Chapter 63

You need not always have the last word, though I know you collect them like badges of honor. I will not tell you where she is.

A ll his life, Renarin had struggled to figure out what people wanted of him.

It was the great recurring theme of his existence. He’d say the wrong thing, or more commonly not say something everyone expected him to, and the whole room would look at him just as they did now, in that tent full of future Heralds. Waiting.

He usually withdrew until the uncomfortable moment passed. In doing so, he suspected he’d trained those closest to him to ignore him. It hurt, because he wanted to understand—more, he wanted them to understand him. Still, for so much of his life, silence had been his defense. Say nothing. Accept that they thought him odd, which was better than them being offended.

Today that wouldn’t work. Today he had put himself in a position where not speaking would reveal him to assassins who prowled with other faces.

Except …

“Vedel?” the king asked again.

Except this had all happened before. In most conversations, there was no way to know the right answers. Today, however, the right answer existed—he merely needed the script.

Oh! Glys said, his voice distant as he watched from outside. Oh, this will work! This is possible!

You can see what happened in the original event? Renarin thought to him. The one the vision is copying .

Yes, Glys said. Now that you’re inside it, yes! Say this, Renarin. Say, “Yes, we presented Ishar’s plan to him, and he listened. All is ready—as am I.”

Renarin relayed the words, which made Jezrien nod in satisfaction. One of the others, who had to be Nale, pushed forward. “Wait. I know you. Vedel. The queen.”

“Queen no longer,” Renarin said, repeating the words fed to him by Glys. “My people are dead. I am only a healer now.”

“The talad …” Nale said.

Renarin had no idea what that meant, but he didn’t need to. Storms, it was such an incredible relief to—for once—know how to respond. To be able to participate in a conversation without anxiety or worry. Surely this was how his father felt—always with an answer, always able to speak his mind.

Is this what you will want? Glys asked. To always give answers expected? What of individuality? What of spontaneity?

It was difficult to explain, even to one who could sense his feelings and thoughts. Renarin was … growing to respect who he was rather than who he thought he should be. For much of his life that had been a struggle, as he’d always felt insufficient. Not the warrior his father wanted. Not the religious devotee the ardents wanted. Not the prince the people wanted.

In every way, he was a failure. That should make him want to rebel, throw it all away, find his own path. But he loved these people—his father, his aunt, the ardents like Kadash, his brother, and the people of Alethkar. He knew he shouldn’t derive his self-worth from being what they expected, but surely there was good in pleasing others? He—

Wait, Glys said. Renarin, wait! Renarin, this will be wrong!

Renarin felt a panic, thinking that in his musings, he’d missed a cue. But … it wasn’t him. It was Gav, standing in front of Navani. He must be in the body of someone unimportant, because the others didn’t appear to care much what he did.

But Gav had asked a question. And that set Renarin’s mental connection to Glys abuzz.

That wasn’t what the vision says will happen! Glys explained. That one isn’t following the script.

Yes, that’s Gav, Renarin sent. He can’t really play along. That doesn’t tell us anything though, because …

Wait. Storms.

That’s how we can tell! Renarin realized. All the actual members of the vision know what they’re supposed to say, but intruders will not. The Ghostbloods would out themselves by not following the vision exactly.

Not necessarily, Glys said. They will maybe have learned the same secret as you—and if one person goes off script, the others will too.

Right. He’d have to be careful about making assumptions. But this at least seemed like a possible way to find the assassins hidden in the vision.

You will speak, Glys prompted him, as he’d not been following the conversation. Say, “And so I left them …”

Sigzil rolled across the rainy ground, dazed.

Thunderclast. He’d been fighting the thunderclast Kai-garnis with several Stonewards. She had slapped him from the air and—

The stone wall of Narak Four exploded inward as Kai-garnis punched through it. Chips and chunks of stone fell across Sigzil in the darkness—made suddenly light as a Skybreaker started setting the air ablaze.

Generals sent ground troops to fill the gap. And fortunately, the thunderclast’s feet finally started to sink into the plateau behind her. By staying braced across the chasm using both legs and one arm long enough to break open the wall with her other fist, she had allowed Stonewards climbing the chasm wall enough time to make the plateau edge soft underneath her feet. The thirty-foot-tall monster—which looked vaguely skeletal, with a grand arrowhead face—trumped as her feet sank in. Five Edgedancers with Blades slid forward and began chopping at her, and Sigzil joined them, shaking off his daze and summoning his spear—then soaring forward and ramming it through one glowing stone eye.

She stilled, and her eyes faded, the light going out. She’d done her damage though—her corpse formed a bridge in through the wall. Magnified Ones sprang from the nearby plateau onto her back, then ran forward and leaped over her head onto Narak Four.

“All Radiants, form a defensive perimeter and let the troops reset their lines!” Sigzil shouted, swooping down near the scribe station.

“Do we retreat, sir?” one of the generals asked. “The wall is breached!”

“No,” Sigzil said. “It’s only the fifth day—we need to hold as long as we can. Prepare for a retreat, but we need to see if we can hold here. Ka, get me the Stormwall now !”

Sigzil took a stance nearby, putting himself between enormous Magnified Ones and the path to Narak Two, the Oathgate. He engaged the first few. His squires, then Skar and his squires, formed up around him. Windrunners fulfilled many roles on a battlefield. Scouts, yes, but often more akin to cavalry—fast, responsive, capable of getting to a situation and holding a line while slower troops were maneuvering.

Edgedancers joined them, and the Radiants fought the Fused together. Each grouped off into individual duels, not out of honor, but because a Radiant or Fused was like a single-unit army unto themself. There weren’t the raw numbers to form blocks of troops—and the fighting styles of Radiants, particularly with Blades, often required space.

Nearby, an Edgedancer shouted as she fell to a Focused One: the new brand, with a sleek, sculpted form, made up of overlapping belts. Like a body embalmed, wrapped in cloth, except each piece instead was like a leather strap. As Sigzil tried to go to the Edgedancer’s aid, the Focused One smashed her head with its foot, completely crushing her spine and skull. A wound even Stormlight couldn’t heal. Sigzil cursed and left his squires facing off against two Magnified Ones—they had the experience for that—and flew toward the Focused One.

Unlike the Magnified Ones, this thing didn’t run or leap as it turned toward him. This tall, sculpted being walked steadily, with a sense of inevitability. Unclothed, androgynous, it seemed malen to Sigzil—but they all did. That was probably just Sigzil defaulting to an assumption.

It didn’t flinch as Sigzil’s Shardspear hit it straight in the chest, sank in about half an inch, then stopped. Storms, it was true. He hadn’t entirely believed. Their skin wraps must somehow use Voidlight to push back the spear. Sigzil danced away as the thing lunged forward with incredible speed—like a spring uncoiling. Sigzil barely dodged, Lashing upward, his sweat mingling with the rain. Some of the thing’s calf muscles had unwrapped at the motion, the folds right above the feet becoming loose, then sliding down like many layers.

As he watched, they pulled tight again. Fascinating. He dove, putting a little more force behind his thrust, and managed to shove the spear in a fraction deeper. He was ready for the thing’s sudden motion this time, but he still barely managed to dodge. Nearby, a group of heavy infantry—men in their strongest armor, carrying warhammers—formed a line. That was the best way to fight Magnified Ones with conventional troops.

A squad of these engaged a Focused One, who—with a jolt of motion—grabbed one fully armored soldier by the head. The hand released its tension, folds around the forearm unraveling like coils of rope being given sudden slack. This time Sigzil saw more—the tension being released at the wrist was like a spring unwinding, and a great deal of that force was delivered to the fingers. All that pent-up potential energy was transferred into an already powerful grip.

The head burst. The helmet didn’t help.

Storms. Though Vienta began whispering numbers to him, analyzing the force transfer, the battle stopped being academic for Sigzil in that moment. He moved, rallying troops with shouts and a raise of the spear. Unfortunately, the Skybreakers made another series of harrying strikes right then. Alongside the other Windrunners, Sigzil was forced to give air support, lest the enemy drop behind their lines.

The next fifteen minutes were chaos in the skies, fighting through rain and fending off fellow humans who should have been on his side. He at last got a moment to disengage to check on their defenses, ignoring the glowing red dot from one of the six spanreed rubies strapped to his arm. It indicated that Leyten needed his attention, but that could wait.

His forces had managed to stop the enemy from overrunning the entire plateau. That was helped when a small squad of Windrunners arrived, carrying ropes and lifting dangling figures: people in Shardplate. You couldn’t lift Shardplate with Lashings, but you could Lash yourself upward and carry a Shardbearer with ropes. This group had been fighting off a simultaneous attack on Narak Prime, but he needed them here more—and this method of deployment was fastest.

The Windrunners cut their ropes, and four Shardbearers dropped to the battlefield—splintering the wooden boards as they hit, Blades appearing in their hands. Finally a fifth man dropped, the one they called the Stormwall. Dami, the Riran Stoneward. Shardplate formed around him—the largest, bulkiest suit Sigzil had ever seen, glowing a dangerous golden orange at its symbol and joints. In that armor, Dami stood a head taller than even the four conventional Shardbearers.

Sigzil hadn’t been with him in Emul when he’d said his Fourth Ideal, but it had reportedly been spectacular. The Stormwall didn’t summon a Shardblade, but an imposing tower shield, spiked and as tall as he was. He slammed it to the ground in front of him, then shoved a Magnified One out of the way while hitting another with a fist that crushed its face. Colorful ribbons—tied around his wrists and extending out through the Plate—began moving of their own accord; they spiraled outward around his fist and became like blades themselves, after the Stoneward art.

“The Focused Ones!” an Edgedancer shouted, sliding past Sigzil in the rain, trailing fearspren like a train. “They can’t be killed! They can’t be killed! ”

Well, that wouldn’t do. Time for some applied science.

“Four Lashings,” Vienta whispered, “at three hundred feet should be enough, judging by the metrics you provided me.”

Sigzil gained some distance with a few Lashings, then came back in low, using four Lashings in repeated succession. He skimmed across the top of the plateau, darting past skirmishing groups, the speed of his passing making pooled water split behind him in a wake—flashing red from reflected lightning above. He came in at a Focused One. The creature glanced at him at the last second, and took a Shardspear in the face.

Sigzil’s momentum drove the weapon all the way in, the spearhead bursting out the rear. Sigzil towed the figure—heavy though it was—down to the ground and slammed the head into the stones. The Fused inflated in a heartbeat, tension releasing as it expanded in a sudden dangerous burst. Like hundreds of very taut ropes suddenly snapping and whipping about.

The eyes burned.

“They can be killed!” Sigzil shouted, yanking the spear out and holding it overhead. “Fight! Keep fighting! ”

That rallied them, and along with the Stormwall, they began pushing the enemy back. Soon Sigzil was able to pull free—leaving the Stormwall and Skar in command of ground and air respectively—and tapped his gemstone to indicate to Leyten he was ready for the message. The pattern of blinks that followed spelled out the number of a plateau, and a warning that something strange was happening.

“Weiss and Atakin,” Sigzil said to his squires. “You’re with me. Fishev, let me know via ruby if the battle turns against us here. I need to check on something.”

“Why is everybody so sad?” Gav asked the gathered crowd of future Heralds. “Can we pretend to be chasmfiends instead of standing around like this?”

Dalinar cringed, waiting for the others to react. They all looked at Gav, as if seeing him for the first time. “Spren?” Jezrien finally asked. “What did you … ask?”

“The spren asked why we are sad,” Dalinar said. “It is an emotion spren, of course.”

“Yes,” Jezrien said, the vision adapting to the situation. “We are sad, as Vedel’s entire nation did not make the transition to this land with her. Vedel was visiting us when the … end began.”

“So I left them,” she whispered. “To burn.”

“You are a healer, Vedel, not a Firesmith,” Jezrien said, walking across the tent to comfort her. “There was nothing you could do once the chain reaction set the air ablaze.”

“Still … I should have been with them.” She looked away, and Dalinar found something familiar to her mannerisms.

“We all regret those days,” Jezrien said. “There’s a reason you came to me. You knew, even then, that we’d chosen the wrong god.”

“I didn’t want to choose any god,” she said, then turned and gestured to the side. “I suppose this one is happy. That we must finally come crawling to him.”

Light filled the tent, blinding Dalinar. He blinked tears away as others gasped. A moment later that light faded, and a man was standing beside Vedel. A regal, muscular man with long white hair, dark skin, and golden clothing from another time or place—far too fine for this era of the world.

It was Tanavast, the one they called the Almighty. Or as often, the one called Honor. It was happening. Please, Dalinar prayed, let me get a Blade as an anchor—before the vision ends.

It had to be close. But …

What about Taln?

Adolin charged into his armor, eager to be into the dome to join the defense. He leaped into the boots and felt them tighten as he walked into the greaves that were being held for him. His armorers cried out, as normally a Shardbearer stood still and let himself be equipped.

Today Adolin grabbed the breastplate—which had to be held by several armorers struggling with its weight—and guided it on, feeling it lock around him as two other armorers heaved the back plate on. The shoulder plates seemed to jump into place, as did other pieces, before he pushed his hands into the gauntlets. He turned and pointed at his scribes even as the full power of the armor arrived, the pieces doing their final fitting, straps pulling tight, clinking as sections snapped together and drew Stormlight from the chest.

“Where is the Azish Shardbearer?” Adolin asked.

“Northern section,” Kaminah said, scrambling up. “Um, the commandant has a note for you here. It says, ‘Cast the Banner?’ With a question mark?”

“Ah …” Adolin said. Towers maneuver. Kushkam thought from the enemy positioning that they’d try extra hard to bring down a Shardbearer today—which made sense. The enemy had largely stopped trying since their attempt on the first day. Perhaps they’d been waiting for the defenders to grow lax, and overcommit their Shards?

“Tell him I appreciate the warning,” Adolin said. “And write ‘Arms Aloft.’” A game signal, turning one of your cards to an angle to indicate being impressed by an opponent’s move.

Adolin collected his Shardbearer’s hammer and today’s honor guard, noticing one man in particular. “Hmask, good to see you as always, but shouldn’t you be off shift?”

The Thaylen man with the long mustaches grinned and nodded—he didn’t speak Alethi well. Somehow, every time Adolin went into the dome, he found Hmask on his honor guard. He still wasn’t certain what he’d done to get the fellow’s loyalty. He needed to find a translator and ask.

His guards in tow, Adolin entered the dome through one of the stone corridors, then emerged into the darkened interior, struck by the smell of blood. It lingered here, cooped up as they were in this strange arena. The singers left their fallen corpses—a tradition the Fused apparently enforced. The defenders removed theirs during lulls—and they often cleared out the enemy bodies too, to avoid collecting rotspren. But storms, he wished he could fight in the sunlight again.

No, he thought, jogging up behind their lines. When I fight in sunlight again, it will be because the enemy has escaped this prison. Don’t wish for that.

The enemy had further expanded their central fortification in the dome, creating space for hundreds of soldiers. He wished he had some way of knowing what the food and resupply situation was for them in Shadesmar. They hadn’t expected a long fight. Dared he hope they’d start starving?

Thinking about Shadesmar made him think of Maya. He could feel her, weakly, somewhere distant. Determined. But the enemy was well into its push trying to break the ring of defenders—who managed to field a full four ranks. One shield wall, three lines of pikes, two resting while the two at the front fought. Ten minutes at the front, ten on the pikes behind, followed by twenty minutes of rest.

Adolin picked a spot where the soldiers seemed to be flagging, then waded in, sweeping with his large Shardhammer and breaking the enemy assault. Once he’d forced them back in that spot, he retreated and let the line reset itself with fresh troops, before prowling for another spot to help.

He was joined today by a few Azish field officers. As a runner came with warnings of direforms approaching, he went charging off again. Here he had a tougher fight, leaping in past beleaguered pikemen. He swung for a mostly white singer direform—with wicked carapace spines—but missed. Some furious fighting ensued, and he managed to drop one, though three continued to harry him. Worse, farther down the line, lightning showed Regals breaking apart the shield formation.

Adolin grunted, but held his ground as arrows fell around him. May concentrated volleys right on his position, counting on his armor to deflect arrows, which banged as they occasionally struck him. That distraction let him land a powerful blow on one direform—flinging the Regal tens of feet. The other two fell back, which let Adolin charge to the second broken section of the line in time to chase away the stormforms.

That done, his heart racing, he held as the men reset their position and fought off the conventional enemy troops, who tried to push through in the chaos.

“That was close,” one of his Azish companions—a man named Gamma—said. He was shorter, with a skin tone that bespoke some Reshi or Herdazian heritage. “I worry that battlefields are changing on us, Brightlord. Pike blocks aren’t working like they used to—they break too easily before these new kinds of troops. The old ways are dying. That worries me. All our training is in those methods.”

There wasn’t time to reminisce about the changing world with Gamma, as Adolin was immediately needed to shore up another position. The enemy, however, used a common tactic: When a Shardbearer showed up to help a line, the singers would largely fall back in that region. Avoiding the worst of the casualties he could inflict.

It made for grueling work. Adolin always needed to be ready, constantly jumping in. Yet he never truly felt like he was achieving anything, for the enemy would reshuffle forces and attack where he wasn’t. Neziham—the Azish Shardbearer—largely had the same duty on the other half of the circle.

It’s working though, Adolin thought as he spelled off another group of beleaguered soldiers. They cheered him softly as his arrival let them fall back and swap with reserves. This method of defense had kept things mostly stable for the last day or two of fighting—and even though his soldiers were tiring, he believed they could persist.

The latest reports said the Azish and Alethi reinforcements were under two days away. No more phantom attacks by that mystery army. With their Voidspren to give intel, the enemy had to know the same thing—and would be worried about the tide changing when those armies arrived. So as he worked, Adolin looked for signs of what Kushkam was wary of: an attack intended to bring Adolin down.

His next few engagements didn’t involve any Regals or Fused. They were holding back their elites for a spell, resting them. Plus, the enemy waves withdrew quickly when he arrived, as if to heighten his confidence that he was invulnerable. His instincts said Kushkam was right. The battle had been stale for too long, almost a full day. They’d try for his Shards soon.

He fell back and explained this to his honor guard, telling them what to expect. So everyone was ready when—roughly two hours into this assault—Adolin stepped up past the line and the enemy suddenly surged forward. Direforms—a good two dozen of them—swarmed around, while conventional troops and stormforms tried to break the pike wall behind and surround him.

Adolin did not retreat. This was why he was here. He began swinging, smashing enemy after enemy as they were forced to engage him—and take the true beating he could inflict. He used Mountainstance, one of the stances for the hammer, and trusted his team to keep him from being overwhelmed.

Then went on the attack.

The enemy seemed surprised by this, and he heard what sounded like curses as he laid about himself with the hammer, cracking carapace, crushing stormforms who got too close, their lightning spasming out. Regals didn’t really have a counterpart in the human military. Unmade were like Heralds, and Fused like Radiants. The Regals were perhaps special forces—but enhanced ones.

The direforms around him—with extremely strong carapace grown in wicked points—pressed in. They didn’t have Surges, but they were tough. At least until you hit them full in the face with a Shardhammer, their exaggerated carapace crumpling as they fell in a mess of blood. They were accustomed to being stronger than both allies and foes, and would have dominated an ordinary battlefield. But with his Plate, Adolin matched them and held his ground, until …

“Adolin,” a voice said. He knew that voice. Masculine, clipped, reserved. Was that one of his honor guard? “Adolin, the other one is falling! He’s down!”

“Other one?” he shouted.

“The Azish Shardbearer. They sent twice as many against him—and they have shields with aluminum bands to stop the Blade.”

Storms. They weren’t trying to bring Adolin down, they were trying to distract him. The true attack was on Neziham, who was already down—and on the complete opposite side of the dome from Adolin. Storms!

Adolin tried to withdraw, but the enemy had planned this. They’d positioned direforms along his flanks, making it difficult for him to extract. They would force him to fight for every inch of retreat. In the meantime they’d be finishing off Neziham and pulling away his corpse, armor and all.

The two Shardbearers were the defenders’ best edge in this fight. Lose one …

Adolin made a snap decision.

A potentially terrible one.

He charged.

The enemy had positioned all their troops to his flanks, pushing the honor guard behind him into a snarl of fighting. They’d done everything they could to keep him from retreating, but they’d left the way forward largely open. Adolin raced on Plate-enhanced feet, broke through the flimsy enemy back line, and dashed across the open field. Virtually alone, trailing a few of his honor guard, he soon reached the enemy bunker.

“Quickly. He’s still alive, I think.” Suddenly the voice clicked.

“ Notum? ” Adolin said.

A glowing figure appeared in the air by Adolin, roughly a foot tall—bearing the distinctive beard and uniform of the honorspren naval captain.

“It worked!” Adolin said. “Where is Maya?”

“I don’t know that. Perhaps I should explain after?”

Right. Adolin’s brash push forward had put him in the middle of the enemy position, surrounded in a way that was terrible even for a Shardbearer. This was how you fell. This was how, no matter how invincible you felt, you could be brought down—letting your Shards become enemy Shards, then return to kill your friends.

The thing was, Adolin wasn’t just any Shardbearer. He was, at his core, the Blackthorn’s son. Sadeas, wherever he was, could explain what that meant.

Adolin didn’t like it, and he didn’t have to. He embraced it anyway. Momentum, he thought. A battle is about momentum.

Only one way forward.

Through the enemy fortification itself, which now had a dome on the top to deflect falling stones. It was dented, but sloped; he wouldn’t be able to get any purchase up there. So he kept going forward, enemies swarming at his sides but shouting to one another in alarm. As long as the enemy was confused by his insane gamble, as long as they were afraid of him, they wouldn’t press their advantage. Adolin bashed open the enemy fortification with his hammer, beating back the bronze door and smashing it completely. Unfortunately, that left his hammer—already weakened from fighting—bent all out of shape. So Adolin threw it into the singers within, crushing several of them.

The space was big enough for a direform, which meant it was big enough for him. He bellowed a roar at the remaining singers crowded inside—causing them to panic and dodge, trailing fearspren.

Adolin charged into the dim confines.

Don’t stop moving.

Don’t let them respond; only let them react. Don’t let them plan, only let them panic. Don’t let them see you as anything other than a terrible force.

Make them avoid you at all costs.

He began laying into the singers inside with his fists. He crushed skulls and sent bodies slamming into stiff bronze walls. Their terror did the work for him as they scrambled to get away, tripping one another, clearing the path. He had to climb over bodies both alive and dead, but with the unnatural strength and poise of his armor he had little trouble.

Don’t. Stop. Moving.

He didn’t go through the control building at the center, but rounded it to the left, then crashed out through a door on the opposite side of the enemy fortification, where singers were spilling out before him, desperate to get away. He’d traveled faster than news of what he was doing, so the rear ranks on this side were confused. He roared and surged among them, and the chaos fed itself.

Notum became a glowing line of light in the air, circling over one area in the battle ahead. With that guide, Adolin was able to storm among the enemy ranks and break through to find the fallen Shardbearer on his back, his armor smoking from a dozen cracks. Neziham was still fighting while supine, sweeping about with his Blade to cut at the legs of any who came close.

Direforms, however, leaped over the sword and came at him from all sides. Others blocked Neziham’s attacks with those wide square shields that had bands of aluminum nailed onto them. One direform pounded a fist into Neziham’s head, and the helmet exploded in a spray of molten sparks.

The next hit would finish him off.

Adolin didn’t intend to let that blow fall. He roared again, drawing their attention, and was rewarded by looks of confusion, shock, and—most importantly—terror. Adolin grabbed the nearest direform and smashed a fist through the malen’s face, breaking carapace, then flesh, then bone. As the corpse sagged in his hands, Adolin took it by one leg and began swinging.

It was difficult to find weapons a Shardbearer wouldn’t break within one or two swings. Even the best swords shattered when you hit someone with them using the full force of Plate—but direforms had extremely strong carapace. Adolin made full use of this, swinging his grisly trophy around, bashing it into the others, shocking them with the brutality of it.

As the body ripped apart, leaving him brandishing a leg, Adolin at last achieved his goal. The demoralized and confused enemy broke, Regals included. Most battles weren’t about killing everyone who stood against you; they were instead about getting your enemy to stop fighting.

Regals sprinted for their bunker. They dragged wounded friends, and Adolin raised a hand, signaling to the archers to let them do so. Exhausted, he turned to help the fallen Neziham—but halted when he saw one figure on the field who was not retreating.

The Heavenly One glowed—if it could be called that—with the dark energy of Voidlight, but did not fly. Abidi the Monarch. He glanced at his retreating soldiers, then back at Adolin.

“I see you,” he said. “Radiant. Why do you hide your powers?”

“I’m not Radiant,” Adolin said.

“Nonsense. That spren is yours. I see its influence, when it tries to hide. Little honorspren, flitting around in the air.” He stepped toward Adolin. “No wonder you could stand against me as no common mortal could, Kholin.”

Adolin growled, stepping back.

“Yes,” Abidi said, “I know you. They say you’re the best. Did you know that the blood of Radiants quiets the voices in my mind, and takes away the edge of a thousand years of pain? If I bathe in it, they simmer, then slip away. Now that I know what you are, I can claim your corpse as my prize, and this city as my throne.”

“Then come for me,” Adolin said, raising metal fists.

Instead, Abidi studied him before finally joining the retreating armies. The wiser move, for he was now the one in danger of being surrounded. Some might have called it cowardice, but they would be fools.

Adolin sighed and walked over to offer Neziham a hand, helping heave the fallen Shardbearer into a sitting position. He was heavy; the enemy had almost run him out of Stormlight.

“Thank you,” he said. “You … are quite the Shardbearer.”

“Thanks,” Adolin said.

“That aluminum,” the Azish man said. “On the shields. Do you suppose it was the secret of half-shards all along? Our artifabrians never were able to successfully reproduce them from those schematics King Taravangian provided. Was it a trick, from the Vedens, all this time?”

“I wonder,” Adolin said, watching as the enemy retreated with their shields. The metal could block Shardblades, and though it was exceptionally rare, the enemy seemed to be able to Soulcast it. It was showing up more and more in battle.

Adolin turned, then—with a start—realized a uniformed man with drooping white eyebrows peeking from his helmet was standing guard at his rear. “Hmask?” Adolin demanded. “Did you follow me into the storming enemy fortification ?”

With a grin, Hmask saluted.

“Suppose I can’t chastise you for doing what you saw me do,” Adolin grumbled, looking around. He found Notum floating nearby. “All right, spren. Let’s chat.”