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Jasnah Kholin sits in a dark empty room, waiting, watching. The strange creature - a spren, most likely, although she has so far found no way to back up that conjecture with evidence - will return any moment now, and this time she will be ready. It will not catch her unaware again. Freehand poised over her notebook, she waits.

And there it is, emerging slowly through the wall from a corner of her vision. It walks towards her very stiffly, hunched shoulders and quiet steps as if it is trying to be sneaky. Without moving any part of her body other than her hand, Jasnah makes a quick annotation. Her eyes stay glued to the desk in front of her - she has observed that the creature does not take kindly to being looked at straight on. Could it really be a spren? She has never seen one this large, although she’s heard of individuals that are much larger (reports, for example, of that incredible spren off the coast of Iri). It does seem the most likely option. From the brief glances she’s been able to steal at it, she has made the following notations:

• It has an oily cast to its skin, and light seems to reflect off it strangely, eschewing normal reflective practices. In fact, the light seems almost to glint the wrong way, although I am unsure how this could be possible. A similar phenomenon, perhaps, to when my shadow fell the wrong way on the night that I entered Shadesmar. That event was certainly linked to the creatures, although the nature of the connection is unclear.
• It is humanoid in size and in shape, and its features seem roughly humanlike as well.
• Sometimes there is only one creature in the shadows. Sometimes there are several, and they seem to be visible to me alone.

Of course, she has no way to verify that last point without being once again accused of madness, of seeing things that are not there. And as much as it pains her to admit, she cannot rule that out. Human brains are fallible. The creatures seem so real to her, but then again, they did when she was younger too.

The creature continues its slow approach. Jasnah’s heart is thundering in her chest, and no amount of logic can calm her down. What if it takes her back to that place of beads and darkness? What had she even done to escape that place, and could she do it again if needed?

Calm, Jasnah tells herself forcefully. I am a scientist. I am gathering information. This is an experiment, and there can be no failed experiments so long as they provide sufficient information to recontextualize or support previous findings.

The creature is close now. She regrets her decision to keep the lights off - previous viewings indicated there was a greater chance of the creature appearing in the dark, and in times of contemplation, but now she realizes that the visual cue of the lights dimming before she was thrust into Shadesmar will be of no use to her now.

Steeling herself, she slowly lifts her head. Although she steeled herself, it’s still a shock when her eyes find the creature. It is almost completely black, and its features look as though they have been chiseled from stone but never quite completed. It seems to be wearing armor, of the same color and texture as its skin. Its eyes are blindingly white in comparison.

Jasnah swallows. I will not show fear. “Hello. I am Jasnah Kholin, and I would like to speak to you.”

“I know.” The creature’s voice is smooth as its skin - his skin, because the voice is low and masculine. “We have been watching you. Curiosity is, for all of us.”

Hand flying across the page, Jasnah notes all this, including the strange turn of phrase. “Was it you who took me to Shadesmar on the night of my father’s death?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Are you a spren?”

“Yes.” He sounds almost satisfied.

Jasnah notes this down with the slight pride of a theory confirmed. Unfortunately, like most theories confirmed, this only prompts more opportunities for inquiry.

“What kind? Modern scholars have not recorded a type matching your description.”

The spren seems to falter for the first time. “I… am an inkspren. Ivory, you may call me.”

Inkspren. Her fear is beginning to recede, replaced by the cool clarity and the impetus of scholarly discovery. How long will she have with this spren? What information can she glean?

But something in her heart cracks open, and she finds herself asking instead, “Why have you been watching me?”

“We find you… interesting. We consider you a good candidate.”

“For what?”

The spren tilts his head in an almost humanlike gesture. The movement feels unpracticed, like he is being yanked around by a cruel puppeteer. “Jasnah Kholin, have you not been watching? Have you not been listening?”

Jasnah, who does not take kindly to condescension, simply leans forward with icy eyes. “ For what , inkspren?”

Light washes over Ivory’s strange dark form as he opens his hand to reveal several glowing spheres. He smiles, stretching his hand out towards Jasnah.

“For power, Jasnah Kholin. For Radiance.”

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Shallan can’t stop staring. A deadeye Cryptic. Her deadeye Cryptic. Testament is standing perfectly still, hands clasped placidly in front of her beautiful stone robes. Her pattern isn’t smooth, like those of the other Cryptics, and it’s almost painful to look at, with jagged lines that jut the wrong way and move disjointedly instead of Pattern’s smooth transitioning between shapes. Somehow, Testament’s robes look faded. How can stone fade like that?

I did this to her. Stormfather, I broke her.

I broke both of us.

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Where they search for Shalash, they will find only ruin.

This portrait is not her. Yes, there are her light violet eyes. There is her dark skin, and her fine brows, and her sharp chin. (It’s her father’s chin, really; she is hesitant to lay claim to anything anymore.) Yes, it is her visage staring at her with that slight frown. But the portrait is not her, not fundamentally.

There is only one thing that belongs to her now, only one thing that defines her. Destruction. She exists only to erase, to hate. And all these mirrors of her, the paintings and the statues and the artists who thought her worthy of reverence…

That is what she hates most of all. The fact that there are people who are, even now, thinking of her fondly. The fact that her true face and the face that is constantly reflected back at her through the eyes of others do not match. But she’ll make them match. Almighty, she’ll make them match.

Shalash, son of two dead men, Herald to only a broken world, draws her sword.

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Kholinar is fallen. The king is dead, finally, at Moash’s hand. How many others? a voice whispers in his head. How many innocent men, how many men who were doing their jobs, who believed they were justified?

It doesn’t matter. He’s succeeded.

So why doesn’t he feel as he should?

Where are his gloryspren, his joyspren? The ground is barren around him as he stands on the outcropping overlooking the conquered city. There are screams, still, and Fused moving this way and that in an attempt to impose order. From Moash’s outlook, they look like tiny cremlings scuttling about, so different from the towering, haughty figures that order him around every day. That makes him smile.

But where is his glory? Where is his joy?

And the thought that feels like a boot to the stomach, the thought he can’t avoid: where is Kaladin?

He’s fairly certain Kaladin is still alive. As long as he has Stormlight, he’s alive. This thought shouldn’t be as comforting as it is. Moash tells himself that it’s just because he wants Kaladin to experience the fall of Kholinar himself. He wants Kaladin to look up in abject despair, to realize that he was wrong. He wants Kaladin to see that humankind is, at its root, evil, that this is what happens when men aren’t held accountable. He wants Kaladin to suffer.

Most of all, though, Moash just wants Kaladin to be alive.

And that’s the root of the true pain.

He thinks about Kaladin more than he wants to - it seems that whenever he’s tired or angry (which is most of the time, lately) his mind strays back to his bridgeleader. The way Kal would tuck his wavy hair behind his ears when he was concentrating, and it would brush up against his neck. The grace with which he performed the simplest motions, like gesturing for someone to follow him. The easy way he held a spear, and the feeling of his strong hands on Moash’s shoulders as they worked on stances, and the way his eyes softened late at night when they spilled their secrets, just the two of them.

And when they kissed…

The shame of remembering those moments overrides the bittersweet nostalgia they bring, and so he forces his mind to replay the painful memories instead. Of course, every memory of Kaladin now is steeped in tragedy, but he fixes the truly bad moments in his mind, keeps his resentment burning bright in his chest. Kaladin’s jaw hardening as he pushed himself up to defend the king, on that fateful day when Moash was forced to leave the Plains. Kal’s eyes opening in shock when he saw Moash in Kholinar, and the scream that escaped his lips when Moash stabbed Elhokar. That scream almost makes Moash regret it.

There are tears running down his face, washing off the blood, and it feels like a betrayal. Where is his glory? Why doesn’t he feel relieved, or proud, or at the very least content? But the only feelings tightening his chest are bitterness and loss. Just like every other day.

Kholinar is fallen. Moash bows his head and hopes he becomes the next casualty of the war.

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“Kaladin, I’m boooooored.” Syl zips around Kaladin’s head, making herself as little as she can just for fun. “Let’s go flying.”

He doesn’t even look at her. “I’m busy, Syl. I can’t just go flying off any time I want to.”

She pouts. “Why not?”

“Because -”

“Because I’m grumpy and hate fun and also hate my spren,” she says in her best Kaladin impression, which she knows isn’t very good. It’s so fun though, and Kaladin’s face goes all red.

“I’m not grumpy, Syl. I just have things to do.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and flies away before he can give a response. Stupid, good for nothing Radiants. Luckily, she can have fun on her own. Other silly honorspren, like Phendorana, choose not to fly most of the time. There’s nothing stopping them, they just don’t want to! Isn’t that ridiculous? Why be boring and human-sized and hover right above the ground when you can zip around and have a good time? It doesn’t make any sense.

She’ll go find Rua. He and his Radiant both know how to have fun, and they’re a lot better at it than Kaladin. Rua is the good kind of honorspren, the kind that remembers their connection to their windspren cousins and likes to be mischievous like they are. Maybe he’ll have an idea for a prank they can pull. Last week, they’d stuck Teft’s boots to the ground while he was sitting down, and then waited until he went to stand up. It was so funny! Of course, Phendorana had given them a look, the type of look that Syl had seen mothers give their children when they were being naughty, but she doesn’t really care what the boring honorspren thinks of her.

Twirling in the air, she flies off to find her friend.

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Taken from the scholarly journal of Brightness Radiant, Kakakev 1174

My recent trip to the Rosharan Cognitive Realm (1), by way of the Urithiru Oathgate, has been quite illuminating. The purpose of this visit was to liaison with any Cryptics desiring to form a Radiant bond, and I am pleased to report success in that mission. The Knights Radiant under Dalinar Kholin has now added three Lightweavers to its ranks, as well as making three scholarly Cryptics very happy.

However, I find myself interested in a specific aspect of these new Cryptics, specifically the two females. Unlike Pattern, whose robes are straight and blocky, one of the two female Cryptics was adorned in a more ornamental dress with many facets. The design was very interesting and did not resemble any current styles that I am aware of.

The other female, however, wore robes similar to Pattern’s, although not identical. (For instance, her robe had a reasonable approximation of a safehand sleeve.) This causes me to believe that Cryptic clothing does not correlate directly to gender. (2) I have no skill with art, but perhaps later I will ask Shallan to create a depiction based on my observations. (3)

-

(1)This is Veil, and I’d like the record to reflect that I tried to get her to just write “Shadesmar,” but she refused. She was very snooty about it too. “ Veil, the world is larger than simply Roshar. I must provide a clear report for all who happen upon this document.” I can think of some words that would give Radiant a “clear report” on how I feel about her attitude, but even I can’t justify putting any of them down on paper where someone else might read them.

(2) Veil again - it’s more likely that Radiant simply doesn’t know everything about spren gender (even though she thinks she knows everything about everything, I live in the same head as her and I can assure you she does not).

(3) Ugh, I’ll be so storming happy once our wardship with Jasnah ends. Radiant is frankly becoming insufferable with her pretentiousness. Less than two months left, and then hopefully she’ll return to normal levels of snobbery. A woman can dream.

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The child is so small, so scrappy. From Kelsier’s vantage point on the roof, she barely even looks alive. All pointy elbows, ripped clothes, light feet as she darts through the crowd. Kelsier’s heart jerks uncomfortably. This girl is a Mistborn, even if she doesn’t know there’s a word for it yet. She’ll be instrumental to their plans. But that’s not the only reason he wants to save her.

Kelsier feels sorry for the poor girl, the kind of sorry that makes the rage in his chest reignite. They’ve done this to her - to skaa all around Luthadel and beyond - and he’s going to make them all pay. Every single one of the nobles will have blood on their pristine collars when he’s done with them.

The girl (Vin, her name is Vin) finds a quiet corner of the alley and tucks herself in, pulling in her scrawny limbs to make herself as small as she can. Kelsier can’t take the look of controlled terror on her face anymore - he Soothes her, just a little, quieting the feeling of panic that’s always so close to the surface. Her shoulders drop slightly, but she gives her head a little shake and grits her teeth in renewed determination.

In that moment, Kelsier knows. He knows that Vin might not survive the mission, he’s always known that, but in that moment he remembers with crystal clarity why he fights. Why his crew fights. Why Mare fought. To give these skaa children hope for something better, for a day when the sky is no longer red and the ash no longer falls.

A fantasy. But it lived in Mare’s heart, and now it lives in his. And this tiny, frail child - she might be the key.

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“Veil! Radiant!” Shallan grasps for relief, but both are silent, unresponsive. Panic grips her as the misty black figure gets closer. It’s her silhouette - it’s all darkness - 

In the dim light of Nomon, more figures solidify in her vision, hazy but distinct. Her brothers, covered in blood. Pattern, in his Shadesmar form, with his pattern broken and unmoving.

“Help me,” she whispers. “I don’t know what’s real.”

Nothing is real. And everything is. Formless swirls around her. They are going to die, Shallan. Maybe you’ll even be the one to kill them. At the rate you’re going, who will be next?

A light in the darkness. Her husband, bathed in a yellow glow, breaks through Formless’ fog. He reaches out his hand - 

Your darling Adolin?

And another Shallan, one who somehow feels more real than she does, steps in front of Adolin, slices her glowing blade straight through his chest.

“NO!”

Yes. This is what you were made for, Shallan. You’re a monster. She can feel Formless’ touch brush across her shoulders, and she shudders back, but it’s all around her. I am a monster.

“You…” She can barely breathe, and Stormlight streams out of her mouth with every gasp, lighting up the darkness with a hazy glow. “You are not me.”

Formless laughs. It’s a desperate, mocking noise, and it makes Shallan shy back against the wall. Of course I am! I am more you than you are. Radiant, Veil - they are illusions, but Shallan most of all. Who are you fooling? Not yourself, surely. Not me. 

We are the same.

“I know.” Shallan bows her head. “I don’t want to be.”

You cannot help it. It is in your nature, as a human. As a Voidbringer.

“I know.”

But you have a gift for inflicting suffering. You carry pain with you like a love song.

“I know.”

Surrender to me, Shallan. Formless kneels in front of her. Its eyes open wide, and pure white light streams out of them. Give up. If they’re going to die, don’t you at least owe it to them to die first?

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Navani’s hands are shaking. Why are her hands shaking? She’s not in pain today, or at least no more than normal, and she’s been coping without the painrials. She’s been fine. But now she’s getting unreasonably warm, and her heart is beating too quickly, and she can’t seem to calm herself down. It must be some new symptom of aging. Or a stress response. She won’t let herself consider the other possibility.

And yet. She can’t tear her eyes off of Raboniel’s sure hands as the Fused records their most recent observation in the notebook. Something about the way her marbled fingers hold a pen makes Navani’s heart clench painfully. Each sweeping line, precise but cramped -

Raboniel is saying something, and Navani snaps back with a start. “Apologies,” she says, hoping against hope that she managed to conceal her blush. Almighty knows she’s had enough practice at keeping her real feelings locked away, but Raboniel is an ancient being who seems to see through all of Navani’s obfuscations. “My focus drifted. Could you repeat that?”

Raboniel tilts her head, a small smile on her face. “Certainly,” is all she says, before delving into a new theory she had. Navani tries to listen, she really does. Something about the different frequencies of Voidlight and Stormlight. She can hear Raboniel’s rhythm, vaguely, although she can’t make out which one she’s attuning. The cadence lacing her words is, unfortunately, more absorbing than any scientific progress the Fused may be making.

“There was a mistake here.” Navani reaches to take the pen out of Raboniel’s long fingers, but the other woman’s hand lingers just a half second too long, and the touch sends a tangible shock up Navani’s arm. Finally, Raboniel relinquishes the pen and allows Navani to cross out a measurement and rewrite it below.

As she copies down the numbers, she wills her hands to stop shaking.

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“Rysn!” Cord’s booming voice echoes up through the ship. “Dinner is ready!”

“I’ll be right down!” Rysn takes one last breath of ocean air, then pushes her chair towards the ramp leading below deck. Cord comes bounding up the stairs, cheeks red from the heat of the kitchen, and scoops Rysn into her arms before the Thaylen woman can protest. She feels so safe in Cord’s arms, though, so she just giggles and allows herself to be carried down to their quarters.

The tiny table in the middle of the room is set with two bowls of spicy-smelling soup. Rysn hesitates before eating. “Is this… men’s food?”

“Food has no gender.” Cord rolls her eyes affectionately. “This thing, it makes no sense. Every lowlander tongue is the same amount unable to tell when food is good. Men tongue, woman tongue, they are the same.”

Rysn tilts her head and blushes at what her mind immediately jumps to as Cord mentions tongues. Her girlfriend laughs, a full sound from deep in her belly. “Rysn, do not have dirty mind. It is mealtime. You will ruin your appetite.”

They eat holding hands - Cord’s sturdy fingers cover Rysn’s slender ones completely. Rysn is overwhelmed, suddenly, by how lucky she feels - to be on her own ship, with her girlfriend, to be alive and happy during a Desolation. Because she is happy - she knows that without a doubt when Cord slurps her soup and lets out the least ladylike burp Rysn has ever heard, and then they both start laughing and can’t stop.

Rysn is grateful to be alive. It might seem like a low bar, but she’s had too many brushes with death to be anything but hopelessly happy for every moment the Almighty lets her keep living. And she’s grateful for her ship, and her wonderful crew, and her fabrial chair. Most of all, though, Rysn is grateful for Cord. Grateful that they get to experience this voyage together, and every voyage after.

Grateful to be in love.

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“Can you hear it?”

Navani taps out the rhythm on a drum, slow and soft, humming along as the rhythm thrums through her body like wings flapping on the wind.

“I… I think so. I’m not sure.” Renarin fiddles with his cube, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “What is it supposed to feel like?”

Navani sighs, and the sound stops. “I’m not sure how to teach this to you,” she says slowly. “Raboniel -” her voice catches in her throat, and Renarin tactfully pretends not to notice - “she made it seem almost easy. You slip into a state of being where you aren’t hearing the rhythm - you’re truly attuning it. It envelops you. It is in you, and all around you, and on your skin.” The first rhythm Raboniel taught her - Satisfaction - is in her still, buried somewhere in her sternum, and it comes out when coaxed. But it’s been smothered by a new one. The Rhythm of the Lost, the one she’s trying to teach to Renarin now. Maybe it’s not the best rhythm to start with, but it’s the only one she has now; it beats in her chest all the time, a second, heavy heart.

She can feel tears in her eyes, and so she forces herself back to the topic at hand. To Renarin, sitting so sweetly and attentively with that hope. “But us humans, we weren’t made to feel those things. The Rhythms are a gift for the singers. Perhaps we’ll never understand them.” Navani bites her lip, thinking against her will of all the questions she didn’t ask Raboniel. Not just about science or war, but about herself. Now she’s left to wonder what it felt like on Braize, how Raboniel had Essu. Who she had Essu with, if that’s even how it works. 

How it would have felt to press their lips together just once.

She shakes her head. “Perhaps it’s foolish to try.”

“No! We have to try.” Renarin drops the cube and takes his aunt’s hand. “I want to understand him. When he hums under his breath, I want to know what he’s really thinking. I want him to know how much I care.”

Navani’s mouth flattens as a lump rises in her throat. That’s what I wanted too.

“All right.” She places her safehand on her heart and her freehand on Renarin’s. Willing herself to push past the grief, to once again attune the Rhythm of Satisfaction even though she feels anything but satisfied. “Then listen.”

Chapter Text

“Shallan collected all these flowers today,” Adolin says with a grin. “I thought it would be fun to decorate my hair with them.”

“You look very pretty,” Kaladin whispers, like he’s afraid to say the words. But they make Adolin’s heart glow as Kaladin tentatively reaches up to run his fingers through Adolin’s hair.

“Do you want me to put some in your hair too?”

Kaladin’s hands still, and his eyes widen. Then he nods, and Adolin feels like jumping up and down from excitement. He stays still though because he doesn’t want to scare Kaladin away - the other man is in a strange quiet mood, but he doesn’t seem sad, just pensive. Content, almost, which is a rare mood for him. Adolin doesn’t want to ruin that.

Kaladin sits down, and Adolin walks behind him and carefully undoes the leather tie that’s holding his hair up. Now it’s his turn to delight in the feeling of running his hands through Kaladin’s hair, smoothing it out. “I’m going to braid it, if that’s okay.”
Kaladin nods again. Carefully, Adolin sections his thick hair into three parts and braids them loosely together, then ties it at the end. He pulls a few of the longer-stemmed flowers out of his hair and weaves them into the braid, careful to keep the flowers facing out. After a while, he steps back, surveying his handiwork.

“Okay, I’m done!” He leads Kaladin over to the mirror and lets the darkeyed man see for himself. Kaladin turns this way and that, draping the braid over his shoulder so he can see it better. When he turns back to Adolin, there’s a soft smile on his face.

“Thank you,” he says simply. “You made me beautiful.”

Chapter Text

“See? You take one of the stalks and loop it around, like this.” Kaladin expertly weaves the stalks together, pulling them tightly to make the brim of the hat. Szeth watches the other man’s hands, wide-eyed, with his sad attempt hanging loosely in his grip.

“I still do not understand why this is necessary,” Szeth says in his soft voice. “We are both Radiants. We cannot get burned by the sun.”

“It isn’t exactly necessary, ” Kaladin admits, “but it gives my hands something to do.” They’d run out of Stormlight a few hours ago, and were on their way to the nearest town to get more. He might as well do something vaguely useful in the meantime. Plus, making the hat gives him an excuse to look down at the project instead of into Szeth’s large eyes. He swears the assassin doesn’t blink, and his eyes have a creepy blankness. Kaladin would much rather look at his half-finished hat.

“Also,” Syl pipes up, swirling around them in a dizzying blur, “isn’t Shinovar full of farmers? It’ll be like - what’s that silly word for when men wear clothes to try to be invisible?”

“Camouflage.”

“Yes! It’ll be like that. The two of you will fit right in.”

“We will not fit in,” the other man says solemnly. “I am - I am believed to be - Truthless. You are Alethi, a stonewalker. We are both outsiders.”

Kaladin rolls his eyes. This again? Does Szeth have five phrases that he cycles through constantly?

“I want a hat too!” Nightblood says, obviously tired of not being included in the conversation. “I think I would look very stylish. I could destroy so much evil with a hat on.”

“Sword-nimi, you are a sword. How would you wear a hat?”

“On my hilt, obviously!”

“Hmmmm,” Szeth says, which is his response to nearly everything.

“You’re no fun,” Nightblood complains, which is its response to nearly everything.

“I can be fun!” Although Syl stays away from Nightblood, her figure solidifies into her young woman form, and she grows to the size of Kaladin’s hand. “Look!” She points to her head, where she’s added a bluish straw hat over her bluish hair.

“Very nice,” Szeth says admiringly. “You have great talent, Sylphrena.”

“I can do other hats too!” she says proudly. The straw hat fuzzes to mist and is replaced with an army soldier’s cap, then a patterned Azish hat, then a Purelake hat with a comically wide brim. “I’ve been practicing,” Syl says with obvious satisfaction.

Szeth glances at Kaladin, who shrugs. “Apparently this is what she does when she disappears for hours. She probably just sits in front of a mirror and stares at herself.”

“You would too if you were this beautiful,” Syl says with a smile. “I am a fragment of God. Mere mortals cannot compare.”

“I’m a piece of a god too!” Nightblood chimes in again. “Well, I think I am. I definitely ate a god once. He made me really full.”

Syl is torn about Nightblood - after all, it is a god-eating monstrosity, but it’s also fun. Way more fun than Kaladin. “Do you have any other stories about cool things you’ve eaten?” she asks tentatively.

Szeth groans quietly. “He will never stop talking now.”

That prediction is quickly proven correct, as Nightblood blabs on and on and on about its incredible evil-destroying powers, and someone named Vasher, and another world and other such nonsense. Kaladin tunes them out and starts on the second hat.

Chapter Text

Jasnah was too late. They tell her this compassionately, sympathetically. They tell her that Shallan had already lost too much blood by the time the king’s surgeons could reach her, that she was beyond saving. They tell her that the cut was too deep. And although they say it all with a valiant attempt at kindness, there’s blame and bitterness in their eyes. Jasnah led Shallan to this. And then she was too late to save her.

The world feels foggy around her as she turns and strides from the room with as much poise as she can muster. The ground tilts in front of her, and she stumbles. Dimly, she registers a master servant reaching out a hand as if to help her, but her icy glare turns him away.

Get to your rooms. It is the singular objective that guides her. No one will see her shed tears over her ward. No one will see her unfocused eyes or her uncoordinated movements as she forces her limbs to move as if they’re made of air.

In this moment, logic has betrayed her. It is tenuous as wisps of smoke as her mind tries to reach for something, anything, to grasp. Anything that isn’t Shallan. She sees the child in her hospital bed, face ghostly white, arms by her sides with palms tilted up like a prayer. Shallan’s lifeless eyes, so wide and blue and devoid of the curiosity or cleverness that always danced across her irises.

If only she’d bonded with a different spren, one that would grant her access to healing. Then she could have saved Shallan. Her powers are useless, cheap, in light of the dead girl in the king’s hospital. When people die, what use is forging crystal or metal or smoke? When people die because of you -

Jasnah is at the door, which feels almost like a miracle. She fumbles for her key. Her fingers don’t want to grip anything, but she forces them to obey. That’s the one thing she is truly good at, after all.

The first thing she sees when she enters her chambers is her desk, stacked high with notebooks and references and the dismal fruits of her last four years of scholarship. But somehow it doesn’t feel important anymore. She was too late to save Shallan. She will be too late to save the world.

The second thing Jasnah notices is the door to Shallan’s room. Servants have already cleaned away the blood, but Jasnah remembers exactly where it spilled. She doesn’t think she’s likely to ever forget.

She crosses the room, opens the door, without thinking. Her very soul seems to have separated into two parts, and neither of them are tethered to her body anymore. There’s a scream building somewhere in her chest, a painful march of memory, and the rest of her consciousness sees the world as if through a dark fog. Her body is impossibly light. When she sits down on Shallan’s bed, which the servants have neatly remade, she half expects the mattress to refuse to yield beneath her weight. She is nothing.

She is too late.

Chapter Text

Ledder walked a few paces behind Shallan and Adolin. Shadesmar was even more incredible than he remembered, with the glass bead landscape stretching out around the group as they wound their way down the Urithiru spiral. So many strange sights - floating candle flames, the Radiant spren in their humanoid forms, the strange chickens flying nearby. But despite all these wonders, his eyes kept returning to Adolin’s spren, Maya. This was his first time seeing her Shadesmar form, and despite Adolin’s descriptions, he was still surprised by the way Maya carried herself with a certain grace. Even with her slumped shoulders and her slow steps next to Adolin, there was a set to her jaw that made Ledder wonder if there was more to her than met the eye. Adolin certainly thought so, with the way he talked about her all the time. There was fondness in the way Adolin spoke about his sword, mingled with pride. It was almost like how you would treat a fellow soldier, someone who’d fought by your side for years.

Which, he realized, was true in a sense. Adolin had won Maya when he was young, and he’d been at war for the last seven years of his life. And even before that, he would have trained with Maya, dueled with her, spent as much time with her as he could like a proper lighteyed man. And Adolin was nice to everyone - Ledder had once seen him start talking to a fallen piece of shalebark, so it made sense that he would talk to his sword too. When he looked at it that way, their relationship made more sense. Maya truly was Adolin's battlefield companion.

Ledder found himself surveying her differently, not as a sword or a dead spren but as a person. True, she was a deadeye, but what did that really mean? She was probably smarter than at least half of the men in the warcamps - at least she knew when to keep her mouth shut. And she seemed to really care about Adolin. And... was that a military jacket she was wearing? It was difficult to make it out clearly, with all the rips and faded fabric, but it certainly looked like the cut of a uniform. I'm going to make an effort during this trip to get to know her better, he decided. She's probably lonely. And I'm sure she has interesting perspectives on Shadesmar.

Maya was quiet, yes, but that was fine with Ledder. He liked the quiet. He had a feeling that he and Maya would get along well in the coming weeks.