between incorporeal beings. 

He looked to Kaladin for help, but the man only shrugged. Lopen and Teft were just as useless, the former taking a seat on a boulder and resting his one hand on his chin with an amused expression while Teft simply rubbed his eyes and muttered something about damned children, stepping a few paces away.

“Syl…settle down. Aroden’s a friend, which means he’s a friend.” Kaladin finally offered, a bemused expression on his face. 

“Quite right. Ember, enough. To me.” Aroden said in a commanding tone. When the ashspren gave Syl one long venomous look, and finally hovered over to him, Aroden stepped further away, down a side passage and rounded on his bonded spren.

“We’ve just found the first Radiant besides myself in years! What are you doing? I’ve never seen this kind of outburst!” 

Ember hovered for a long moment, his form shrinking as another phantom wind blew away the flesh along one side of his skull, regrowing as soon as it was gone.

“They despise us. Most see my kind as workhorses, or less than that. My people suffered Aroden. After the Recreance. It was…it was considered insane at best that any of us sought bonds at all. I trust you . An insane calculation at best, but I will not suffer insults from her.”

Aroden stared at his spren for a long moment, utterly at a loss for words at the sincerity in Ember’s voice. He knew from childhood that something in himself was wrong. How he needed to focus intently at times, how he was awkward around people. But he realized then that Ember was different as well. The way he fixated on numbers, yet somehow couldn’t quite grasp or regulate emotion. 

I will…I will think on this. And discuss it with him later. 

“We’ll talk, my friend. Later. We’re meeting with Dalinar again in mere hours, and I want to work on my Division while we have the chance.”

Ember sighed but nodded, an odd smile crossing his face before he vanished. Aroden emerged from the side passage, rerolling his sleeves as Kaladin gave him a knowing smile, likely having had a similar conversation with Syl. Lopen was explaining in an animated fashion, and with no small amount of miming, how Kaladin could likely climb up walls if he wanted to, while Kaladin suggested starting smaller, palming a small stone while he drew in his own breath. 

Aroden took a moment again and drew in another breath of Light, holding it tightly in his chest, and reached out for Division, focusing intently on the far wall, then specifically on a fungi he found particularly annoying at that moment. He raised his hand, palm up, and willed it to burn. 

…

…

Nothing. 

“Uh…you doing something there gon?” Lopen offered weakly, clearly trying to resist the urge to laugh.

Aroden stared blankly at his hand, blinking a few times. Then tried again, another puff of Light, arm locked out. 

Burn…BURN storm you!

But it wasn’t to be, apparently. He bit back a curse, and then thought better of it, shouting out an expletive that echoed through the chasm. 

“I killed dozens of parshendi with this not two storming weeks ago, and now I can’t ignite some Almighty damned plant li-”

With a whoosh that echoed through the chasm, the stone around the fungi exploded in a ball of flame and rock, sending the bridgemen behind him scrambling for cover. The rock cracked outwards in a spiral, sending more chucks tumbling dozens of feet and rotting matter flying in all directions. Aroden shielded his face from the blast, biting back another curse as he exhaled all the Light he’d been holding, clutching his wrist in alarm as he sank to a knee. 

Gradually, everything settled down, and as Aroden yawned to clear his hearing, as he’d done countless times when he hadn’t been able to wad his ears before a cannon drill, he listened desperately for any alarms that might have been raised in the nearby warcamp. One heartbeat passed, then two, then ten. And when he didn’t hear cries from sentries about a Parshendi attack, he let out a quiet sigh of relief, returning to his feet.

“Well then…maybe you practice that yourself from now on Brightlord? In a wider space.” Teft asked quietly, rubbing his ears. 

“Storms…that was what I saw when I was fighting. What I heard. Makes my abilities seem pathetic by comparison.” Kaladin finally said, a hand clutching the spear he’d instinctively picked up after the blast. 

Aroden looked them all in the eyes, one by one. Embarrassment and indignation fighting for dominance in his mind.

“At least you’re learning to use yours on command. And yours can’t level encampments when you foul up.” Aroden growled, stepping past them. 

“I’m late for a meeting with Dalinar, though I appreciate you all being here,” An excuse, a retreat, but that had left him deeply unsettled. Had Division always been like this for him? Only useful during moments of passion? Ember had said something once, about Dustbringers withholding abilities until Radiants had sworn more Oaths. And for once…he dearly wished his spren had done so. 

“Well, contact me if you wish to try again, with a friend present.” Kaladin said with a genuine smile, even if it did appear a little forced around the man’s eyes.

“Yes…I…I’ll let you know.” Aroden said weakly. It was the last part that made him hesitate. A friend. Were he and Kaladin Stormblessed friends? A part of him rejected the idea outright. But another part…the one that had been spurned by every man of his age during a childhood in Kholinar desperately wanted it. He found himself returning Kaladin’s smile as he ascended the ladder.

In the end, he was equal parts angered at himself, and happy with the results of the aborted training. He was fearful of what he’d apparently lost control of, but a part of him was excited that someone had seen his abilities and appreciated him. That part withered and died after he ascended the ladder and reentered the Kholin warcamp. All he could do at that point was stare, a fury filling in him he was sure would fuel as much Division as he needed to level the Almighty-damned Pinnacle. 

Kaladin found him there perhaps ten minutes later, and glowered with him in apparently shared fury. Dalinar was present, greeting a man that Aroden had never wanted to see again. Casually cruel. Dismissive. Full of insults every time he’d visited Kholinar. To say nothing of the man’s unsavory reputation when one knew where to look for it. Outwardly? The perfect princeling, a protege of a man whose false friendship he had cast away. 

Dalinar Kholin stood shaking hands with Meridas Amaram, and at that moment, he knew he truly must have a friend in Kaladin Stormblessed, because he was the only other man present whose naked fury matched his own.

An excited set of sounds found Juesel at the door of the cave as he returned from dragging a final bag of…well, there was no dressing it up pretty, chull shit, near one of the massive kilns of Narak to dry. A group of parshendi children pointed at him laughing in their strange sing-song language, apparently no adults to mind them. He did his best to ignore them, dumping out the sack and scattering the offal for it to dry. Juesel was no scholar or chemist. He only knew that a chemical within the dung was vital to making flash powder in large quantities. The act of moving such heavy sacks and in such large volumes left his one arm aching fiercely, and it grew worse as he rested it, sitting heavily on a stone near the cave where the Parshendi scholars worked inside to match a formula crafted by his commander years ago. A commander he was betraying, to stay alive. 

And for what? I can’t fight. I should be dead. What keeps driving me to do this?

It would be so easy to throw himself into a Chasm. To end it. If he did so now, the Parshendi might not find the formula for the powder. He might end up in the Tranquiline Halls yet. But somehow that seemed wrong to do. He just didn’t know why. It certainly didn’t seem that flash powder was something his captors ever wanted. He’d heard whispers from his cell near the caves where the Parshendi named Venli was working on something involving a type of spren he’d never seen before, red and angry. And besides, the people here were desperate, using their few gemhearts to Soulcast food, not the massive amounts of brass needed to make their own cannons. He supposed that he could have been wrong about that, he’d certainly not been involved in the production of the weapons he’d trained on. He’d been wrong about…many things, it seemed. In truth, he was hardly a captive here. 

He always had warforms assigned to guard him, like the silent sentinel of an unknown gender currently watching him from a few yards away. But the…Listeners, that was what they called themselves of Narak, treated him like an oddity at worst. Certainly not a hated enemy. These people were not the ones that had murdered his king in cold blood, not with the quiet desperation in how they acted.

One of the children sat on the boulder next to him, reaching out curiously with a single finger stretched out. Juesel froze, staring at the child first, and then his guard, who only cocked their head curiously and let out a sound that could only be considered as indicating amusement. The child poked his remaining arm, and leapt back with a giggle, running off to join its companions as they tore off through the city streets, shrieking in glee exactly like the little cremlings he’d run with in his youth.

“They have never met someone without carapace before. They find you squishy, and amusing.” The warform said from behind its faceplate, closing the distance between them in three long strides.

“Hmm…well, I’m hardly amused . I’m surprised they didn’t run from the smell alone.” Juesel said with a smirk, before remembering his position, lowering his head and returning to work, raking coals over the dung and leaning hard into the sleeve of his missing arm to avoid the stench.

“Easy, human. You’re valuable. And the Listeners do not torture. Especially one as valuable as you.” The Listener said in an odd rhythmic cadence, one Juesel hadn’t heard one speak in before. In the distance, Juesel could hear the city slowly quieting as the sun began to set, and a highstorm brewed in the far east. He needed to hurry before this kiln was thoroughly doused. So, he chanced causing offense and turned his back to his guard, returning to work.

“So I’ve been told. Even if your scholars don’t seem particularly interested in this project of mine. I eat your food, parshendi. I take up resources requiring guards. Yet you spare me. I don’t understand, and I never will.” He dumped another bag into the coals as he said it, letting out a cough and pausing to massage his stump.

“Eshonai prefers to…how do you Alethi say it…hedge our bets? And we wish to understand our world. Once we used metal tools and weapons like you do. We lived across Roshar, not just on the Plains, as you do. We have…regressed, and lost much. You do us a service, reminding us that the world exists beyond the Plains.” 

“Thude, what did I tell you about speaking to the captive?” A voice from the cave broke through the conversation. One Juesel had learned he’d be better off to avoid. Eshonai. The Shardbearer. The one who had dragged him here in the first place. 

“Hardly a captive if he can’t leap a chasm.” Thude said quietly, giving Juesel another inscrutable look before turning to his fellow warform. 

“This still seems like a bad idea. It’s untested. One of us should try it first.” Thude said nebulously. Part of Juesel wondered why they still continued to speak Alethi. Though when Thude looked at him again, he realized that the malen wanted him to hear it. He turned his back, heading to the kiln and gathering up the now cracked and dry chull offal, preparing to store it in the cave that doubled as his makeshift cell before the highstorm hit, but he kept an ear open.

“It has to be me. I need to ensure it is safe. But when it is…we will win this war for our people.” Eshonai said quietly. 

Juesel froze, his arm twitching, before he continued with his shovel full of flash powder material. 

“Fear not, human. When we win, when we reclaim our home, we won’t chase you. We just…we want to be free. To be left alone.” Eshonai said quietly. Juesel let the shovel fall to the ground with a muted thud, eyes locking on both warforms.

“We want the war to be over too. We want to go home. I’ve helped destroy your people, and your people killed my king, and slaughtered hundreds of my countrymen. If you think you can end this with anything less than every Kholin’s head separated from their bodies…you’re a fool.”

Storms…where did that come from?

He braced himself for an attack. To be grabbed by the tattered remnants of his burned uniform. To be struck, choked, anything. But both Listeners only looked at him for a long moment. Thude spoke first.

“We’re meeting with your highprince, Dalinar, in a week’s time. It may not come to that. But you are right, human. We are willing to secure our future. Whatever it takes.”

Eshonai left without any further discussion. It was only when she was a few yards away that Juesel saw it. One of the spren. The ones that looked wrong. Oddly, despite his difference in species. Thude looked as concerned about it as he did. 

Chapter Text

"Ours is the constant vigil. Eternal self-mastery. Any doubt? Any malformed bonds? There are personal consequences of course, but what is worse, is the stares and judgement from when we fail."

Knights of Ash: A Biography of the Master of the Releasers. Chapter 1

“I simply don’t understand.” Elhokar said quietly. “You’re telling me there’s two Codes?” 

The king palmed the desk in front of him, a curious crack in the wood that Aroden had only now noticed. Elhokar’s hand caught in it, his fingers tracing the fracture before he looked at him again.

“It depends on your definition of Codes. There are the Codes of War of course, but they have less and little to do with legal proceedings. But yes. There are laws for the lighteyes, and darkeyes. However, some laws apply to both, others to only one group, to say nothing of specific types of punishment prescribed depending on caste.” Aroden explained patiently. He poured himself another cup from the pitcher on the desk. Water alone. He was proud to say he hadn’t had a drink now in some time. He worried about Danlan. He worried about the king’s safety, and his men, especially after the incident with the king’s railing a few days prior, where it had been cut by a Shardblade and an unseen hand. He was also worried about his apparently faltering ability to master Division. So much self-doubt gnawed at him. He’d made such great strides, only to falter, but this was…almost comforting. Elhokar really was a quick study when he put his mind to it, and Aroden found he enjoyed teaching. The law was black and white, people were complicated. 

“If you believed that, do you think I’d have bonded you? I calculate the odds of a highspren finding you a worthwhile companion to be less than twenty-one percent, Aroden.” Ember said with a chuckle in his mind. The words made Aroden smirk, though he was quick to hide it with his palm, resting his arm on the table. 

“That’s…that’s asinine!” Elhokar exclaimed, standing from the desk to pace nervously, clutching his own glass, filled with purple wine.

“Indeed. Now consider that each highprince can dispense his own brands of justice within his fiefdom, unless the level of criminality can be seen as affecting the crown. Then consider that certain cities like Kholinar that are far older than most, contain their own codes that originate from the Silver Kingdom and beyond. And then realize that every lower ranking brightlord, magistrate, and townsman has their own interpretations and quirks. Its…a storming mess you made me charge of… nephew. ” 

The king’s glare could have cut glass, and Aroden would have normally been concerned, if Elhokar didn’t immediately fix him with a toothy grin.

“Well I trust you to fix it.” 

He sat back down behind the desk, kicking his feet up and sending a scrap of paper drifting to the floor. 

“How would you do it? A single unified code of laws? Try to strip power from the highprinces to administer their own justice?” Elhokar asked, taking another long pull from his cup.

“That would be Dalinar’s way, I surmise. Doubtless he’d thank me for it. But no, we’d have no way to actually enforce such an arrangement. I’ve thought of…another class of person. A worker directly for the Highprince of Justice that would ensure the king’s law is followed and people are protected. The Azish have such a system of independent judiciary enforcers. They should be sworn directly to the Crown, not to a particular House, and serve as an extension of your will. Indeed, the Vedens have a similar…investigator, if one can call him that. Highprince Ralam’s son seeks out misconduct among their lighteyes.” Aroden slid a piece of paper across the desk detailing his proposal. Ranks of lighteyes, and dubiously, darkeyes that would serve the king’s purpose, seeking out judicial misconduct, freeing those falsely accused, and holding misbehaving rulers accountable for their deeds.

The king looked at it for a long moment, as if remembering a past event, his eyes unfocused.

“Ah, his bastard you mean.” He muttered, stroking his shaven face, before his eyes snapped up, lilac irises reflecting the light of the room.

“Forgive me! Aroden-” 

Aroden silenced him with an outstretched hand, palm raised. 

“No harm done.” He said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The word dredging up old pain.

“Just consider the proposal for now, have one of your scribes-”

Shouting in the corridor beyond silenced Aroden before he could finish the thought, then the sound of blades being drawn, spears clanking against stone as men fell.

“Assassin!” Came a shout from beyond the door.

Aroden was up as the shouting started, on his feet and the Codes of Law sliding from the table before him with a thud. The tome’s spine broke as it crashed against the stone floor. Elhokar’s eyes met his in silent alarm as two bridgemen stormed into the chamber, spears held too-tightly in white knuckled grips.

“My king! The Assassin-in-White is here!” 

Aroden drew his new sword from his scabbard, taking command. This was the man that had killed his brother. He would not kill his son.

“Escort Elhokar to safety. My king! Keep your Blade close, these men will protect you.”

He stepped through the room quickly, adjusting his uniform coat. Armor was of virtually no use against a Blade, and he had hardly been anything but an inconvenience for the Assassin last time they’d fought, but he would do his duty here. 

“I hope someone has sent for your Captain!” He barked before he stormed out the door into chaos. 

Shouts echoed through the corridors as flashes of Light reflected down towards the main entry of the Pinnacle. Torches burned low alongside gem-lanterns as the king stumbled past him, guided to a safer location. Aroden stood alongside three other bridgemen whose names he didn’t know. Witnesses, damnation. But he decided discretion was indeed not the better part of valor in this fight. The Assassin had defeated him easily before. Now? He stood a better chance, but not without all of his abilities at his disposal. Not without Light.

He drew in a breath, gemstones dimming in their lanterns as the power filled, him, his skin glowing in the low light.

“Storms , he’s one of ‘em too!” 

“Quiet!” Shouted another man, grip white-knuckled on his spear.

“Stay behind me, all of you, don’t let him get past. He can Lash himself to walls, and his Blade kills what it touches.” Aroden found himself saying, oddly, disconnected as he palmed the grip of his own mundane sword. 

The Assassin slowly walked around the corner, head low, his white Shardblade dragging, tip down in the stone. 

“ Please… flee. Do not make me kill you too.” He said quietly, his childlike face almost looking like he’d been weeping.

“I didn’t flee last time, you cur. I’m not fleeing now. You and I have a score to settle!” Aroden barked, blade out in perfect Flamestance. 

Reach would do him no good here. Nor would blocking. He would need to evade each strike, keep the Shardblade trapped and defending. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he recalled their last duel. The Assassin would use dizzying Lashing techniques. Attack from angles he didn’t expect. Well, now he could too. He allowed himself another moment’s hesitation, then surged forward.

He skated on Abrasion slicked feet, leaping and *catching* himself on the wall of the hallway, striking from above in a viscous overhead strike. The Assassin had only a fraction of a second to react, instinctively Lashing himself to the other wall. Aroden shoved himself back, clinging to the wall with the soles of both feet and his free hand, barely dodging the Blade, though it swung close enough that it carved a single button from his uniform coat. 

He retaliated on the backstroke, ducking a second cut as he landed on the floor, aiming for the Assassin’s leg. The blade struck true, and the white apparel was stained as the Shin crumbled onto the floor, red welling from a devastating blow below the knee, though it healed immediately as the man’s glow lessened, Stormlight healing the wound almost immediately.

But Aroden didn’t give the man room to breathe. He was striking again, letting out a wordless roar of anger, Division surging in his palm as he ignited the air around the Shin, only a distraction in truth. Air burned, but not like flashpowder, but it was enough to make the man leap back with his Blade behind him, time enough for Aroden to cut at the man’s torso. Though he was forced to retreat when he retaliated with the white Shardblade, forcing Aroden to slide back, only the height of a man between them.

“A trick. You burn powders as weapons. Just as you set the tapestries on fire that night. I… how do you cling to surfaces? You are a scholar of some sort. You use tools.” The Assassin muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Aroden seized the chance, stabbing for the man’s chest, though he dodged it, Lashing himself upwards onto the ceiling, and suddenly Aroden was on the defensive as the Blade swung for his head.

“I’m an engineer , and a brother to the man you slew! You’ll find I’m full of surprises!” 

He stepped inside the Assassin’s swing, bringing his blade up to cut the man in the midsection, but then he was leaping down from his perch, face to face with the shorter man, thankfully well within the range of his Blade. He halfsworded his blade, a dangerous move without gloves, but necessary in the close quarters. Aroden felt the blade bite into his hand as he swung the pommel out at the Assassin’s grip, intent on making him drop his Blade. 

But the Assassin was faster.

With a quick strike of his palm. He locked Aroden’s hands to his blade, preventing him from letting go, locking his arm in place on the sword, and sliced up with his Blade. 

Aroden gasped in alarm as his swordarm went dead from the shoulder down, acting on instinct and bringing his knee up into the other man’s groin. 

The Assassin bit back a moan, turning on instinct just as the bridgemen closed in. 

“No! Get back! ” 

But it was too late, One of the men was bisected by the Blade and the other retreated in haste, spearpoint out in a desperate defense. Aroden lunged desperately, grasping his sword with his remaining hand, breathing in another breath of Light. 

Come on…come ON!

He thought in desperate alarm, willing his arm to regenerate. But the Light…did nothing. Storms he was going to fail. This man was going to kill him, and then Elhokar, and all he’d fought for would be for nothing!

He swung desperately for the man’s back, but the Assassin somehow knew he was coming. He swung in a wide arc with his Shardblade, making Aroden leap back to avoid it, falling directly on his back. The other bridgeman had dragged his fallen comrade a half dozen feet back, and was kneeling over him desperately, giving the Shin all the time he needed to slowly stride over to Aroden’s fallen form, kicking his sword away.

“Here we are again. You are simply an engineer with cheap tricks. And I…I am Truthless. I must be. I must be! ” 

Aroden released the Light he was holding, his arm still as dead as before, dread filling his heart.

“I’m sorry, Ember.” He rasped. His spren materializing as a flickering coal in the stone beside him. 

He closed his eyes.

“Make it quick, Assassin.”

And then Kaladin was there. 

The man dove into the corridor, spearpoint first, like a skyeel soaring through the air. The Assassin was forced to give ground. Trying for blow after blow as the battle entered Elhokar’s chamber. Aroden weakly tried to stand, but found his strength was leaving him. It was only then he realized his dead arm was leaking blood profusely, his new sword having slipped from his weakened grasp and slicing through tendon and bone as he fell. Blood flowed from a deep cut in his arm, dripping in time with his frantic pulse. For some reason, he found that humorous. 

The remaining bridgeman saw it first, shouting in alarm as he knelt on the wound, staunching the flow. Aroden waved him off, desperately puffing in Stormlight just enough to staunch the wound. Blessedly, the flow slowed, enough for him to regain his footing and storm into the king’s chambers. He was just in time to see the Assassin-in-White get knocked over the balcony by Kaladin, both of them plummeting into the courtyard below.

“Secure the king!” Aroden barked behind him, steeling himself and leaping off himself, dragging with his good arm down the bunker’s wall, letting out a shout as his Abrasion betrayed him now, Light leaking out of him like a storming sieve. 

He desperately joined the brawl when he landed. 

“I will end you Assassin!” He shouted, swinging wide with his blade, forcing Kal to give ground. A costly mistake. The Shin man pivoted in the air, swinging out to catch Kaladin’s leg below the knee with his Blade. All three of them were desperately low on Stormlight now, but Aroden could see Kaladin had enough to heal himself, and he was already bearing some weight on the Blade-cut limb. 

It wouldn’t be in time. 

“I’ve spared you twice, there will not be a third time. May Damnation find you for making me do this!” 

“The one I love is already dead, which means I am too. You can’t hurt me , monster!”

Aroden swung hard with one hand, roaring as he poured every last bit of Light he had into a wave of anger-fueled Division, the Surge finally reacting in a wave of searing heat. 

The Assassin staggered back, eyes wide as his body decayed, the last of his stolen Stormlight finally dissipating as he weathered the blast, sinking to one knee. Just in time for the shouts of Kholin troops to finally reach them in the yard. The Shin looked between them both desperately before retreating. Vanishing into the night. Aroden looked at Kaladin one final time, before they both collapsed.

His sword arm was dead. 

His sword arm was dead.

And unlike his legs that had been cut out from under him. No amount of Stormlight would bring it back. 

Not that he could, anyway. Soldiers didn’t just heal from Shardblade wounds. Doing so would raise questions. Would out him as a Radiant, and would likely out Kaladin as well. He owed that man a debt. He’d fought off the Assassin-in-White, an impossible task. One man with a spear against someone who fought like the Wind itself, with a Shardblade and likely decades of experience with Surges. He’d saved his life, and Elhokar’s. That meant something. 

A darkeyed slave was turning out to be a better Radiant than Aroden could ever hope to be. He was a decent engineer, a better than average swordsman, a man who loved ghosts . Maybe it would be better to simply…recede. 

“You don’t mean to take this…do you?” Ember offered weakly, materializing in front of him. The ashspren radiated uncharacteristic concern, arms crossed as he floated there. Aroden couldn’t meet his gaze.

“I don’t know. I suppose so. But Ember…even if I didn’t feel this way…”

He did his best to fish an infused sphere from his belt, awkward now, like everything with his left hand, and breathed in the Light. He held it, one heartbeat, two, ten. 

His arm remained flaccid, until he released what remained in his lungs.

“Division, healing. They’re both closed off to me…and I don’t know why.” He stood awkwardly from his bed, the sounds of the warcamps echoing up through the Kholin warcamp as he donned his swordbelt- an affectation now, more than anything else. He’d never even trained with a blade in his offhand. He had never thought to. He was a passable swordsman, and far better than most, but it had never defined him.

What had defined him was having the use of two hands, and he didn’t know what to do with the dead limb now. He could cut it off, he supposed. But that seemed reckless, especially if by some miracle, he did manage to figure out an ability he’d managed to master back when he was a grasping Dustbringer who hadn’t even truly meant his First Ideal. 

It grated on him, this…fugue state he found himself in. It seemed he couldn’t do anything right. He’d betrayed his family, nearly gotten his nephew killed, and he’d failed to avenge his brother’s death. Again. 

At least Dalinar’s planned had born some fruit. Adolin would begin his duels soon. He would consolidate the highprinces’ Shards with their House, and along with it, his power as Highprince of War. The thought should have comforted him…if a part didn’t fear what the Blackthorn would do with that power. 

Alongside Amaram, who it seemed had all but replaced him at Dalinar’s side. That wound smarted more than it should have. He supposed he should have been used to that particular brand of familial disappointment. It hadn’t been the first time Dalinar acted like he didn’t exist. At the very least, he and Kal had commiserated over their shared hatred of Meridas.

The former bridgeman was waiting for him outside his quarters as Aroden tugged his dead arm through the sleeve of his coat. 

“Still?” 

Aroden shook his head quietly.

“I still mean to ride out with Adolin for the meeting with the Parshendi. It will be a good show of force. Let them think they’re meeting with the man that turns their warriors into ash, and not…the shell of what he was.” Aroden said quietly, head low. 

To any outsider it would have been absurd. An Alethi brightlord speaking casually to a darkeyed spearman. But Aroden knew better.

He reached up with his good arm, resting it on Kaladin’s shoulder for a long moment.

“You’re their protector now. Elhokar, Adolin, all of them. I never was. I couldn’t even save her when it mattered most.”

He walked away, missing the conflicted expression on his friend’s face.