Chapter Text
Kaladin settled more fully into the couch, the cushions sagging like they’d known far heavier bodies and far heavier stories than his. The initial tension bled out of him in slow degrees. No one was staring at him anymore. Someone racked the pool balls again. The jukebox hummed on.
He exhaled.
“So,” he said, rubbing his palms together, unsure what to do with his hands. “You’re… thralls like this guy I met. Moash.”
The effect was immediate.
Every single one of them froze.
Cards stopped mid-shuffle. A pool ball rolled to a stop against the rail. Teft’s head snapped up so fast Kaladin half-expected whiplash.
“You saw Moash?” Teft said.
Not heard of. Not know about. Saw.
Another man leaned forward sharply. “You actually talked to him?”
Kaladin blinked, startled by the intensity. “Yeah. I... He worked for Sadeas. I didn’t know what he was at first.”
“Storms,” Rock breathed, one hand covering his mouth.
“Is he—” Teft started, then stopped himself. His jaw tightened. “Is he okay?”
Kaladin hesitated. The silence stretched, fragile as glass.
“No,” he said quietly. “Not really. He’s… starving. Angry. Sadeas seems to keep him on a leash just long enough to make sure he doesn't break completely.” He swallowed. “I don’t think he’s been allowed to eat properly in a long time.”
The room exhaled as one.
“Yeah,” Skar muttered. “That tracks.”
Teft dragged a hand down his face, the lines there deepening.
“Figures he’d end up with Sadeas,” he said bitterly. “Of all the damned luck.”
Someone else shook his head slowly. “Moash always did have a temper. Vampires like that. Easy to twist.”
Kaladin’s chest tightened. “You… you care about him.”
Teft looked at him, something old and tired in his eyes.
“We were supposed to look out for each other,” he said simply. “Didn’t always manage it.”
Silence settled again, heavier this time.
Kaladin shifted, then asked the question that’d been sitting in his throat since he’d walked in.
“How did it happen?” he asked. “All of you. How did you become… like this?”
The reaction was subtler, but no less real.
Eyes slid away. Shoulders tensed. Someone laughed once, sharp and humorless.
Rock cleared his throat. “We’re not meant to talk about the old days.”
Kaladin frowned. “Why not?”
“Rules,” Skar said shortly.
“Vampire rules,” Teft added. “Council ones. Clan ones. Memory ones.”
“Memory ones?” Kaladin repeated.
Sigzil’s mouth twisted. “Some of us don’t remember everything. Some of us remember too much. Either way, talking about it tends to… upset the balance.”
Kaladin thought of Dalinar admitting chunks of his own memory were gone. Of thralls allowed to live freely so long as they returned.
“They did something to you,” Kaladin said softly. “Didn’t they?”
No one answered him directly.
Instead, Teft reached for the pool cue and nudged it with his foot, sending it rolling back toward the table.
“Most of us were soldiers,” he said after a moment. “Or close enough. Men who already belonged to someone else’s war.”
Rock nodded. “We were hungry before we ever tasted blood.”
“That’s usually when it happens,” Skar added. “When you’re desperate. When you think you don’t matter.”
Kaladin’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
Teft snorted. “Didn’t say it did.”
Another man studied Kaladin carefully.
“You’re different,” he said. “Most humans don’t ask questions like that. Not after what you saw.”
Kaladin looked down at his hands. He thought of Moash’s eyes. Of Syl’s absence. Of being told he was a statistic.
“I don’t like people being treated like tools,” he said.
Something passed through the room then, not hope, exactly, but recognition.
Teft met his gaze and nodded once.
“Careful,” he said. “That kind of thinking gets people killed.”
Kaladin looked back up, steady despite the knot in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”
The jukebox clicked again, the song ending in a soft hiss. Around them, the Rec Room carried on—men playing pool, shuffling cards, existing in the narrow space between comfort and captivity.
And somewhere far across the city, Moash starved.
Kaladin leaned back into the couch, the weight of it all settling in his bones, and realized this place—this strange, half-safe limbo—wasn’t an ending. It was a holding pattern, and he had no idea how long it was going to last.
Kaladin shifted forward on the couch, elbows on his knees. He watched them as they talked to each other in half-glances and small, practiced pauses, as if checking some invisible line they knew better than to cross.
“What’s it like?” he asked finally. His voice came out quieter than he expected. “Living here. For you.”
That got a few surprised looks.
Teft was the one who answered first. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Honestly?” he said. “It’s… not bad. Not anymore.”
Kaladin blinked. “Not bad?”
“Wasn’t always,” Skar added quickly. “But now? Yeah. Could be worse.”
Rock nodded, folding his large hands together.
“We come and go as we please,” he said. “No chains. No locked doors. Dalinar doesn’t keep us penned in.”
“We keep our mouths shut,” Drehy said, matter-of-fact. “That’s the price. Don’t talk to humans about vampires. Don’t talk to vampires about the old days. Don’t stir trouble.”
“And in exchange?” Kaladin prompted.
Sigzil shrugged. “Agency. Mostly.”
The word landed heavy.
“We pick our own clothes,” Skar said. “Our own rooms. Some of us have jobs outside the house. Some don’t.”
“Some of us like the quiet,” Rock added with a small smile. “After… everything.”
Kaladin’s eyes flicked to the pool table, the cards, the easy way they moved around each other.
“And the work?” he asked. “Serving, cleaning?”
Drehy snorted softly. “It’s a mansion full of vampires. Someone’s gotta do it.”
“There used to be parties sometimes,” Teft said. “Fundraisers. Political nonsense. Rich people pretending they didn’t know what was really going on.”
Kaladin grimaced. “And you served them?”
“Food and drink,” Skar said. “Appetizers. Cocktails. Blood, sometimes—though not from us.”
Kaladin stiffened. “They don’t make you—”
“No,” Teft cut in firmly. “Not anymore. Not for years. And frankly, we haven’t had a party here in years either. Dalinar seems to keep to himself those days.”
Rock tilted his head. “We are allowed human food. Most of us chose it now.”
“That surprises you,” Skar noted.
Kaladin nodded slowly. “Yeah. After what Dalinar described… thralls craving blood.”
“We did,” Teft admitted. His fingers drummed once against the armrest, then stilled. “At first. Blood’s… loud. It drowns everything else out. Hunger, fear, guilt. Makes you feel whole when you aren’t.”
“And then?” Kaladin asked.
“And then you get tired of needing it,” Sigzil said quietly. “Tired of someone else deciding when you were allowed to eat.”
Drehy lifted his mug. “So we switched. Human food. One meal at a time.”
“Didn’t take the hunger away completely,” Rock said. “But it quieted it. Made it bearable.”
Kaladin swallowed, thinking of Moash shaking with starvation, eyes too bright.
“Sadeas wouldn’t allow that,” he murmured.
A shadow passed over the group.
“No,” Teft agreed. “He wouldn’t.”
They sat with that for a moment.
“So this is your life,” Kaladin said. “You’re free, but not.”
Teft smiled thinly. “That’s one way to put it.”
“We can leave,” Skar said. “Travel. See friends. Go to the movies. Hell, some of us have apartments in the city.”
“But you always come back,” Kaladin said.
“Yes,” Rock replied gently.
“Why?” Kaladin asked. He didn’t mean it accusingly. He genuinely wanted to understand.
Teft looked around the room, at the men who’d shared decades with him—some of them longer than a human lifetime.
“Because this is the one place we aren’t pretending,” he said. “Not human. Not monsters. Just… us.”
Kaladin leaned back again, the weight in his chest shifting, rearranging itself.
It wasn’t a prison.
But it wasn’t freedom either.
And for the first time since he’d woken up in the mansion, he understood why Dalinar called it a compromise—and why that word felt like a warning.
Kaladin hesitated, then gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, toward the upper floors of the house where Adolin and Renarin lived.
“Dalinar said his sons were… born like this,” he said carefully. “Thralls. Or something close to it.” He looked back at them, earnest, confused. “I just—I want to understand.”
The room went quiet.
Not the awkward quiet from before, but something heavier. The men exchanged looks—quick, practiced, almost reflexive. A silent conversation passed between them.
Teft was the one who finally shook his head.
“Can’t,” he said softly.
Kaladin frowned. “Can’t…?”
“Can’t talk about the old days,” Skar said, repeating the phrase they’d used earlier, but now it sounded less casual and more like a line etched into bone.
Drehy’s jaw tightened. “Especially not about Dalinar’s family.”
Rock lowered his gaze to his hands. “Those stories aren’t ours to tell.”
Kaladin’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t meant to push.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s not your fault,” Teft said at once. His tone was gentle, almost apologetic. “You’re new. You don’t know the rules yet.”
“But you should,” Skar added, not unkindly.
Kaladin nodded, heat creeping up his neck. “Right. I’m sorry.”
The tension eased, just a little.
“What we can say,” Teft continued, choosing his words carefully, “is that Adolin and Renarin aren’t like us. Not really.”
“They were never taken,” Rock said. “Never broken and remade.”
“And Dalinar fought like hell to keep it that way,” Drehy added.
Kaladin latched onto that. “So they are… not thralls?”
“They don’t answer to anyone’s voice but their own,” Skar said. “That’s what matters.”
Kaladin exhaled slowly, the knot in his chest loosening a fraction. He nodded again, more firmly this time. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t ask.”
Teft studied him for a moment, then gave a small, approving nod. “Good.”
They drifted back into easier conversation after that—cards, a half-finished pool game, someone arguing about a song playing faintly from a radio—but Kaladin stayed quiet, his thoughts spinning.
Born into this world. Shaped by it without consent. Protected, maybe, but never untouched.
He leaned back and stared at the ceiling, realizing that whatever Adolin and Renarin were, whatever line they walked, it was one Dalinar drew in blood and secrecy. And Kaladin was standing closer to it than he ever wanted to be.
The house was quiet when Adolin slipped through the front door, his footsteps muted on the polished floors. Night had long fallen over the Hollywood Hills, and even the distant hum of the city felt muffled from here.
Dalinar was in his study, seated behind the massive desk that dominated the room. Papers were neatly stacked to one side, a glass of dark liquid untouched. He looked up as Adolin entered, a faint crease between his brows.
“Father,” Adolin said softly, closing the door behind him. His eyes were sharp, calculating, even in the dim lamplight. “Sadeas came by the club tonight.”
Dalinar leaned back, his expression unreadable. “And?”
Adolin frowned, hesitating. “He spoke as if nothing had happened… talked about strengthening alliances, renewing old pacts.” His tone tightened. “Acted smooth, friendly, like he hadn’t tried to make a new thrall right under our noses.”
Dalinar’s fingers drummed lightly on the desk. “Of course. That’s how Sadeas operates. Charming on the surface, dangerous beneath. Did he… bring up Kaladin?”
“No,” Adolin said, eyes narrowing. “Not once. I kept waiting, but he didn’t. He was careful… almost annoyingly so. He skirted everything, spoke only of old friendships and alliances.”
Dalinar exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. “He’s testing us. Measuring reactions. Watching what we do, what we reveal. That’s all he knows how to do.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands. “Did anyone notice anything unusual? Any missteps?”
“No,” Adolin replied. “We held our ground. I kept it civil. But I could feel him probing… like he wanted to see how far he could push before I reacted.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “He is getting bolder. I think he’s aware the council won’t interfere immediately, that he can act with near impunity here on the West Coast.”
Dalinar nodded slowly, dark eyes reflecting the lamplight. “Then we must continue to be careful. One slip, one loose word, and it could escalate faster than either of us want. But for now… he’s left with nothing. That is our advantage.”
Adolin exhaled, tension threading through his shoulders. “I don’t like him being out there, Father. The way he moves, the way he watches…” He trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.
Dalinar rose, placing a firm hand on Adolin’s shoulder. “I know. That is why we are here, and why we remain vigilant. He will not succeed—not while I draw breath.”
Dalinar sat back in his chair, the muted glow of the desk lamp casting sharp angles across his face. He picked up the antique rotary phone—the line carefully secured, of course—and dialed the number for the council headquarters in Pennsylvania. The weight of years of political maneuvering and personal history pressed on him; this wasn’t just a request, it was a gamble.
After several rings, a crisp, formal voice answered. “Council of Clans, Pennsylvania. Identification?”
“Dalinar Kholin,” he said, his tone firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I am calling regarding Sadeas, currently active in the Hollywood Hills. There have been breaches of protocol. Immediate action may be required.”
There was a pause, a faint shuffling of papers, then a measured response. “Dalinar Kholin. Yes, we are aware of your history with Sadeas. Please continue.”
Dalinar laid out the situation carefully: Sadeas’ reckless creation of new thralls, his public displays at the club, the potential exposure due to Kaladin surviving the attempted transformation. He stressed that this was not merely a personal vendetta, but a threat to the balance of the clans on the West Coast, and a violation of the pact that governed thralls, hunting grounds, and secrecy.
Another pause followed, longer this time. The council responded, its tone slightly dismissive, tinged with bureaucratic boredom. “We are aware of the potential issues Sadeas presents, Dalinar. He has a history of… impulsive behavior, but he has not yet been cited formally for any transgressions. The West Coast is distant, and unless there is clear, documented evidence, our hands are somewhat tied.”
Dalinar’s jaw tightened, but he did not show irritation.
“I have evidence,” he said evenly. “A human, Kaladin, survived Sadeas’ attempt to make him a thrall. His testimony alone could confirm the violations. I request that the council intervene and monitor Sadeas’ activities before this escalates further.”
Another shuffle of papers followed. Then, after a moment, the voice replied. “Due to the history between you and Sadeas, Dalinar, we will review the situation. An agent will be dispatched to the West Coast to assess and report. Do not act outside your authority until we advise further.”
Dalinar exhaled, a slow, controlled release of tension.
“Understood,” he said, his voice calm but edged with resolve. “I will cooperate fully with the agent. I only ask that this be expedited. Sadeas is growing bolder by the night.”
The council voice responded curtly, “Acknowledged. The agent will arrive in due course.”
Dalinar hung up, the receiver heavy in his hand. He leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly. “An agent,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s hope they’re competent—and that Sadeas doesn’t figure out what we’ve done before then.”
Across the room, Adolin paced quietly, his expression a mixture of apprehension and determination. “Do you think they’ll actually take it seriously?”
Dalinar’s eyes met his son’s. “They will have to. If not for Kaladin, then for the stability of every clan on this coast.”
Adolin nodded, understanding the gravity of the moment. In the distance, the hum of the city seemed louder somehow, as if Hollywood itself were listening.
The nights stretched long and quiet over the Hollywood Hills, the city below a sea of flickering lights that felt distant, almost unreal. Kaladin had settled into the rhythm of Dalinar’s home surprisingly quickly. Nights were familiar; after years as an EMT, he was used to operating when the world slept. Morning brought sleep, and evening brought a cautious energy that made the house feel alive in a way the sunlit hours never did.
His room was spacious, a soft rug underfoot, walls lined with books, a small record player in the corner. At first, he’d wandered its edges, testing the locks, inspecting the windows. Now, he slept without worry, letting the quiet of the night ease him into rest. The kitchen was a revelation—polished counters, stocked pantries and fridge. Meals were simple, nourishing, designed for humans: potato leek stew, roasted vegetables, fresh bread, eggs. He ate carefully, savoring flavors that reminded him of the world he’d left behind, the smells of Syl’s small apartment, the faint tang of city air on the streets after a night shift.
Renarin became a quiet companion in these first few nights. He would appear at odd hours, moving silently with a grace Kaladin had started to recognize as vampire-born. They didn’t speak much at first, just shared a space, sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, eating, listening to the soft hum of the refrigerator or the distant thrum of the city. Slowly, Kaladin began asking questions—not about the past, which Renarin avoided with a polite tension, but about small things: the music he liked, what he did during the long hours alone, how he found the quiet tolerable. Renarin, in turn, asked about life outside: EMT stories, the war, the oddities of human friends. They learned to nod and smile at each other in understanding, bridging the gap between human and near-human in the quietest ways.
The other thralls proved equally fascinating. Sigzil, a man who had been living under Dalinar’s roof for decades, held the most practical wisdom. He had an apartment in the city and still managed to walk among humans with ease. When Kaladin confessed his worry about Syl, the worry about disappearing without a word, Sigzil gave a reassuring smile.
“I can reach her,” he said simply. “Tell her you’re fine. Don’t worry. You’ll still be out there, just… not in the way she expects.” The thought was comforting and strange—someone could act as a bridge between the two worlds Kaladin straddled now.
Curiosity drew Kaladin further into the mansion. He explored the gym, lifting weights heavier than any he’d touched in the field, running on treadmills that felt almost luxurious underfoot. He discovered a small library tucked behind a velvet curtain, full of books both mundane and arcane, histories of the vampire clans, journals that whispered secrets he could not yet fully understand. He wandered hallways, tracing the architecture, marveling at the old-world craftsmanship mixed with subtle modern touches: a candlestick phone next to a polished chrome record player, velvet couches alongside sleek minimalist furniture.
At night, he sometimes went to the balcony overlooking the city, staring at the lights, thinking of Syl and the streets he had once roamed. He felt the guilt gnawing at him—the world he had left, the friends he would not see, the human life he could not return to. The mansion was luxurious, but it was a gilded cage. Still, in those quiet moments, he allowed himself to breathe, to imagine the outside world without letting despair fully settle.
Then meals became social occasions. Renarin would sometimes invite him to eat in the dining room with other thralls, all of whom regarded Kaladin with mild astonishment. Conversations were cautious at first—questions about current human habits, opinions about the latest records—but gradually, they opened up. Kaladin learned which of them preferred blood, which had chosen human food, and which took careful liberties with both. He discovered that even within the rules, there was room for choice, subtle acts of rebellion, little freedoms that made life bearable.
And yet, he always remembered Moash. Always. He imagined the other thrall, bound and forced, and the contrast weighed heavily on him. Kaladin began to understand that here, safety and comfort were relative. He could explore, learn, and even relax—but the world outside, with Sadeas’ recklessness and Dalinar’s politics, waited like a shadow.
By the end of the week, Kaladin had learned routines, understood boundaries, and even started to feel a tentative ownership over this nocturnal life. He was not free, not truly—but he was surviving, and in a place where survival carried its own privileges. The mansion, its quiet halls, the thralls’ careful camaraderie, and the distant city lights became his new normal, a strange bridge between the human world he had lost and the dangerous, secret world he had unwillingly entered.
A week in, the mansion had settled into a strange sort of routine—one Kaladin still didn’t trust, but had begun to understand. Nights were quiet unless someone chose to make them loud. The clocks on the walls meant less than the rhythm of footsteps in the halls, the way lights flicked on in kitchens and Rec Room after sunset, the subtle sense of life stirring only when the rest of the city slept.
Kaladin was in the Rec Room when Sigzil found him, leaning back on a worn leather couch with a mug of coffee gone cold in his hands. Sigzil closed the door behind him softly, like he always did.
“I saw Syl,” Sigzil said.
Kaladin sat up so fast the coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim.
“You what?” His voice cracked, and he hated that it did.
Sigzil smiled, gentle this time.
“I met her. Just like I said I would.” He stepped closer, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “She was worried. Very worried. I told her you were alive. That you were… away. That you couldn’t contact her yet, but that she shouldn’t panic. I’m not sure she believed me, but I did try.”
Kaladin exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath for days without realizing it. His shoulders sagged.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. Then, softer, “Really. Thank you.”
Sigzil nodded once, accepting it. They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the mansion filling the space between them. Then Kaladin frowned, something that’d been gnawing at him finally pushing its way to the surface.
“Sigzil,” he said slowly, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You’ve got an apartment in the city. You come and go. You could just… leave, right?” Kaladin hesitated, then added, “Why don’t you?”
Sigzil laughed—not sharply, not cruelly, just genuinely amused.
“I could,” he said easily. “No one would stop me, I don’t think. I did, for a while actually, a few years back.”
Kaladin watched him closely now. “But you don’t now.”
“No.” Sigzil leaned against the pool table, folding his arms. “Because I didn’t want to anymore.”
That surprised Kaladin more than anything else he’d heard in this house. “You don’t… want to leave?”
Sigzil shook his head.
“Before? Absolutely. I would’ve vanished the second I had the chance.” His expression sobered, eyes drifting somewhere far away. “But things changed. I changed. Dalinar changed.”
He gestured vaguely around the room. “Here, I have food. Consistent food. I don’t have to hide what I am. I have people who understood why the world feels just slightly… off. A community.” He shrugged. “That counts for something.”
Kaladin’s jaw tightened. “Even if it is built on being a thrall?”
Sigzil didn’t bristle. He considered the question carefully.
“Being a thrall changes you,” he said finally. “Not all at once. Not always in ways you notice at first.”
Kaladin swallowed. “When did it happen to you?”
Sigzil met his eyes. “The 1920s.”
Kaladin stared at him. “The—what?”
“The twenties,” Sigzil repeated calmly. “Just after the Great War.”
“You’re—” Kaladin stopped himself, then blurted, “You’re a World War One vet?”
Sigzil nodded. “Drafted. France. Trenches. Mud. Gas.” His mouth twisted faintly. “You know the type.”
Kaladin felt dizzy. He looked Sigzil up and down—his posture, his face, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
“You don’t look…” He trailed off, then said it plainly. “You don’t look that old.”
Sigzil chuckled. “Exactly.”
A chill ran down Kaladin’s spine.
“I age slower now,” Sigzil continued. “Not like a vampire. I will still die someday. But time… stretches. Decades blurred together. Humans notice something is off after a while. You stop fitting in.” His smile turned wry. “Eventually, you get tired of pretending nothing has changed. And the vampire who turned you can stretch out your life, if they want, almost indefinitely.”
Kaladin thought of Moash. Of Renarin. Of the thralls who looked middle-aged but carried a heaviness that felt older than it should have been.
“So you come back,” Kaladin said.
“Yes,” Sigzil replied simply. “Because this place understands what I am. Because I don’t have to explain why the world doesn’t feel like it used to.” He looked at Kaladin steadily. “And because leaving forever isn’t always the same thing as being free.”
The words settled heavy in Kaladin’s chest.
He nodded slowly.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I’m starting to understand that.”
Sigzil clapped him lightly on the shoulder, not unkind.
“You are still human,” he said. “For now. That means you still have choices.”
As Sigzil turned to leave, Kaladin stared after him, the mansion suddenly feeling older than it ever had—layers of wars and survivors and compromises stacked quietly behind velvet walls.
And for the first time since he’d arrived, Kaladin wondered not just whether he’d be able to leave, but whether, someday, he might not want to.
“Sigzil,” Kaladin said suddenly, the thought snapping into place so sharply it left his mouth before he could stop it. “If you’ve been a thrall that long… then you remember. Before Dalinar lost his memory.”
Sigzil froze.
It was subtle—just a hitch in his movement, a stillness that didn’t belong in a man who usually carried himself so loosely—but Kaladin saw it. The room seemed to go quiet around them, the low hum of the house fading into the background.
Slowly, Sigzil turned back.
He didn’t smile this time. He didn’t joke. He just looked tired.
“Yes,” he said.
The word was quiet, heavy, final.
Kaladin swallowed. “What was he like? Before—”
“Don’t,” Sigzil cut in, sharper than Kaladin had ever heard him. Not angry. Afraid. He took a breath, visibly steadying himself, and lowered his voice. “Don’t ask. And don’t talk about that time. Not to anyone.”
Kaladin frowned. “Why?”
Sigzil’s jaw tightened. He looked away, eyes fixed on the far wall like he was seeing something else layered over it—something old and ugly.
“Because some memories don’t make anyone better,” he said carefully. “And some truths… only cause harm when they’re dragged back into the light.”
He turned fully now, meeting Kaladin’s eyes. “It’s better that Dalinar doesn’t remember. Truly. Whatever the council did, whatever they took from him—it saved more people than it hurt.”
Kaladin’s chest ached at that. He thought of Dalinar now: controlled, principled, ruthless but restrained. A man who spoke of honor like it was something he’d fought to earn.
Sigzil exhaled, a slow, weary sound. For just a moment, the mask slipped. There was something haunted in his expression—trenches and blood and commands that could not be refused, not by soldiers and not by thralls.
Then it was gone.
He straightened, smoothing his jacket, the familiar calm settling back into place.
“Dalinar changed,” Sigzil said firmly. “That’s what matters now. He believes in rules. In limits. In protecting people when he can.”
He hesitated at the door. “Not everyone does.”
The implication hung between them, sharp and unspoken.
Sigzil opened the door, paused once more, and added softly, “Trust me, Kaladin. Some pasts are better left buried.”
Then he left, the door closing with a quiet, final click.
Kaladin was left alone in the Rec Room, staring at the place where Sigzil had stood, unease curling in his stomach. Whatever Dalinar had been before—whatever the council had erased—it hadn’t been something small. And the fact that everyone seemed to agree it was better forgotten made it all the more terrifying.