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Chapter Text

Everyone knew the story of Bridge Four. Nobody knew whether or not to believe it.

Among the ten warcamps nestled alongside each other on the Shattered Plains, the story of Bridge Four and their leader carried more intrigue than the supernatural Assassin in White. He jumped around on walls and had a Shardblade, yes, and this was very concerning.

But did a bridgeman really leap across a chasm? How did he lay waste to hundreds of Parshendi? And with a spear? Some on the battlefield when it happened remarked that he was even glowing. But delirious, freshly betrayed soldiers' stories were never to be taken seriously, and so most people didn't believe them.

Except there was little reason to doubt something so otherworldly now. Weeks after this impossible story came new ones from the Kholin warcamp, which existed at the center of all the drama. Where people feverishly waited for a fiery response from Dalinar Kholin, ready to aid in punishing Torol Sadeas' treachery, he had done other strange things that led others to consider that perhaps Sadeas knew something that the rest of them didn't.

He first began with a gemheart tax. Allegedly, this was the King's doing, but everyone knew Elhokar well enough that he couldn't have been bothered to consider such a thing.

There were also the fits he had during highstorms, where he babbled constantly of an impending doom. Despite all attempts to keep the existence of these fits private, enough of the staff in the palace were aware of what was going on. With those Dalinar trusted to talk about these fits, he described them to be 'visions,' and he would narrate them to his scribes. Unfortunately, these visions were meant to be taken seriously, because they could come true. Or something along the sort. Dalinar also suspected that they were memories of a doom that had already taken place.

In any case, he scribbled numbers on the walls that signified an impending doom. As it stood currently, there appeared to be two months until this "doom."

Finally, Dalinar, in conference with King Elhokar, expressed his desire to re-establish the Knights Radiant.

It was difficult to decide whether or not to take the Blackthorn seriously, since by this point and for these reasons, he didn't seem to have the mental capacity to lead a war. As he continued doddling around, some of the highprinces had come to the conclusion that perhaps Sadeas really was trying to do Dalinar a favor. At least dying on the battlefield would have kept him from hacking away at their traditions and culture with a blunted edge.

Which, of course, returns us to the bridgemen.

Chapter Text

Deep inside a chasm in the Shattered Plains, in an evening drowned in Nomon's white light, Bridge Four was one body in motion. For a moment, Moash wasn't a man, but a part of what was going to become this country's most powerful weapon.

He exhaled on a sweep downwards, where the spear's head was angled toward the ground behind him. On the next breath, he and the twenty seven other men of Bridge Four had spun their spears across their backs, letting the weapon weave its way across their arms until it was in their right fists. With the spear's head pointing towards the white moon, Moash and a few of the other men who weren't out of breath looked up at the sky from their little spot in the chasm. For the first time in a while, he smiled.

A few weeks ago, Kaladin assured the group that there was no need to trust Dalinar or any of the highprinces, for that matter. What mattered most was that if they were going to be here, safe from the risk of getting enslaved, then they needed to be self-sufficient. There was no guarantee about how life would treat them in the warcamps after one year, but one thing was for certain: with the way Bridge Four fought with the spear, there was no chance that any lighteyes would have their way with them again.

Moash stood in the second row between Lopen and another bridgeman whose name he never learned, pacing his breathing as he held the stance, waiting for the signal to break. His muscles ached, his feet were sore, and he blinked through the sweat dripping in his eyes, but he did not budge.

He'd always thought himself to be a fighter, until he met Kaladin Stormblessed, who was an insufferable thorn in his side. Even when he'd grown to find camradarie in the man, he'd always dreaded training with him. Every single movement Moash made, despite Kaladin assuring him he was a good fighter, was still flawed.

Eventually, it made sense. There was no arguing with someone who knew how to make warriors.

Kaladin's slow, deliberate footsteps crunched around them as he walked in front of the two rows, inspecting their forms. He was silent as he observed, and once he reached the last person in the second row, he'd walked to the front to face them.

"At ease," he said.

The uniformity finally broke, and the men lowered their spears and relaxed their shoulders. They'd still kept the trained habit of standing with their feet in partial stonestance, as Kaladin had shown them once. This time, nobody tossed their spears to the ground, which saved them from another lecture about 'respect for the weapon.'

"You aren't the caged animals you used to be," he spoke. His voice was magnified by the chasm walls, crisp with little echo. "In each of you I can see the warrior that the world tried to destroy, and you've brought him back to life. You must protect that warrior no matter what.

Whether we like it or not, the other bridge crews look to Bridge Four as an example. The ones who stayed did so because we did. And I think you're all good enough teachers that you can lead the men among them. Show them what they can do when they're in a world that finally sees them as people."

Moash sighed and felt a nudge in his ribs from Lopen.

"Don't let him hear you," he said.

"As long as I don't have to teach any new recruits," he said. "I'm still not where I want to be." Moash ran a hand over the end of the spear, turning the point in his hand.

"You seemed like you knew what you were doing."

"Not enough," he said. "You ever seen Kal when he does it? I want that."

"You're gonna be down here forever then. He was a soldier before all this, you know."

He felt a flash of irritation. "So was I," he said, controlling his voice.

Lopen scoffed, only for Moash to sharply meet his eyes. "It's not the same though. Come on."

Moash shoved his hand off his shoulder, and Lopen gasped in mock offense.

"Lopen, stop making noises," Kaladin said.

The row of heads in front of them parted to show Kaladin's stern, disapproving expression. "Were you even listening?"

"Yeah, captain!" he called, then raised a fist.

Kaladin blinked once, then returned to his talk without missing a beat. He was going over the week's schedule, but most of it wouldn't apply to Moash. He was on special guard duty with Kaladin and Skar, which meant that he was responsible for guarding Dalinar and his family. He didn't have a choice in that either, which mattered little. Choices were a luxury afforded to a few.

When Kaladin dismissed them, the men had climbed out of the chasms on rope ladders, which Lopen remembered to bring. Once they were above the ground in dry air underneath endless skies, Moash squared his shoulders and walked with his chin up.

In one of the handful of lectures he'd already gotten from Kaladin since they began working for the Kholins, one thing he'd said had always remained with him. It was the simple reminder that now, Moash was a soldier. At first, he thought it to be another call for mindless obedience, since that's what they were known for.

He looked up at the darkeyes in the watchtowers outside the warcamp as they saluted the returning bridgemen. Though they weren't supposed to show any emotion, those soldiers wore broad smiles.

No more fighting like a caged animal, he told himself as they walked through the gates.

The life of a bridgeman was a long drawn out process of a person being whittled away at until he became a dull block, just functional enough to be used as cobblestone. Then, he'd been assigned a crew where a fine fighter was carved out of each man.

He was not cornered and defanged like he once was. It would be satisfying, yes, to win every battle against every petulant lighteyes. The moment Moash was born he'd been fighting battles he'd never been able to win, and he attributed this to his lack of things. It was always a lack of weapons, a lack of support, or lack of a light eye color, or something that would have given him a fighting chance. He'd matured since this. The most important thing about about a battle wasn't about who got to be on the offensive.

What truly mattered was how he'd react, and a well timed parry could be just as deadly as the first strike. And if everything worked out in Moash's favor, it would.

-------

Kaladin stared at the treasure in his hands.

The light of an oil lamp in the wall burned in the small room, casting everything in a dim orange glow. His uniform's coat hung over the cloak bearing the Kholin family seal on the door.

He sat hunched over the stool, turning over the black boot in his hands. The left one stood at his feet. His hair fell slowly, lock by lock, in a curtain over the sides of his face.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here. Of all the new changes he’d experienced since coming to Dalinar’s warcamp, he’d expected wearing the captain’s uniform to be the most uncomfortable.

He didn’t expect to be sitting in the dark entranced by boots.

The material was some incredibly sturdy leather, still yet to be marred by wrinkles or creases. Kaladin turned the boot to one side, following the shine as it ran down the heel to the tip.

Then, a blue light appeared over him, barely brighter than the oil lamp. Syl.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.

“I will.”

“Really? You look like you’re trying to become furniture.”

Kaladin observed the bottom, now tinted blue with Syl’s light. The sole was carved for maximum grip, with grooves and cuts at different depths. Today he felt it as he walked around in them. He felt sturdier than he thought was possible.

In a past life, these were perfectly ordinary features.

“Kaladin,” Syl said, flying around his head as she tried to get his attention.

He sat up, still holding onto the boot.

“How long do you think these would have lasted on a bridge run?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Why are you asking about that?”

Kaladin took the cloth on the table next to him and polished the sides of the boot before setting it down. He’d polished the left one already.

“Everyone’s waiting for you.”

Kaladin scoffed. “I thought you hated lies.”

“I’m not lying,” she said, floating down to the table. Syl folded her arms as she looked up at him. “I’m exaggerating.”

“Some humans also consider that lying.”

Though in this case, Syl did have a point. He stood up, hearing only the creak of the stool over the gentle pitter-patter of the rain beating against the windowpane.

Kaladin looked to the blue longcoat, hanging against the door, and lifted it from the hook. He slid into it easily enough. But still felt like he was wearing a costume. He was made a leader, but that could only mean so much. When would he make a misstep and feel the familiar tightness of the leash around his neck again?

He looked back at Syl on the desk, still observing him silently. If he lingered here longer, she'd start asking questions.

Kaladin put on the boots, relishing how snug they fit. He even found himself noticing the workmanship that extended to the insides; the hardy sole, the toe guards on the inside. The warmth.

He opened the door with a breath.

It shut behind him on an exhale.

Syl followed him as a spot of white-blue light as he walked to the fire pit of the Bridge Four barracks.

He couldn’t remember the boots he wore as a squadleader. But he remembered the cheap leather wraps bound around his feet. The feeling of them coming slowly undone with each run. The jagged rock digging into the exposed parts of his soles. The cold, rain-slicked ground. There was little difference between having and not having them. He couldn’t get rid of the memory of that feeling as he walked, expecting to land on a pebble or a crack in the ground or a wooden splinter.

He raised a hand in greeting to the eating bridgemen, sitting around the fire, and they raised their bowls or cheered at him. It was chilling in its own way to look at their jubilant faces. It was wrong to call them animate corpses; especially with the way they'd trained that evening. But there was little stopping his mind from slipping back into the bridgeleader's, bracing for the worst.

Rock stood at the fire, serving a line of men with a new concoction. His bright orange hair and beard were barely outmatched by the firelight. He’d taken the importance of raising the men’s morale with food seriously, considering there was something new at almost every mealtime now. Kaladin smiled at the sight.

“You're here!” Rock said once it was Kaladin’s turn.

“Thanks for leaving some for me,” he said, taking the bowl.

Rock patted his apron that he wore over the uniform. It didn’t serve much, considering the sleeves were still heavily splattered with orange stew splashes. Kaladin would have to say something about that soon or else Leyten was going to have a fit. “This one is not Horneater.”

Kaladin looked at the swirling chunks of crab in the stew. “Then what is it?”

“Don’t ask. Try.”

“It’s delicious!” Lopen called from his spot in a circle near the line. He held up an empty bowl.

“Rock, you are using what’s in the kitchens, right?” Kaladin asked.

“Ha!”

He looked at him, waiting for an answer that wasn’t that. But Rock invited Lopen over with his ladle raised, signaling the end of the conversation. Kaladin took a step back, watching all the men sitting in their groups around the fire, engaged in their own animated conversations.

Kaladin sat closer to the fire, somewhat distant from everyone as he took a bite of his stew. It was spicy and it had crab. He squinted at it. What made it not Horneater?

His thoughts were interrupted by raucous laughter approaching the fire pit. Kaladin looked up to see Moash flanked by Drehy and Sigzil as they approached the gate to the barracks. They were also greeted with cheers and raised bowls.

Moash walked between them, comfortably in his uniform. He'd always stood tall and walked with strong self-assuredness. It was the kind of strength that was useful in a soldier, but threatening in a darkeyes. It was ever more so since he'd always had a constant challenge in his expression.

Kaladin raised his bowl at them once they got close enough. Drehy and Skar returned the greeting with either a crossing of their arms over their chests, or a small salute.

Moash nodded up at him as the three of them went to get stew. Then, they returned to join Kaladin at his spot.

“How was patrol?” Kaladin asked.

“We didn’t run into any assassin-like activities so I’d say it was good,” Drehy said before taking a big bite. Kaladin was now grateful he'd gotten the reports from Bisig earlier.

“I saw something funny on the way back,” Moash said. He set his bowl aside, propping himself up by his palms. A smile played at his face. “One of Aladar's officers got into a fight with one of the guys from the King's Guard."

Kaladin pursed his lips.

Drehy chuckled. “I heard. What was it about?”

“Apparently the one from Aladar bought up all the fancy ale from the good pub," Moash said. "One of the King's Guard just told him to stop hoarding it. I don't remember."

“Was this officer Rime?” Kaladin asked.

“Probably. But you should have seen his face. It was great,” Moash said with a sigh before picking up the bowl.

“Moash, that’s one of our officers. It’s not a good look to laugh at them while they can see you.”

“That’s one of Dalinar’s officers,” he corrected before taking a bite. He swallowed, not budging under Kaladin’s disapproving gaze. “I didn’t even say anything this time.”

He didn’t bother with a response. That sounded better than what Moash had done last time, practically threatening an officer that had asked about how Kaladin and the bridgecrew were able to save Dalinar and his forces.

If they were outside of the camp, Kaladin wouldn't have had an issue with Moash's challenge. But things weren't the same as when they were bridgemen. Now they had something to lose. Part of having the ability to make choices now was that they could pick their battles. They could let slide insulting comments if it meant that Dalinar wouldn't let those officers order them around. And if the rest of the bridgemen became as cohesive of a unit as Bridge Four, then no lighteyes would be a threat. Ideally speaking, of course. With lighteyes, there was no telling what could happen.

"Sigzil's looking for you, captain," Ronis, one of the older men of Bridge Four said before joining the line beside them for stew. The squat fellow nodded up towards Sigzil, who was now arriving through the small gate with a small stack of papers at his side.

"Thanks," Kaladin said. He finished off the last bite of stew and set it in the stack on the dishcart by the line. Sigzil stood by the entrance, just off to the side away from the lively chatter of the bridgemen, where Kaladin finally joined him.

"I finally got permission from the ardents sir," Sigzil said in a hushed voice. He held up the thin stack of papers, written mostly in women's script. From the few glyphs in the title, he made out the words RESTORATION and MAINTENANCE.

Since the moment they'd arrived at the camp as guards, Sigzil had put all his efforts into gaining access to the ardentia's archives. The process had taken more time, given that he wasn't Vorin, but his reasoning (as he'd explained to Kaladin in another conversation consisting of hushed whispers) was to understand the nature of "Radiance." This would allegedly help them understand his abilities better.

Kaladin didn't consider what he did at the Tower of Narak to be radiant. He'd spent most of his time alone trying to give what he did at the Tower a name. The closest he'd gotten was desperate, but it still wasn't exactly right. He was desperate during the side-carry operation, where he had Bridge Four hold the bridge on its side during a run in hopes of shielding themselves from arrows. He was desperate when he'd made the plan to steal the dead Parshendi's armor during a chasm excursion, despite the open protest of their only parshman bridgeman, in another attempt to protect themselves. Knowing the reason behind these actions made them easier to digest.

There were many ways to describe what happened at the Tower, and Kaladin knew none of them. The desire to give it a name kept him up for nights on end.

"I haven't read too far into this yet, but so far everything seems to line up with what Teft was saying."

"You also think 'they're' back?" Kaladin asked, not bothering to hide the derision in his voice.

"It's hard to say, but there's no doubt that what you did is what's described in here," he said. "A lot of it is missing, but it contains information on the different abilities the old Radiants used to have. We can use this to understand what you can and cannot do."

"That sounds like it'll be useful then," Kaladin said with a glance at the palms of his hands. For the past few weeks when it was just Kaladin and the small group of men from Bridge Four, they'd been aimlessly testing his abiliies to make any sense of them. Unsurprisingly, they hadn't gotten far. "What have the others been saying? About what happened?"

"They still think it was a combination of luck and extraordinary skill, sir."

"Oh. Good."

Bridge Four knew the truth for the most part, and they had all agreed to keep Kaladin's abilities secret. He wasn't sure about telling the others yet. A growing, cautious part of him held that they would have to earn that trust first. He knew the twenty seven men of Bridge Four, but did not know the thousand others who followed nearly as well. It would have been naive to think they were all partners in arms without considering what motivated them to join besides escaping slavery.

"I'm not sure how long they'll believe that for though," he said. "Ronis and Beld talked about how they saw your eyes glow and how the wind blew and the light everywhere—you know how they talk. I don't even think I saw half of what they were describing. But it doesn't matter since now there are other bridgemen suspecting the same things as Teft."

"We can leave that to superstition then," he said.

"Except, sir, that risks them seeing you as some sort of divine figure."

Kaladin grunted. "Then we'll just train that out of them. They've seen me long enough by now. I barely understand how to use this-" he gestured to the air, poorly indicating the Stormlight abilities,"-properly. Maybe it's a good thing it's taking so long. They might get bored."

But Sigzil shook his head. "The days of boredom are gone, sir." The pair of them looked at the men of Bridge Four sitting in groups around the fire with stew in their hands. Above the fire and the barracks, the harsh silhouette of the King's Palace was carved in the horizon. "We are at the start of very interesting times."

Chapter Text

Moash remembered the first time he'd seen King Elhokar.

All the evil, conniving troublants he had pictured for the past six years had vanished and were replaced with the real image of a blond man slouching in a tall chair, bored and irritated. The left armchair's ornamentation had been damaged by fingernail scratches that matched Elhokar's fidgeting patterns. In the first five minutes that Moash stood in that room, frozen at the sight of him, the King had waved away two different attendants who had brought him trays of drink (they were too cold).

In addition to Kaladin, Skar, and Moash being put in charge of watching the King, Elhokar also had the Cobalt Guard; an even smaller group of lighteyed soldiers who'd earned Dalinar's trust over the years. This meant that they were working together regularly, which also meant they had to be extra careful about their behavior. Otherwise they risked another lecture from Kaladin.

Thankfully, he wasn't here to monitor them. This afternoon, Moash and Skar were the lead guards on duty during another meeting between Elhokar and two highprinces who had agreed to discuss the controversial gemheart tax.

In this simple meeting room, Moash noticed in a middle of a stupor, everything was carved. The large meeting table at the center, the curtain rods. Even the arms of the couches against the walls were carved into curling waves that resembled the edges of Shardblades. Tucked between the empty gaps between waves were sparkling gems worth more than Moash had ever made in his life. They tinted the room with their light, shining in various shades of pink and red.

Clerks, scribes, accountants, and other people with unfamiliar titles decorated what was otherwise a very simple discussion between three men of varying egos.

Highprince Roion and his people took up the left side of the meeting table facing the King's desk, which was on a raised platform looking over the rest of the room. Besides Roion, Highprince Vamah and his people took up the right.

Adolin and other similarly ranked lighteyes from either Roion's or Vamah's camps sat on the far left side of the room. As far as Moash knew, they were just there to represent a party of their respective houses. For the most part they just listened. The scribes, accountants, and clerks all wrote their own relevant notes. When the highprinces and Elhokar weren't speaking, the room was filled with the sounds of scribbling pens on parchment.

Elhokar's nose twitched during Roion's rambling about something. He couldn't have looked more bored.

"If this were a year long war, perhaps certain extremes would be reasonable, given the time frame. But we're approaching almost a decade on this wasteland. We can't sustain our armies on soulcast grain and expect that's going to be sufficient," Roion said. "Economies are like gardens, Your Majesty. We can't just apply haphazard measures to maintain it."

From Moash's corner in the right side of the room, he saw a couple of the lighteyes behind Adolin exchange glances.

"We're not supposed to be here maintaining gardens, officer," Elhokar said. "We're supposed to be winning."

A few heads turned at the table as murmurs moved back and forth.

Vamah rose. "If I may, Your Majesty. We would win more if the armies were supported more effectively. Gemhearts allow us to do this since they can be exchanged for proper resources."

Elhokar narrowed his eyes. "Are you suggesting I haven't supplied our armies properly?"

Vamah spluttered, but was eventually able to get out "No, Your Majesty."

"Hm!" Elhokar leaned back in a huff. He turned to the scribes on his left.

The one nearest him, a woman with fancy gold ornaments in her black hair, pointed to something on the page and shook her head.

"You're sure?" he said aloud, despite the scribe speaking in hushed whispers. She nodded.

Moash gripped his spear tighter. For a moment, he spared a long glance at the ceiling, wishing it were the sky instead. How much of a traitor was he to his family, standing here like this in a uniform?

The first time Moash had seen King Elhokar, he'd never looked away. He wanted to know the face of the man who changed his life and commit it to memory. Yet every day after, he grew less and less interested in analyzing him. It was comical how hollow of a man he was and how much time Moash spent trying to see what was wrong with him.

It was a simple lesson Da had taught him. A man will always show who he is in his actions. His circumstances only make it easier to see.

So now he stared at the walls and the people looking at him, wondering what lighteyes looked like when they were set off by the King.

"The tax is supposed to be a reminder of why we're here. If it displeases you, simply stop hunting chasmfiends in the middle of a war to protect our name."

"If you desire focus from us, then why haven't there been stricter measures with Highprince Sebarial?" Vamah said. "The last four Liaforan diplomats have passed through only his camp and that was just for his menageries."

Now Moash looked to the podium, only to see Elhokar frowning. He looked out the corner of his eye at the scribes beside him, who continued to write without a glance in his direction. He cleared his throat when it seemed no help was coming.

"Sebarial doesn't hunt chasmfiends," he said simply.

Vamah's contingent burst into a mess of displeased murmurs and whispers. Moash noticed Adolin lower his head in clear embarrassment.

"Yes, he just puts on circuses for whatever caravan passes through," Vamah retorted.

Elhokar's eyes widened in unabashed offense as he leaned forward, and Vamah relaxed his posture. Across the room, Skar's head was bowed, but still rose in tiny bobs as a result of hiding what was silent laughter.

"Well he's not here to complain to me uselessly," Elhokar snapped. "The tax stays. The sooner we end this war, the quicker we can get back to Alethkar."

Roion shook his head. "Your Majesty, the people are already calling this place on the Shattered Plains New Alethkar. They don't see this war ending anytime soon."

"They're making fun of you. Once you all stop your squabbling and think like soldiers, it certainly will," he said. The room grew alive with more discontented comments, all blending together. Elhokar hushed the clamor by rising from his seat. The red light from the gems in the ceiling shone harshly over his blond hair. "What else did you want to bring to my attention?" he demanded, though somehow it just sounded like the end to the conversation.

Roion cleared his throat. "That was all, Your Majesty."

In the silence that followed, scribes diligently recorded the rest of the interaction, and the other decorations recorded their findings.

Moash crossed the back of the room to the ornamented doors to escort out Highprince Roion's contingents, who were the first to rise. As they walked out, a couple of the lighteyed women in the group huddled together, away from Moash. He caught a few murmurs of them being shocked, shocked that those 'new' guards were still here. He returned their fearful looks with a poorly suppressed yawn.

As the rest of the guests were being escorted out, Moash heard an ongoing conversation between Elhokar and the scribe with the golden ornaments in her hair. Adolin remained at his seat, watching the conversation.

"…yes, but that's not what Highprince Kholin was saying," said the scribe to the visibly annoyed King. His other group of guards had now arrived from the hallway. They stood behind him, stern-faced and emotionless.

"Legally it doesn't matter what he says. I still hold the final say."

"He still developed the gemheart tax with us in the end, Your Majesty," she said, holding up a stack of papers written in glyphs. How much of it had she understood? "Some of what you told them was inaccurate according to the codes."

"Enough of this! I will decide on its execution. If Kholin has a problem, he'll come to me," he said. "It's not like anything ever stopped him from doing so."

He dismissed the scribe, and she joined the group of other decorations walking out the door. Adolin cut through the group and ended up next to her as she passed through the door, looking stubbornly ahead.

"Come on, Danlan," he said, following her out into the bright, sunlit hallway. He reached out for her arm, only for her to pull it away.

"Please!" he said. "Really, it's not you, it's—"

"—I know it's not me," she spun around to face him in the middle of the passing crowd. "I can't believe you. Why do you think any of this would be my fault?"

Adolin scratched at the back of his head. "Something about sharing the burden. It's an old saying but I don't remember all of it. You've heard of it—you're smart."

Danlan rolled her eyes and moved past the prince as she headed in the opposite direction towards the eastern gates. Adolin joined the crowd going west, but not without an apologetic look in her direction.

Moash turned his attention back to the Cobalt guard. He made eye contact with one of them—a stocky, balding man with pale green eyes.

"Where'd you guys come in from?" he asked.

"King has entrances and exits for the Guard," he said.

"Yeah, I know. Which one did you use?"

"I can't tell you without getting permission from His Majesty," he said.

"He's my boss, too," Moash said.

The man's shoulders slouched, as if he was already tired. He held up a hand. "I can't tell you until he says I can tell you."

"Stormleavings," he said. "You can tell me now."

The Cobalt officer shook his head, feigning regret. "I'll ask the King for you and—"

"—And what?" Moash asked. "You're gonna let me know?"

"Yes."

"Like the last time?"

The man's nose wrinkled.

Moash looked up at the Cobalt guards surrounding Elhokar as he descended from his high seat. He moved past the soldier, only for him to grab Moash's arm from behind.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"Doing my job," Moash spat, pulling his arm away.

"The King's Guard is alread—"

"—Your Majesty," Moash called. He felt something twist in his stomach when he used the title, but he suppressed it. "Which way are you leaving?"

The few Cobalt Guard soldiers that weren't staring at him broke out into murmurs amongst themselves.

Elhokar didn't reply, either because he was distracted facing the other way or it was beneath him to give a response. Regardless, Moash followed after the guards to the armchairs lined against the wall.

A soldier pushed aside one of the cushioned chairs, then pressed a gloved hand on the stone behind it.

A tall, oval frame was finally made visible in the stone as he pushed, and a door materialized in the shadows. The soldier pressed his weight against the door and pushed it to the right, slotting it into the wall.

He felt a hand grip his shoulder. Moash spun around to be met with Skar behind him, and he stepped out from his grip.

"Let them take care of it," Skar said under his voice. "My knees hurt."

"Did you know about that door?" Moash asked.

"Now I do. Come on. Captain's waiting."

Moash followed after him. They left the red lit meeting room, their posts already taken up by new guards.

The pair walked down the wide hallway, flanked by tall windows (also ornate, and also carved) on each side. It gave them a good view into the gardens that surrounded the palace.

The hallway buzzed with the organized chaos of changing shifts. The swishing of havahs going in different directions mixed in with the barked orders from guards placed at different places in the hall. One of the entrances had been blocked off as the King was leaving the building.

"You need to be careful," Skar said as a pair of ardents passed them.

"I don't c—"

"—I know you don't, but you won't deal with what happens when things go wrong," he said. "Kal will. Dalinar's already talked to him a few times."

Moash sighed. He was right. That was what made this all the more frustrating.

"Also, you don't have to stay, you know that?" he said. "It's a fun life to just travel and scam tomuans out of their money. Better than being around here all day."

"You said you had a family, right?" Moash asked.

His expression softened. "Yeah," he said. "They were happy about the news, so I decided to stay. But you, you're free. I wouldn't say anything if you took one of those horses and went out west to those darkeyed settlements."

Moash looked ahead at the winding stairs in front of them. The handles were made of gold and were inlaid with rubies. The tile was white and freshly polished.

"And leave Bridge Four behind?" he said, figuring it was a good enough response.

It must have been, since Skar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man. We'll probably get more done up here than we will running around in a bunch of camps. Just keep your head down for now."

Moash had no response, as this is what he'd known to be true his whole life. He walked with his chest up and the grip on his spear tight.

༄.°

Since the moment the bridgemen donned the Kholin blue uniforms, they'd been received with mixed reactions from the people in Dalinar Kholin's warcamp. They may have been officially part of the Royal Guard, but none of the lighteyes in charge, nor the scribes, the clerks, or any other important person, had called them by their titles. It didn't help either that the bridgemen still referred to themselves as bridgemen, for some odd reason.

They did a fine job guarding the royals under Kaladin's leadership, but it was still uncomfortable for everyone involved—uncomfortable being the politest way to put it. Tradition taught that everything, and everyone, had its place; black and white. But the bridgemen's presence created muddying, unpleasant shades of grey in the most simple of places.

For example, the royalty, namely Dalinar's sons, trained in the lighteyed training grounds. The bridgemen were permitted to be there, but in the same way an axehound was cautiously permitted to enter the house. During these shifts at the training grounds, training lighteyes along with their equipes looked at them with suspicion if they weren't focused on their practice.

According to many of the lighteyes, the tightly run Kholin camp began to lose whatever pride it had left with the presence of these bridgemen. Sure, they hadn't committed any crimes (at least, violent ones), and they may have saved the highprince and his army, sure, but they were quite unpleasant. Their leader, Kaladin, rarely smiled. The ones he chose to guard the King himself rarely spoke to others. A few of the ardents on duty remarked that even pretending to show a bit of gratitude would make things more pleasant for everyone, but it wasn't their place. Allegedly, the bridgemen were to answer only to Dalinar and the King, if that wasn't unbelievable enough.

But there were stories to last an epoch among the bridgemen about how life was for them. The stares, the gibes, the constant suspicious glares from passing lighteyes when any of them were in the palace. The lack of important information or updates from their lighteyed counterparts who didn't believe they were supposed to be there. There was little reason to speak to people who clearly didn't want to speak to them. In the case of Kaladin, there was little reason to smile when Prince Adolin, one of the people he was supposed to guard, regularly referred to him as 'bridgeboy' and took any opportunity he could to remind him of his so-called place.

But hope remained strong among the bridgemen, and especially Bridge Four. Dalinar believed in them, and Kaladin was leading them. As long as they kept diligently at their work, then there was a chance that things would get better for them.

༄.°

"I have a good idea."

Moash and Drehy turned, for some reason, to face Lopen.

This afternoon, Moash was in the lighteyed training grounds replacing someone, which led to Skar pulling a double shift with the King. With how few bodies there were for what Dalinar wanted, Kaladin was constantly shuffling them around like pieces on a gameboard.

This shift wasn't very interesting, but it was less of a headache. All he had to do was make sure nobody purposefully stabbed Adolin or Renarin during the sparring. The trainers and Shardbearers had their own rhythm, and Moash and Drehy just had to protect it. He wasn't as particular about preventative measures like Kaladin was, constantly checking the expressions of every face in the arena. Made him look paranoid. Moash just liked taking care of things before they got really bad. Plus, doing that kind of thing only made him look more suspicious than he already did to them.

Lopen set down the fighting dummy and went up to the pair standing idle by the gates. He normally wasn't supposed to be here, but he'd taken advantage of the sudden change in schedules to combine the shift he would have spent sorting through dummies with another where he stood watch.

"We're not using these uniforms right, jaanan."

Moash's eyebrows furrowed. "What are you getting at now?"

Lopen looked over his shoulder with all the subtlety he would manage. "There's a tavern in the center ring that all of the officers go to. I don't remember the name, but we should go."

Drehy nodded up at one of the Cobalt guard soldiers on the other side of the grounds. "Go ask him then."

"Come on. That's not what I mean."

"I know what you mean. I'm just trying to save you before you get us all in trouble."

"They have laddi!" he hissed. "Moash, you know laddi?"

"Sounds important."

"It is important," Lopen said. "Where else on the Shattered Plains do they have the world's greatest drink?"

"That's what you want to go to the lighteyed tavern for?" Moash asked. "You can't just make it?"

"Why?"

"I guess it's hard with the one arm," Drehy mused.

"No, forget that," he said. "You don't think we've earned it? A spot in the center? It's the least we could get for everything we've done."

Moash and Drehy made sounds of unsurety.

"I don't want to deal with more of them," Moash said.

The sounds of wooden blades striking each other and the swordmaster's comments after each strike filled the lull in conversation. "What happens when the bar workers don't buy your argument?" Drehy asked after the few minutes of watching them spar.

"There's no point worrying if they don't even notice us," Lopen said. "We're invisible to them."

The clattering of weapons on their left had taken them all out of the conversation, only for the three of them to look up at Shen coming out of the weapons shed.

It was as if the air had suddenly turned thin. Moash stiffened as the parshman walked across the training grounds. As always, he wore an empty expression underneath those strange skin markings resembling dark, purple-red veins. Allegedly, parshmen were born with those. They weren't like the tattoos that some of the Iri people gave their children at birth. As far as Moash knew, those markings were closer to slave brands.

Shen silently placed the damaged wooden swords in the wagon near the shed, and he returned in the same fashion back inside.

Moash noticed a pitiful frown on Drehy's face that quickly vanished when he made eye contact.

"You wanna invite him?" Lopen joked.

Drehy scoffed. "Aren't you supposed to be helping him?"

"Technically he's helping me."

"He was assigned there before you," Moash said.

"Yeah. What else is he supposed to do, jaanan?"

"Maybe he'd be good for target practice," Drehy said.

Lopen sucked on his teeth. "That wouldn't surprise me if he got assigned that. You shoulda seen the captain when we were in the chasms. He does not like these people."

"I could tell when he leaped the chasm," he muttered. "It was like lightning the way he struck them down."

Moash straightened his posture again and faced the sparring grounds. He looked too comfortable again.

He hadn't known much about parshmen. There were few that travelled on their own and he hadn't met them. The ones he'd seen were the stereotypical, silent servants with the skin markings following after their masters. Nobody cared to talk to them, and they didn't dare talk to anyone.

If anyone were to consider leaving, it ought to have been Shen. But if someone like Moash had no choices, then what did that make him?

"He did what he had to do," Moash said quietly as he watched the princeling match off against one of his friends.

The shift went as well as it could have; the princelings didn't get stabbed and nobody noticed Moash smirk when Zahel called one of them an idiot in the middle of a match.

Later that evening, when Moash was eating his dinner at one of the benches surrounding the fire, he caught bits and pieces of the conversations of the various bridgemen around him.

"Got me scheduled twice for the same stormcursed grounds—"

"—He don't know a thing about respect, I'll tell you—"

"—said my form was still piss poor after I did it for an hour. Who said I was a stagan fighter?"

It was tough. If it wasn't the lighteyes they worked for, it was the darkeyes they worked under.

For all the complaining that Moash had heard either about the royals or Kaladin, he was surprised to have not seen as much tension among the bridgemen. It was mostly about knowing what not to bring up. Alethi said nothing about Alethkar to the non Alethi, and among the Alethi, it looked like everyone was smart enough to not bring up Demetas, Yino, Rathalas, Korendan, Pittany, and Alasha. This made for good relations.

Kaladin and Teft had been working with the runt bridgemen in the chasms for the past couple of weeks, trying to mold soldiers out of clay that hadn't even finished setting yet. It was pitiful how young those boys were and where they'd ended up. Having them train under those two was a unique torture for them, but also a waste of Kaladin and Teft's time. Except Kal wouldn't hear that kind of thing. It was one of the things that frustrated Moash the most about him when they were on the crews. There was potential, and then there were liabilities.

A stack of papers landed next to him.

Then Sigzil quietly sat on the other side of it, holding a cup of steaming something in his hand. He pressed the cup against his forehead, then let out a slow, quiet sigh.

"Are you still reading that stuff?" Moash asked, frowning at the title. He couldn't read most of it. His women's script vocabulary started and ended with food, countries, and horse breeds.

"This one is my fourth book. It's useless," he said. "I mean no offense, of course. For my purposes it—"

Moash waved a hand. "'s fine. The closest I ever got to Vorinism was being born in a town with a temple."

"Oh. Well, they have an issue with historical biases," he said. "At first I was skeptical because of how the Parshendi were described, but my assumptions were only confirmed when I read the accounts of the Reshi tribes. They were described here as slow to adapt to their environment, but were able to advance with Alethelan tools."

"That doesn't sound completely outrageous to me."

"Perhaps because you grew up in a town with this temple, Moash," he said. "Sailing is part of the Reshi culture. They're very arrogant about it."

"Sounds like you like them."

Sigzil cleared his throat. "Excuse my generalizing. I sailed with a few of them and they were adamant on reminding me how much they knew."

Moash patted the stack of paper between them. "So what do you want to do with Kal? You want him to fly on command or what?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "What's happened here is like what happened when humans discovered fire. I'm not sure what this all means."

"Maybe Dalinar knows."

"Do you trust his judgement?"

"More than the other lighteyes."

Sigzil took another sip. The steam still wafted off the cup, adding a sweet smell to the air. "His perception of what is fire may be different than what is actually fire. And whatever we perceive to be a Radiant may be different than what they actually were. Are, I suppose." He swirled the drink. It moved slowly, thick as syrup and dark enough to show their reflections.

"Did Rock make that?" Moash asked.

Sigzil shook his head. "I got this from a ticket merchant. It's an Azish specialty," he said.

"Is it strong?"

He shook his head. "It helps me stay awake when I'm reading."

Moash looked at the shrinking line in front of Rock. "I forgot you also travelled a lot," he said.

"It's nothing worth remembering. I was in jail a lot."

"Ah."

"I'll have to rely on corroboration for the rest of this. A pattern will emerge eventually," Sigzil said. He patted his knees. "So, what's for dinner?"

-----

The chasms were initiation.

Kaladin watched the white light of the moon pile up against the chasm's edge above them, spilling over the groups of training bridgemen. He'd spent the rest of the afternoon watching Elhokar and left him to the care of the Cobalt Guard once the sun had set.

In the evening, Kaladin and Teft had pulled forty of Bridge Fifteen's weakest soldiers (which was a generous term to call them) for training.

On their first few times here, Kaladin watched the hesitant bridgemen from other bridge crews finally start to open up. Not only was the environment familiar and thus less daunting, training down here was like becoming part of Bridge Four. Though Teft, the man in charge of this group, reminded them always of how Bridge Four trained in much worse conditions.

The other bridgemen trained in small groups under men Kaladin pulled from Bridge Four, making it easier to focus on them individually. Kaladin focused only on corrections.

“Don’t let your shoulder sag, Hebem.”

“That’s good. But focus on aiming lower. We’re not trying to impress anyone.”

There wasn’t much Kaladin could say about the bridgemen’s spearmanship other than that it was earnest. He continued his observation of the training men in the chasm, lit up by handfuls of spheres at every step. Their shadows stretched tall over the chasm walls, resembling live mural recreations of a major battle.

Kaladin slowed down by Tov, who was practicing a kata in motion with the others.

His eyes wandered down Tov's body, observing his stance. With a swift motion, he brought the end of his spear to the center of Tov's, which caused him to stumble backwards. Kaladin pulled him forward to stand straight again.

“The spear is ours. You have to act like it,” Kaladin said, stepping back and showing the proper posture. “Nothing you do matters if you look scared of the weapon. Treat it as an extension of yourself.”

He stepped back, watching as Tov switched into windstance, and the spear glided less awkwardly through the air. It was good enough for now. There was more agility in the transition, and that would make it difficult to knock him off balance. Kaladin nodded in approval and left him to continue practicing.

“Wasn’t he doing something else before?” Syl appeared beside him, sitting on his shoulder as she looked behind him.

“Stonestance,” he said, looking ahead as he observed the fluid kata performances of each soldier. So far, so good. “But it looks like windstance is better for him for now. It’ll be better for the coming days if we’re only focusing on playing to our strengths instead of being well-rounded. We don't have time on our side.”

"This is exciting," Syl cooed as she zipped around the bridgemen either training in stances or sparring under Teft's watch. "It's only been a few weeks."

"Knowing what happens if they can't keep up makes for a good deterrent," he said. "But it looks like that doesn't matter. They want to be here."

“They want to be here?” she said coyly. "Sounds like you're very proud of yourself."

“It's Teft,” Kaladin said, looking back at the old, stern faced man carefully analyzing a group doing third form katas. “He’s a leader.”

“Of course he is. You gave him a rank, didn’t you?”

“No. He claimed it," Kaladin said. "Come on. Let’s walk.”

He walked past Edim, the last training bridgeman, down one of the paths directly under the moonlight.

He kept his hands primly behind his back as he listened to Syl describe her treacherous, yet nebulous journey, starting in betraying the Stormfather and ending with finding Kaladin.

This was only the start of a greater journey, according to her and now Dalinar, to refound the Knights Radiant.

He looked towards the inky sky, where once before, an old, wisened face as grand as the horizon, with eyes made of stars, appeared during a time Kaladin was certain he was dead. A shudder came over him, only for Syl to rise to meet his eyes.

“You,” she said, “are going to need to become what Dalinar Kholin is looking for. Don’t let him search in vain.”

Kaladin kept his gaze fixed on the sky. “I don’t see much of a reason to tell him anything."

He saw her expression fall in his peripheral vision.

“Listen," he said, now focusing on her. "I’m not a Radiant, and I have no reason to give whatever this is away.”

“But nobody can take it away from you, Kaladin. It's about helping them do the right thing."

He was silent now as they continued down the chasm path, which grew quieter as he strayed further from the training site. Syl faced Kaladin as she followed him closely, as if at any moment he was going to state the words of another oath.

The sounds of clashing spears and men's cries echoed around him. As he walked, memories of Alethi and Parshendi soldiers' clashing weapons painted themselves on the high chasm walls in the colors of spilled blood and broken wood. On his right, a pair of Parshendi soldiers covered the body of one of their fallen.

Ahead of him, the darkness stretched out to hold the memory of the wide expanse of bridge before him. On each side of the bridge stood battle-worn bridgemen, facing the arrows from the other side as they flew towards them, their postures weighed with resignation.

He stood in the center, feeling a chill beneath his clothes as if he were in the bridgeman's vest again, about to leap across the chasm.

"The right thing," he repeated softly, slowing to a stop. "Is to join the forces of a highprince at war."

"What good will it do if you keep this to yourself?"

"More good than if I trust another lighteyes' reputation."

"You aren't thinking straight," she said. "You keep thinking Dalinar is Amaram, but he isn't, and you know that. He saved you. He wants to help people, Kaladin."

"And we saved him," he said. "It's a fine enough exchange, as long as he stays out of our way."

"But he isn't-"

"I don't care what he isn't, and I don't care who he is," he said. "He's in no position to negotiate with any of the other highprinces right now and he needs us to protect him. That keeps us from being pawns. Telling him about this means I'm just handing myself over to be one. I know you see good in him, but that isn't enough."

"Then what is enough?" Syl asked, following every turn of his head.

The question brought his thoughts to a sudden halt.

Kaladin turned around and noticed the men growing more sloppy in their side thrusts. It was as he worried with Bridge Fifteen, whose members were almost entirely non-combatants. Even worse, with Teft in charge, he would only focus on one person at a time and was slow to notice patterns.

He walked towards the group and found some of their postures improved with his presence. They were going to need more intrinsic motivation than this.

Syl flew around him, poking for an answer as she flew in a ring above his head. She faced him with her arms folded. "What is enough?" she asked.

As he looked at her, he felt some of that resolve waver.

Syl was ancient and wasn't limited like a human was. Her memory was fragmented, but those fragments were shards of the truth—perfect mirrors of reality, whereas people were only ever marred reflections of what was and what should never have been.

"Aye, lad."

Kaladin raised his eyes at Teft approaching him wearing his ever permanent grimace. He couldn't have asked for a better distraction.

"You think the highprince isn't going to look a fool with this lot guarding him?" Teft grumbled.

"This is nothing compared to what makes him look foolish now. As long as we're patient, they'll become fine soldiers."

"I won't be alive to see it at this rate."

Kaladin shook his head at Teft. Ever dramatic, he was. "We have a fine group watching him now, if it's Dalinar you're worried about."

"That reminds me," Teft said, lowering his voice, "the sananin said—"

"—Sigzil," Kaladin said sharply, now looking at the man. "You know his name."

"Everyone called them that when I was your age."

"We aren't our forefathers, and the man that conquered them has been dead for a long time," Kaladin said. "Continue."

Teft leaned in. "His books won't be any help. It's a waste of time," he said.

"How so?"

"Ask him what one of 'em said about the Temple of Adonalsium," he said. "Said they all got lost in Inasidan."

Where it was once the teachings of sixteen enlightened sages who understood the meaning of life through particular virtues, some of which were Preservation, Harmony, and Justice, the Temple of Adonalsium had been destroyed during the shadowdays. One of the few sages whose teachings remained was Honor, whose teachings were adapted into what would become the foundations of Vorinism.

It wouldn't have shocked Kaladin if the original Temple of Adonalsium ended up with the sages getting lost in Inasidan, the "cognitive realm." The older he got, the less reasonable it seemed to consider these scholars as anything but hermits who didn't understand how society functioned outside of their posturing and staring in books.

"The ardentia's out of their minds keeping something like that in their records," Teft said.

"We're just using it to understand the abilities," Kaladin said. Though he wasn't sure how much useful information there would be in a book written in women's script. If there were really something worth memorizing, it should have been in glyphs.

"Maybe it goes beyond religion," he said. "The truth of the Radiants."

Teft scoffed at this. "You know what happens to men who go out to sea without a lantern?"

"They get lost?" Kaladin offered, watching the group nearest them transition into second form katas. Their shoulders were curved too far inwards.

"No," he said. "They end up at the island they sailed from."

He nodded absentmindedly, then continued to pace around the training for the remaining hour. His mind had grown more restless than usual, if that was possible.

Where Syl was circling Kaladin's head earlier, her question remained, following him even out of the chasm.

Chapter Text

Everyone knew about the major betrayal on the Shattered Plains. Everyone in the camps, at least. Like Azuran, most people on Roshar only knew the necessary things about Alethi politics, like which highprinces still retained the desire to push the kingdom out to the coast, and which highprinces wanted to start trade alliances with other countries. It was the difference between losing your land, or losing your rights.

Azuran leaned against a lamppost on the side path as she listened to the camp crier announce the news. She kept out of the way of marching soldiers wearing maroon with gold trim. First, he announced internal things she didn’t really care for. Something about the king keeping a portion of the profits of something. A tax maybe. Then it expanded to kingdom-wide news, which is where she had to listen to the news again that Sadeas had betrayed Kholin. Then, it expanded finally, to the global stage.

“The Assassin in White has killed Azish Emperor Rexim the First!”

Azuran leaned back, pleasantly surprised. Azir had finally made it to the ears of even the people in the Alethi war camps. She’d gotten used to hearing her original birthplace, Emul, only be mentioned when talking about how “sad the situation” was “with the war and all.” And Azish news wasn’t very interesting in comparison, except for now at least. That was the second Prime.

She looked up at the broken lamp above her, which glowed in a dull, off-white, in contrast to the bright yellow flames in all the other lamp posts lined along the main street.

“Did you hear that?” she said, trying to find a shape in the dull grey-white light. “We’re in the news.”

The ball of light shifted, and she was finally able to see feathers, a beak, and two tiny black eyes blink at her.

She looked back to the crier, surrounded by a scattered audience enveloped in passing crowds of soldiers and civilians. “The Prime was assassinated,” she said.

This wasn’t going to be good. Governments around the world were panicking about the assassin, since he’d only attacked world leaders. Azir was already struggling with trying to get a new Prime after the previous assassination. But it didn’t mean Azuran couldn’t worry either. Most of her customers were made up of average civilians, and they were also scared of assassins.

She raised her hand in a small signal to Shion, who flew down to nestle himself inside the empty wire cage on her shoulder. The cage now glowed with a white light, causing it to resemble a lantern with an oddly still white flame. She headed towards the only exciting building in Highprince Sebarial's warcamp: the theater.

Azuran had never planned on joining the circus. But she supposed that’s how most people ended up joining the circus anyway. She'd met the art director Xawmati from a friend of a friend of a friend of a cousin, or something along that line, and when he found her Azish to be mostly inoffensive, had hired her instantly. Her audition was for a simple role, where she only had to blend in with the flowing ribbons in the backdrop. Eventually she had gotten good enough at the movements that she was one of the main performers.

Azish ribbon shows were popular because people liked the colorful ribbons that denoted the name. But the Alethi greatly preferred the dances to the point that the ribbons were entirely secondary. This only stressed out the director more, since it was easier to find someone to toss ribbons than to find a someone make a dance look threatening and still pleasant.

Inside the modest theater (though there was no such thing as a modest theater in a warcamp), attendants in work robes ran around setting up the chairs for that evening's show. The stage was raised only slightly above the ground, but still far enough from the audience that the show would still maintain the illusion of grandeur. Xawmati loved grandeur.

At the far end of the stage, Azuran saw the man himself frantically talking at Hoid, who was shockingly early for once.

The clinking sounds of her jewelry alerted the pair to her arrival as she jogged up to them. Hoid gave Azuran a wry smile in greeting, whereas Xawmati was too busy covering his face with his hands.

"The director's worried we aren't selling enough tickets," Hoid explained. "I insist it's because we aren't using enough explosives."

Hoid was Azuran's very strange stagemate that she met from somewhere not very long ago.

He constantly wore a mischievous smile, sometimes just mischievous enough that the skin around his eyes wrinkled, suggesting he must have been old. But then he would get bored for some reason or another, and his face would relax and he'd simultaneously look young again. She never could pinpoint where he was from, mainly because he would never answer. There weren't many times where she'd met people with skin as pale as his or with a nose as sharp. He'd always worn dark robes for as long as she'd known him, which was in great contrast to not just Azuran, but to their director Xawmati.

Like Azuran, Oji Xawmati had dark brown skin he complemented with colorful, ostentatious robes. Though there may have been some variations in fashion across the Makabaki lands, they all had the affinity for bright color in common. It was only a matter of what pattern the day demanded.

But the splendour of his appearance did not match the nervousness in his demeanor. The director lowered his hands.

"We sold only half of the tickets," he said.

"This is after he ignored all of my suggestions," Hoid said airily. The director waved him off, clearly at his limit with the musician for the day.

Before Azuran could stutter out some words to encourage him, Xawmati was back to his frantic speech. "How will I look when half the seats are empty? The court will never let me hear the end of this if I tell them what happened. I'm going to lose my job! They'll send me away!"

She wanted to tell him that the poor sales were likely a result of the increased exercise in caution by most of the camps after the events with House Sadeas and House Kholin, in addition to the White assassin's remarkable efficiency. But there was no gap in his incoherent ramble for Azuran to politely interject. She looked at him with as much sympathy as she could muster and kept her eyes from wandering to look at the designs on his robes. Xawmati really had an eye for nice patterns.

Xawmati harshly cut off his speech with a clap of his hands in front of his mouth. He closed his eyes and uttered a few prayers in Azish.

"You need to go to work," he muttered to himself, sounding as if he'd come to an understanding on something. "That's what I must do."

"We need to go to work," she repeated slowly, "so that's what you must do."

"I am the only one selling tickets. This is obviously foolish, as I'm already organizing these shows and getting everything we need. So I will have you both put in more effort. Especially you, Hoid-si, since you're never around when we need you. It is only fair."

But Xawmati-si, Azuran wanted to say, this is not in the contract.

"I'm not very good at selling tickets, Xawmati-si," she said instead. She found most of the people here to be quite cold and distant, and she didn't know how the director was able to have any amount of guests at all every week.

"This also is not in the contract," Hoid said, much to Azuran's relief.

"There's no choice," he said, looking up wistfully. "As it is now, I can only pay you a quarter of your rate."

"A quarter?" she exclaimed.

Xawmati nodded solemnly. Without another word, he handed them a sheaf of gold flecked tickets with the show's title written on it in Alethi and Azish.

One of the stagehands called Xawmati from the middle of the audience seating, gesturing to the placement of a chair.

"No, no, it's wrong!" he said. The director had already made to address the stagehands, but made sure to turn and tell Hoid and Azuran, "If the both of you sell at least half your stacks, we will be at a socially acceptable capacity. I can leave the rest for the stagehands to fill up room."

Hoid and Azuran left the theater with their stacks of tickets.

She made sure never to take his eyes off him as they walked. He had a frustrating habit of disappearing whenever there was a pause in the conversation.

Once they were outside with the din of the streets awaking their senses, Hoid took in a deep breath and exhaled.

"I'm so glad he's not doing that glorified animal pen again," he said.

"How are we going to sell this many tickets before the end of the week?" Azuran asked, frowning at the stack in her hands.

"You worry about the wrong thing," Hoid said. "Promise them there will be fire."

Azuran looked up. That would be fun. "I wish these shows were like the actual ribbons shows. Even the ones in the refugee camps were nicer than these."

"Ah, a soul who understands," he said, clapping his hands together. "That sounds like a plan. I'll bring heshis for next week, and you sell tickets."

Azuran blinked at him, noticing the stack of tickets in his hands was nowhere to be found. Following her instincts, she looked at her own stack and found that she was holding two.

"Hoid!" she called, only to look up and find that he had, indeed, disappeared from her side. His cloak vanished into the crowd of pubgoers that passed. Despite his distinct appearance and manner of dress, he was nowhere to be found.

Azuran bowed her head over the stack of tickets, finding it pointless to complain. Maybe she could tell Xawmati that she'd done all the ticket sales and he'd give her a bonus. That would only bring her closer to finally leaving the Shattered Plains.

⋆˚࿔

Kaladin was in another full meeting in Elhokar's quarters, which was standard, he learned. If two people wanted to have a discussion, they ended up bringing five others to record what happened or simply to watch, which taught him something simple about royalty. Any gathering greater than ten people was a conversation, and sometimes a party. Anything less than ten was a conspiracy.

General Khal, his wife Brightness Teshav, and Navani, requested a conference with Dalinar and King Elhokar. With them came their scribes, attendants, and Dalinar's absent-minded sons.

Adolin's eyes were glazed over where he sat next to Renarin, who seemed more interested in the patterns on the carpet than the discussion.

Kaladin didn't blame them for once. One of Navani's assistants, a stormwarden, had taken lead of the discussion by talking about vibrational patterns in the ground and how they used these in calculating the dates of highstorms.

Elhokar sat at his raised podium, barely attempting to conceal his boredom.

"The margin of error has only ever been below two percent," the stormwarden continued to mercilessly narrate her thoughts from the central table where everyone sat. "But with this last highstorm, we were two and a half percent off."

"Her dress looks like mine," Syl mused, now appearing on the stormwarden's shoulder. She peered into her ear, then turned to Kaladin. "What do you think?"

Kaladin tried to focus on the stormwarden, only for Syl to dart across the room and stop directly in front of his face. He flinched, as if an insect were about to land on his nose, causing a few eyes to look in his direction.

Adolin shot a judging look at him, but Kaladin didn't dare return it. Responding to the smallest provocation was the quickest way to prove the lighteyes right.

"Come on! What do you think?" she said.

He gave Syl a harsh look, hoping that she would be able to read him saying not now in his eyes.

"Thaylen instruments generally have a greater degree of accuracy since they're much better at measuring humidity," the stormwarden continued. "We didn't use them because Brightness Navani suggested that humidity isn't the problem in creating these inaccuracies, but the elevation."

Brightness Teshav cleared her throat, as if to cut the stormwarden off, but she kept going, now talking about the importance of accurate humidity calculations.

Finally, Navani stood up.

"Lucilis," she said. "Thank you for giving us a foundation into understanding the situation. Our time is limited, so I will move us to the most important parts for now."

The stormwarden, completely unphased, halted her speech and silently sat back down.

"The last highstorm was about one hour earlier than the stormwardens expected. This may not come as a concern to anyone not in this field, but my researchers found a likely reason for this inaccuracy," she said. "We have reason to believe that the rumbling in the ground is an issue separate from the highstorms."

"Sounds to me like another chasmfiend hunt to look forward to," Adolin commented.

The shadows underneath Elhokar's eyes darkened.

"Good point, Adolin. Actually, there have been no chasmfiend sightings recently," she said. "A few suspect that these tremors could be small earthquakes, but that sounded so ridiculous at first that we didn't consider it. Earthquakes occur much further east of here. Now, however, the tremors have been getting much stronger."

"You don't suppose this has anything to do with the Parshendi?" Elhokar said, looking to Dalinar.

"I wouldn't discount that," Dalinar replied.

"In any case, we need to be careful about when sending armies out," General Khal said. "Is that all?"

"For now," she said. "We're still collecting more data."

"That's all well and fine to me. Can we now discuss when you plan to hold the next burning ceremony for the widows?" Brightness Teshav asked. "I've been trying to rally more of the nobility but it's hard without a date, Brightness."

"It depends on if Dalinar wants to hold them here," Navani said.

Elhokar continued scratching the same spot on his armrest, staring blankly at the group. It would never not fascinate Kaladin to watch Dalinar and Navani act as the king and queen right in front of the man himself. Especially in front of the other lighteyes.

"You and Brightness Teshav know more about the effectiveness of these burning ceremonies than I do," said Dalinar. "But these ceremonies don't do much to inspire confidence in the other highprinces."

"On the contrary, Brightlord," Teshav said. "They have been instrumental in rallying the highladies. Oftentimes whatever chance there was to mourn transforms into prayers for retribution."

The three of them exchanged looks of understanding. Kaladin sniffed. Even the funerals here were opportunities for politicking.

The meeting dragged on, before Elhokar was given the final word. Though by that point, it was entirely about placating him. He expressed wanting to hold the burning ceremony in a different location, but the looks between the other lighteyes suggested they had decided upon everything but the color of the lanterns for the entrance.

Kaladin didn't need to give the signal to the other guards to escort the lighteyes out. They were already walking in formation to the doors, waiting for the signal to switch off with the guards outside.

He allowed himself to sit in the bit of pride that settled in his chest at seeing the crisp salutes and postures of the bridgemen.

He gave them the signal to open the doors, and the soldiers of the Cobalt guard who waited outside marched in and saluted Dalinar. The bridgemen were quick to salute the Cobalt guard, each in perfect sync. Their expressions were perfectly neutral and solid as stone.

Excellent.

Only one of the Cobalt guard returned the salute, but that didn't matter as much as the new soldiers Kaladin was seeing in each of the bridgemen. This was probably what Hav felt like.

Teft and two other soldiers from the guards outside escorted out General Khal and Brightness Teshav. Navani stayed behind to talk with the two scribes with her.

"Soldier," Dalinar said, now turning to Kaladin.

Kaladin crossed the room to meet the highprince in the hum of the scribes and attendants leaving the room and the guards switching posts.

"Sir," he said.

"You and your men seem to have adjusted well to this position," he said, hands behind his back.

He hoped so. Kaladin had been careful not to speak as much as he did in the beginning during these meetings, and enough of the bridgemen had become proper enough soldiers that they could even be in these gatherings. He'd always have to have Skar, Moash, or himself present during the shifts with the King or Dalinar, but it was rewarding to see the men from other bridge crews finally be in the room with them after months of training.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

"But there is something that concerns me. One of your… soldiers, we'll say, is still wearing those carapace guards."

"Yes, sir," he said, fighting not to bunch his hand into a fist. He remembered seeing Shen on the courtyard polishing the aforementioned guards in preparation for his shift that morning.

"It would do him well to remove it. As you've gathered from these discussions, cohesion is of the utmost priority. Even down to the uniforms themselves. The bridge patches make sense as markers, but shell guards do not."

Kaladin hesitated. Shen was officially part of Bridge Four, and thus subject to all the same rules as the others. But Kaladin wanted nothing to do with correcting his uniform. He wore it properly besides the addition of those shell guards.

"Even if he isn't technically involved in guarding, sir? He's normally cleaning." Plus, he was usually inside working alone, so he was rarely seen anyway.

"Especially then," said Dalinar. "Anything less than the proper uniform suggests disunity, and that is not allowed in the men I lead. I imagine this to be the case for you as well."

"You don't have to have him around, Father," Adolin said, walking over. "The parshman, I mean. There's no promise that he won't try something."

"The soldier here has given me his word that everyone under his command has sworn loyalty to the Throne. I don't doubt him."

Kaladin met Adolin's gaze, and the princeling frowned.

"That is all," Dalinar said. "You're dismissed."

He saluted Dalinar and walked out to be replaced by the guard waiting for him outside. The ever present frustration clawed at him again.

Kaladin, albeit naively, relied on Shen being invisible enough that Dalinar wouldn't bother commenting on his uniform. After all, he was a parshman. But that was foolish thinking. Not only was wearing the uniform properly one of the very first things all soldiers were trained to do, a parshman in an Alethi highprince's uniform obviously drew more suspicion than a darkeyed bridgeman.

This was tiring him quicker than he thought. Kaladin had multiple lifetimes' worth of managing in unfavorable circumstances. He should have been better than this.

He noticed since being here that there was little difference between being captain and being a bridgeleader. In both circumstances he was always preparing for when something would inevitably blow up in his face, only to still be too late or early enough for him to seem paranoid.

He could have done the pragmatic thing and practiced medicine, as he'd done his whole life. He'd usually felt more in control there and wasn't as internally conflicted as he was now. Surgeons were allegedly just as valuable as soldiers, and there was nothing stopping him from teaching the bridgemen basic field medicine.

But the spear, for all the horrors that came with it, clung to him. And he held onto it just as tightly. It gave Kaladin something that he never could find in the surgery room.

He left the palace grounds, nodding at each of the soldiers he passed. Kaladin paid careful attention to all of the bridgemen's uniforms as he passed them on their patrol. No crooked collars and no undershirts poked out of the sleeves. It truly was a big improvement compared to last month.

Now that he was outside, he could speak more freely.

"Did you notice Elhokar earlier?" Kaladin said under his breath to Syl, who sat on his shoulder. "They're not even hiding it anymore."

"He looked so sad."

"Then they use words like unity and talk about building trust," he continued. "Why speak in codes? They're all in the same group. They can speak plainly."

"Maybe because you're still there," she said.

"Maybe. But it's been interesting, seeing how they act. Everything in their culture is just for show."

"Their culture? You're all from the same country."

He scoffed. "Do you think any of these people had ardents coming to their villages praying for the Almighty to raise their rank? Better yet; you think they had lavis before?" he asked. "It was one thing with the duels. The parties. But burning ceremonies is new. Won't even leave the dead to rest because they want to force someone's hand. It's all about power for them."

He walked down the main street, keeping out of the way of street sweepers. Dalinar had them out every hour. According to the other camp followers and soldiers, Dalinar's camp was not only the most strictly run, but the cleanest and most uniform. Every building here was a squat stone brick with a satisfactory amount of windows, all arranged in concentric rings that surrounded the King's palace, and all designed to be short enough that the palace was visible from everywhere in the camp.

"Is that why you never answered my question about the brightness' dress?" Syl said.

The question took him out of his thoughts, and now Kaladin turned to Syl, who gestured to her dress. Recently, she'd been fixated on people's clothes.

"You asked in the middle of the meeting," he said. "Anyway, she was wearing a havah. You have something else."

"I'm talking about this part," she said, pointing to the ends of her short sleeves. "The shape was the same."

"Why were you paying attention to that?"

Syl tilted her head, as if to think. "It was…familiar."

His pace slowed.

She pulled at her sleeve. "I don't know where I know it from," she said quietly.

"You're remembering more."

"Not fast enough," she said. Her disposition had grown gloomy as she looked up to the overcast sky, her eyes wide with worry.

She'd been speaking more and more of danger in the coming days. The more Syl remembered of herself, the more frequently she spoke of the future. Kaladin heard of this danger first from the Stormfather, on the evening he was subject to the highstorm's judgement. But it seemed so distant, so esoteric that he didn't think it to be anything else but a memory reflecting the danger of their current state. The war and the ideals it warped. The enslavement of honest people and the hallowing of the criminals that bound them. There was no danger more real than what he'd lived. And yet, recent events were slowly proving him wrong.

The constant meetings and discussions about Dalinar's visions and his plan to refound the Knights Radiant not only made this vague, new danger more real in Kaladin's eyes, but to Syl, this danger was a threat greater than she could describe. The recent discovery of the numbers in Dalinar's quarters suggesting a countdown to something especially did not help.

Even though she was a spren, she was human enough that seeing her even mimic anxiety made him want to do something. He just didn't know what.

"Syl," he said. But she continued looking up silently, as though she were listening in a conversation with the sky itself. The wind began to pick up, but Kaladin wasn't sure if that was because of her or the elements—or if that was just both.

"What can I do?" he asked.

She hummed a note to herself, still facing the sky. He watched her for any other signs of reaction or movement, but she remained perfectly still.

Kaladin looked up with her, seeing nothing of note other than the passing storm clouds roll over each other on their way east.

"I," she said thoughtfully, almost with a sense of wonder, completely devoid of the despondence she'd shown earlier. "I don't know what will help me."

Syl looked back at him.

"I know how that feels," he said. He faced the rest of the camp, finding that the next shift on the main road had already begun.

With the arrival of the afternoon patrol now on the streets, Kaladin returned to reality—albeit maybe a lesser one. The guards at the lighteyed grounds were probably wondering where he was by now.

"Let's go. There's only so much worrying we can do for now."

⋆˚࿔

The tavern didn't have a name, so everyone just called it the Tavern, as if it was the only one on Roshar. It was big and clean with polished wood on the floors and neatly set stone in the walls. It was well lit, with room to hold all the guests and tables, and it had plenty of space to walk. There was even room near the back for musicians to play, but that was pointless. These camps were still very Vorin and very Alethi, so if any foolish woman wanted to entertain a bunch of drunk sweaty soldiers with her excellent instrumentation, she had a stage here.

The only people who ended up accepting Lopen's invitation to this experiment and were free to do it were Sigzil, Rock, and, hesitantly, Moash. Rock was never free at this time, so Moash saw nothing wrong with joining him on a night where he could relax. But it came at a very stupid cost.

Despite it being the middle of the week, it was full, but mostly with military personnel. And as they'd all expected, they were lighteyed soldiers of varying rank. Militarily, Moash was above the rank of a good number of the soldiers here, whereas plenty of other soldiers shared ranks with Rock and Lopen. Sigzil was an exception, given he was the clerk.

That didn't quite matter. Lighteyes had a special sense for noticing when something was off. Whether if it was the lack of confidence in the group of bridgemen, or maybe because they had a sense for darkeyes' presence, a couple of the soldiers noticed their arrival instantly. And once one of them was looking, several of them were looking.

Moash had ended up dragging their group forward to a table, despite their trepidation. They sat near the door at a table that comfortably fit the four of them. It was even cleaned beforehand. A darkeyed barmaid had been the one to end up serving them. She seemed to have been serving all the tables so far.

Forty minutes later, they were mostly done with the first round, and the staring was still as bad as it was when they had first come in.

“I knew we shouldn’t have come here,” Sigzil said with a grimace.

“It was this one’s choice,” Moash said, barely interested in his own drink. He nodded to Lopen, whose head lolled around as he told whatever story he was trying to tell. The single pint he had made his every movement a poor imitation of a wet noodle in strong wind. Rock was the only one paying attention out of the four of them, while Sigzil and Moash had gone into their own conversation.

Sigzil surveyed the room before returning to his glass. “They keep staring at us.” He always had some edge of refinement that even working the bridges couldn’t dull.

“And we’re staring at you,” Moash said evenly. “You’re the only one who said no to discounted ale.”

“It tastes terrible.”

“It’s not about tasting!” Rock burst, catching Moash off-guard. “It’s the feeling.”

Sigzil shrugged, pulling his drink closer.

In the lull of the conversation, Moash surveyed the room as well. It was the highest ratio of lighteyes to darkeyes that he’d seen since his caravanning days. Some of the places he’d travelled to closer to the capital city, Kholinar, had many wealthy lighteyed merchants that went from settlement to settlement. They’d been some of the most interesting people he'd met. They were tenners with the wealth of a high ranking lighteyes. It was a unique way of pushing at the boundaries of what was set for them. In that way, people like the bridgemen weren’t the only ones to upset the natural order of things.

The lighteyes here didn’t seem to be the case. Standard as ever. Some of them watched their table as if they'd seen a cremling somehow make it inside, wondering why nobody had swept it out yet. In these cases, Moash liked to stare back.

A sudden thud on the table took him out of one of these staring contests, and Moash turned to see Lopen’s head now on the table. Rock chuckled.

“We need to stop taking Lopen’s invitations,” Sigzil said, taking Lopen's drink away.

Moash felt a pricking feeling on his back. He turned around to see a new group of officers that entered the tavern laughing among themselves slowly grow silent and stop once their eyes landed on his table. They stared, and so did he.

“Moash,” Sigzil whispered.

He felt Sigzil's kick under the table, but Moash didn’t budge. The soldier walked over with his fingers looped through his belt.

“You’re the new guards, huh?” he said.

“Yeah,” Moash answered without a hint of humor. It had been well over a month by this point, but sure. Relatively, they were still new.

“So serious,” Rock chimed in, shaking his head at him.

“A darkeyed Horneater in the King’s Guard?” he said. “Dalinar really is a desperate man.”

“Storm off,” Moash said.

“I'm right where I'm supposed to be, boy. You," he said, moving to Lopen's chair. "Aren't."

Moash jumped from his seat, but not fast enough to stop the officer as he pulled out the chair.

Lopen fell to the floor with a groan. A few of the soldiers laughed. First, Moash cursed Lopen for being a lightweight. Then he looked at the officer, who smirked at him.

"Now you ca—"

His fist moved faster than the officer’s mouth, connecting with his ear.

“Hey!” Rock shouted, darting his arm out in front of Moash.

The tavern's joyous cacophony was now muffled by the newfound tension between the table of bridgemen and the officers.

Moash took a slow step backwards in the comfortable berth created by the other soldiers around them.

The shocked officer slowly pressed a hand to where Moash hit him.

Seconds later, the officer lunged towards him, grabbing Moash’s collar as he shoved him to the ground. Moash felt a connecting blow to his stomach the moment he hit the floor. He buried the groan and clenched his stomach, eyes tightly shut in silent agony.

He swung his legs into the officer’s ankles, then dragged himself back to his feet in the seconds it took for the officer to find his balance.

All the animated conversation and laughter had been replaced with clamor and shouting. Some were calls for order, mixed in with jeers and commands to get out. Others were happy for some entertainment.

They’d moved further into the back, where more of the lighteyes mingled; their conversations had been stopped short as they now watched Moash and the nameless soldier trade blows. Moash managed to slam him face first against the stone wall, only for the officer to throw him backwards into a table to the shocked exclamations of the dozens watching.

The lights started to become uncomfortably bright as the man pounded against Moash's arms, which he used to cover his face. Sounds of fighting took over at the front where they were earlier, and Moash turned his head to see an angry Rock with his fist raised at a group of three officers.

Moash drove both of his boots into the man's stomach, and he stumbled just enough for Moash to get off the table.

Sigzil had Lopen's arm around his shoulder as he held a hand out to the soldiers in front of them.

“We don’t want trouble!” he said.

“Then you shouldn’ve come here,” one of them said, and shoved the clerk backwards.

Moash ran to Sigzil’s side, only to be met with a drawn dagger by the soldier nearest him.

“Go on, bridgeboy. I dare you,” the man snarled.

“Get out!” the owner, a pink faced lighteyes, frantically waved his arms, but nobody paid attention. Moash’s eyes were on the blade that faced him. Growing up, boys like him, with the wrong eye color, weren’t allowed to carry blades that big. They could have gotten in trouble.

But of course, Moash was never scared of trouble.

He grabbed the wrist holding the dagger and twisted the officer’s arm behind his back.

The tavern had descended into utter chaos. Rock had thrown a man off his table, Sigzil had made a few passes at a couple officers advancing on him. Drunken civilians had also gotten involved, helping the soldiers.

Though it behaved like one, this wasn’t a battlefield. Moash couldn’t sever limbs or stab men through the stomach. He just had his fists, and retaliating with his own dagger was going to make things worse than they needed to be.

“We need to leave!” Sigzil shouted.

This was stupid. It was the three of them against a group of people that had unspoken loyalty to each other. The men in Dalinar’s uniforms either sat and watched, or they threw jeers.

A tinny bell rung, drowned underneath the sounds of fighting and shouting.

“Order!” a new voice roared.

Nobody heard, and nobody obeyed. It was like trying to put out a fire by spitting at it.

“ORDER!”

With a blinding flash of light from the entrance, Moash turned from his place on the ground with his knee buried in a man’s chest, as everyone looked to the Shardblade held up high by a rich looking lighteyes.

He was well groomed, clad in an expensive dark uniform that contrasted with his light grey eyes. Even this place, with how nice it seemed to them, seemed like it was beneath him.

“Semise!” the man cheerily greeted the pink faced owner, the anger vanishing from his face. His tone had suddenly turned cordial. “What’s going on?”

“These bridgemen started a fight with my customers,” he spat. The darkeyed barmaid cowered behind him, covering her face with a tray.

“Oh, that’s all?” he said, turning his head to look directly at Moash.

“I want them out!”

“It’s quite all right. Just have my regular ready,” he said.

Moash slowly rose to his feet, weary of the man and his Blade, which was still prominently on display at his side.

“Let’s go, Moash,” he said. Sigzil and Rock (along with the Lopen he had on his shoulders), looked to Moash, who had no response.

There was no arguing with a Shardbearer, so Moash led the way to the exit, passing the angry eyes of all the patrons. The other three followed behind him, with insults being thrown at them on the way out. The Shardbearer followed them outside into the cool night, where rain fell in a gentle mist.

The watchful eyes of the tavern's guests followed them through the windows.

“My apologies for interrupting you,” the man said, dismissing his Shardblade.

“How do you know my name?” Moash asked.

“It was an educated guess,” he said.

“You’ve been here before?” Sigzil asked.

“No,” Moash said, his eyes not leaving the man in front of him.

The man gave them a jovial smile. “Graves,” he said, placing a hand on his chest. “It’s a pleasure.”

Moash gave him a weak nod, but the suspicion on his face never left.

Graves looked to the other men, bowing with his head. “This one’s always trouble,” he said, nodding up at the building. “He’s always short on rent. I can’t make that problem worse with more trouble. You understand.”

“You own this place?” Moash asked.

“And a couple others,” he said. “There used to be more. But you know the economy hasn’t been kind lately. So I have to take care of what’s left. Anyway, I do hope to see you around, Moash and friends. Why don’t you come down to the pub in the outer ring? It’s still open and has many rooms.”

Sigzil made an irritated sound and already made to leave. Moash was grateful for that. “We’re fine,” he said. “Bye.”

Graves seemed unfazed by the comment. "Well, do know that my invitation still stands," he said. "It was nice meeting you all."

He returned into the now calmer tavern.

“We were just in the outer ring,” Moash said, now catching up to Sigzil.

“It’s where the lower soldiers go,” Sigzil said.

“I’m not lower," Moash said. "Not that lower.”

“Cursed language. I mean the soldiers with dark eyes,” he said. “It was just him telling us to stay in our place.”

“Why’d you come then?” Moash asked.

“I was curious. Against my better judgement,” Sigzil said.

Rock burst with laughter as they walked, surprising some of the soldiers that passed them. Lopen almost slipped from his shoulder with the force.

“Careful,” Sigzil said, placing a cautious hand under Lopen’s bobbing head.

“He is like thread.”

“And yet he insists on his contests,” he muttered. The three of them turned down the main road. "What do we say about this to the Captain? He's going to be furious! I knew we shouldn't have gone."

Moash felt like an idiot, walking with all these bruises and his uniform out of sorts. He'd already promised Kaladin that he wasn't going to do anything that wasn't saluting and obeying orders after the last time he got lectured for not doing exactly that. Was he so weak that he couldn't keep his emotions under control? Was he supposed to be so passive that any lighteyes could just push around him and his friends without consequences?

"Just deal with it," he said. "Kal won't yell at you guys. He might yell at me a little longer, but it's nothing I haven't heard. It was my fault."

"No. It's this one," Rock said, shrugging his shoulder in a gesture to Lopen. "You not smart," he added with a chuckle. Lopen made a sound.

They turned a corner. The roads got quieter the further they got from the inner ring, and the world was shaded navy in the darkness.

“Where is Sigzil from?” Rock asked. Moash was also curious, since he’d forgotten the last time Sigzil brought it up.

“Azimir,” he said. “It’s far out west.”

"That's where they make that drink that keeps you awake," Moash commented.

"You have drugs?" Lopen slurred.

"Not that kind," Sigzil said.

Rock chuckled.

"Let's go to that ticket merchant instead if you want a drink so bad," Moash said. "Sounds like it'll be less of a headache."

⋆˚࿔

It had been two nights since the fight in the tavern, and Moash had yet to hear or see from the captain.

In those two days, the tavern fight had become the topic of choice among anyone in the camp who would care to hear it. Lopen was usually the one telling the story, which meant it was never the same twice. Never mind that he wasn't sober for most of it.

Moash leaned against one of the doors of the Bridge Four barracks, steeling himself for whatever was to come. Unsurprisingly enough, several of the men had asked him about what happened when they were sure Kaladin wasn't there. Moash didn't give them much information. Didn't want to give Kaladin another reason to make his impending lecture longer.

The evening brought a cheery atmosphere to the bridgemen off duty, who were gathered around to eat stew or riff with each other after a long day. Some of them were even singing the songs he'd learned from the caravanning days. But Moash couldn't bring himself to join them this time.

He looked ahead to see Kaladin and a group of the other Bridge Four men entering the barracks through the gate. They'd been running experiments with Kaladin's abilities in the chasms that evening. Kaladin waved them off, and they joined the group of other bridgemen in conversation around Rock's massive pot of stew.

Moash froze as he approached him, as if he were being held in place by his eyes. He straightened himself.

Kaladin nodded up at the door behind him, and Moash opened it. This was one of the rooms of the lieutenants; they'd always left it unlocked.

He stepped into the tiny bunk room and turned to face him. Moash cleared his throat as he tried to match Kaladin's expression. He'd always looked perpetually focused on something, and it was hard to tell what he was thinking because of it.

The door shut behind him.

"What happened?" he asked.

Moash knew to pick his words carefully, but none of them were the right ones. So he remained silent.

"Dalinar told me you were in a fight with officer Rime," he said. Moash remembered that name. He was the one that argued with one of Aladar's soldiers, weeks ago. "Sigzil is saying there were more."

"What difference does it make?" Moash asked.

"Good point. So what were you trying to prove?" Kaladin demanded. "What was so valuable that it turned half the camp's officers against us?"

Moash felt the familiar anger flare again. All the memories of that night came back clear, and the flames licked at his hands, as if urging him to act. "What was I trying to prove? We had the right to be there! They were messing with us. You'd have me stand for that?"

"We're in a camp full of people who don't agree, and there are one hundred of them for every one of us. You should be keeping your distance."

Moash's eyes widened. "How? We work with them!"

"And they don't like it," Kaladin said, voice firm. "So you stay away from them."

"Great, so I have to bow down to them?"

"This isn't about respect! You know better!" Kaladin snapped. "There isn't a chance in a place like this where you can pick a fight with a lighteyes and win."

Moash grimaced, half expecting Kaladin to quote that annoying saying the Thaylen merchants parroted. A master spearman becomes a fool when he charges a Shardbearer, they said whenever a foreigner tried haggling with them. The tomuans said it for everything.

Much to his relief, he didn't say that.

"I'm not going to hear about this again from anyone," Kaladin said. "Not from Dalinar, not from the others, and not from you. You're getting a new assignment. I'll have you replace Teft in the chasms on the nights you're with the King."

Kaladin turned, already done with the conversation, but Moash failed to contain himself.

"That squad of cremlings? They can't even do form passes without tripping on their feet, Kal."

Kaladin's jaw twitched as he faced Moash again. "They're sparring now. Maybe if you teach them something they won't," he said. "At least until this all calms down."

"You think this won't happen again just because you talked to me?" Moash asked. "What about the others? You think they're all happy?"

"I'm not asking for anyone to be happy," he said. "I want soldiers. In normal circumstances, you'd be discharged for starting fights with other soldiers, especially those above your rank. But I'm giving you one last chance."

"One last chance!" he said, incredulous.

Kaladin watched him, looking for any hint that Moash had more to say; almost as if he dared him to speak. He turned around, and Moash followed him out the door.

The bridgemen were walking outside the gate in groups, talking excitedly amongst themselves. Moash and Kaladin exchanged glances, each communicating they didn't know what the commotion was about.

They followed the crowd into the street that lead to Dalinar's stone complex. The complex's entrance was marked by a simple stone archway as wide as the street and as tall as the other short stone buildings that made up the camp. Yellow lit lanterns lined the main street, which was now clear of carriages and chulls. The roads seemed to have been cleaned again for whatever was happening.

Under the archway stood Dalinar, smiling in a conversation with another tall man in a polished uniform of black and gold.

"Is this guy important?" Moash asked someone in front of him.

"Kinda. I think."

Kaladin brushed between them as he slowly moved through the crowd.

"Old friend," the man said, "it's been too long."

Moash followed after Kaladin to get a better look. The conversation was drowned by the buzz of the street, which was normally not this active in the evening. It seemed like people were expecting this.

"Stormblessed," a darkeyed soldier in the crowd said, catching Kaladin by the shoulder. "A hero has come to the Shattered Plains! He's going to meet with Brightlord Kholin, perhaps support him! It's a good sign. Might help calm things down around here."

"Who?" Rock asked from behind Moash, holding a spoon dripping with stew. He craned his head over the group of soldiers and camp followers crowded in front of the archway. They all maintained a distance from the talking men.

"Highlord Meridas Amaram," he said with a smile looking back at the pair in conversation. "He's one of the last bastions of honor in this country."

That sounded like good news.

Moash caught up to Kaladin, where they made it to the front row of the audience facing Dalinar and Highlord Amaram.

"I'm glad you finally made your way here, after years of promises. I heard you've even found yourself a Shardblade!" Dalinar said.

"Ah yes," Highlord Amaram said, pressing a hand to his side. He turned to the excited audience that surrounded them and lifted his hand, where white mist formed and bonded with itself in flashes before fully becoming a Shardblade; this one resembled a frozen white flame.

He raised the Blade above his head to the cheers of the soldiers watching. Kaladin was unsurprisingly silent. He'd made it clear to them before that he wasn't impressed by, nor did he even like Shardblades.

Amaram faced Dalinar, now holding it in front of him for the highprince to observe. "It was taken from an assassin who dared try to kill me on the battlefield."

He dismissed the weapon as the pair continued to talk.

Moash looked to the side at Kaladin, only to be taken aback by the thinly veiled rage in his eyes.

Before Moash could say anything, Kaladin turned and stormed off without a word.

Chapter Text

"You were scheduled out here tonight?" Moash asked Sigzil. They were among forty eight bridgemen walking in scattered groups to the chasms for training. Sigzil carried a bulky bag with him with papers peeking out of the top.

"No. I just have some business."

"Here?"

The vast emptiness of the Shattered Plains surrounded them, tinted purple by the dark skies, and darkened by the black jagged lines of the chasms tearing through the lifeless earth.

Sigzil hummed to himself as he peered into the distance with his palm over his eyes. "That's Nalan's Hand, yes?"

Moash looked to the black rock formation that cut into the horizon. People insisted it was shaped like a fist, but that wasn't why it actually had that name. Da had always told him everyone got it wrong.

Legend said that the Herald Nalan, one of the first students of the Temple of Adonalsium, slammed his fist on the ground the day Honor died. The Herald's impact was so great that one of the mountains bordering the Shattered Plains had broken apart, and the rock formation was what remained of it. Not Nalan's hand technically, but still Nalan's hand.

"Yes."

"Good, then I can wait here. You can go ahead without me."

"What's this for?"

"I'm exchanging these books," he said, patting the bag. "The—ah! There she is."

Sigzil looked past Moash and waved his hand. Moash looked to his left at the groups of bridgemen passing them. He heard the clinking of metal cut through their conversations like a knife.

Then, he saw a woman in blue and orange robes strolling towards them, diagonal to the bridgemen going to the chasms. She wore a bulky hood that shrouded half of her face in shadow. Beneath the hood he could see the glint of big earrings, clinking with each step.

"Sigzil-an," she said cheerily as she got closer. She didn't sound like how she looked, resembling the mysterious fortune tellers known for scamming naive travellers. The woman said something in what Moash assumed to be Azish, then lowered her hood and patted the top of her shaved head. Moash almost took a step back in shock.

Sigzil replied in Azish, then pulled a stack of thin pamphlets out of his bag and handed it to her. Moash was able to pull a few words of their conversation, but didn't gather much. All the Azish he learned was from the Makabaki tea traders, and they spoke almost no Alethi.

They talked for all of what felt like two minutes until she gestured toward Moash.

Sigzil jumped, then said, "I'm sorry, Moash. I said I would introduce you too, haven't I? This is the merchant I told you about. Azuran," he said.

She smiled politely at him, even topping it off with a small bow of her head.

"Moash is one of my colleagues," Sigzil said. "And Azuran made that drink I told you about. She works in Highprince Sebarial's camp."

"That's far," he said. "You didn't bother to meet her yourself?"

Sigzil scratched the back of his neck. "We agreed to meet here."

"It's not so bad," she said. "I didn't even notice the time pass."

"Thank you again," Sigzil said. "It was very helpful."

"The best one in there was King Kaxia, wasn't it?" she said. "It's always King Kaxia."

She angled herself to face them both. "Well, it was good to see you again, Sigzil-an. And it was nice to meet you too, Moash. I'll be on my way now."

"That's it?" Moash asked.

Sigzil and Azuran exchanged glances. "Did you want the other script?" she asked.

"No, those were perfect," Sigzil said.

"Great! Then I'll see you next time."

"How did you get here?" Moash asked. Roion's camp was the closest one to them, and he could barely see it in the distance, only indicated by the faint yellow and white lights.

"The main way to travel between camps is by carriage," Azuran said. She threw up her hood, covering her face in shadow again.

She waved, then turned around and returned in the direction from which she'd come. "Bye now!" she said over her shoulder.

"It's already one thing you made her come out here," Moash said under his breath as they faced her retreating back, "but even worse that it was for thirty seconds."

Sigzil shushed him.

They continued to walk towards the chasms. Everyone had now passed them, already on their descent down into the spot they'd marked as their training site.

"So, all of those books were hers?" Moash asked, pointing with his chin at Sigzil's bag.

"They're scripts," he said. "I forgot to mention that Azuran performs in ribbon shows. They are like plays, only that they are dramatic recollections of past events, passed down over generations."

"You had someone come all the way here to give you stories?" Moash asked.

"Not stories," Sigzil clarified. "Histories. Albeit embellished ones."

"How is that going to be more helpful than what the ardents gave you?" Moash asked.

"Corroboration, Moash. The Alethelans destroyed most of the records of the tribes they conquered. The Vorin texts have those biases I told you about, and with everything else locked up in Kharbranth, my next greatest hope is with ribbon show scripts."

"This sounds like you want to give Kaladin a history lesson."

They approached the chasm's edge, where they were now able to hear the bridgemen's voices from the bottom. The rope ladder hung between them. Sigzil looked toward the horizon at the same time a breeze picked up over the Plains.

"The King Kaxia story," he said, "was about a parshman leader who ruled during the first Alethelan conquests. It's a common folk tale in the west. He was rumored to have supernatural abilities. As I read it, I couldn't help but think that his powers were eerily similar to the abilities of the Knights Radiant."

Moash raised an eyebrow. Everyone knew the old Radiants to be lighteyed knights who warred with the ancient tribes of parshmen.

"This is why I had to start looking for foreign sources," he said. "The ardentia's collection is impressive, but not without its shortcomings. A lot of the stories from the Vorin library portray the parshmen tribes as though they weren't human. This only makes sense because Alethelan conquerors wrote those stories."

Moash looked down at the bridgemen gathered around each other at the bottom. They looked like ants from up here.

"Sounds to me like you want to start a fight," Moash said, still looking down at them.

Sigzil didn't laugh. Moash wasn't sure if he'd ever seen him laugh. "I'm more interested in understanding the truth," he said. "Hopefully, before Highprince Kholin announces that he does."

⋆˚࿔

Cenn’s unseeing eyes.

Kaladin blinked, gritting his teeth as he forced himself onward to observe the training bridgemen in the chasms. It didn’t help in the slightest. He heard spears clashing and his brain treated it as an incomplete script, adding in the cries and pleas of dying men.

Dallet’s scream.

"Can you try to look less pathetic?" Moash shouted to the training bridgemen, his voice clawing Kaladin out of his mind. He was on the opposite side of the line, brashly correcting their transitions between stances. Though his advice was vague, it was a lot like how the old drill sergeants used to teach them. Despite the distracting noise, his body was steadfast on remembering, with his grip remaining tight on the spear as his heart still raced.

Even the weather that night was the same as the weather that terrible day. A steady drizzle of rain. He told the bridgemen that they’d take no days off regardless of how bad the weather got—a highstorm being the only exception. Precious lighteyed lives were at stake, of course. Honest darkeyed men were nothing but necessary sacrifices.

“Kaladin?” Syl’s voice, concerned, drowned out the sounds of spears and sparring.

He looked up, now noticing how hard he was breathing, and saw that everyone was in deep focus as they slowly shifted from stance to stance. Moash stood in front of the line of twenty with his arms folded, nodding in approval. He'd also seemed focused. Good. That made for a good soldier.

Fodder. It made for good fodder.

“Why aren't you talking?” Syl hovered in front of him as he walked. Her blue white dress appeared as if it was spilling into the air, cutting off at her knees.

He kept walking because if he stopped, someone would notice. Moash had yet to say anything, thankfully.

Kaladin continued on with the rest of his observations. He made a few corrections here and there, but none of them were with the same attention to detail as before. He felt like a resurrected sacrificial animal, here only to help prepare his kin for slaughter.

He slowed to a stop, noticing that he was glaring at nothing. Kaladin had arrived at the end of the line of men practicing their katas, standing a short distance away from them. It would only be a few minutes before he’d have to go to his next shift. But there was a problem with even that. All of it was connected to him.

He could tell Syl that was the problem, but then she'd counter him again, insisting that Dalinar was a man of honor. Didn't she get that they said this about Amaram too?

He watched her looking at him, her constantly inquisitive eyes watching him for the next step. Beneath her translucent appearance, he could see tiny specks of white light flying around each other; like stars in frantic motion.

"Just thinking," he said.

He waited for Syl to relax or make a quip or do whatever spren did—anything that would distract her. Every conversation about Dalinar ended the same and he was tired of hearing it. The best he could do for now was try to ignore his feelings for the sake of the bridgemen. Their progress mattered more.

"What do you think of Moash?" he asked. For the past few nights since the brawl in the tavern, Kaladin had Moash train the newer recruits. Teft had taken his spot with Skar in guarding the King.

With the arrival of the bridgemen as guards being a cause of suspicion for all the lighteyes, it didn't help that Moash, as one of the most important guards, was constantly getting into fights and arguments. Kaladin still remembered the shame that crept up on him as prince Adolin stood there, clearly enjoying Dalinar’s criticism of the soldiers' behavior, including wearing the uniform properly.

The King had even complained one day that someone had called to him out of turn, but he didn't know who it was. Of course, Kaladin knew immediately who it was, but he said nothing. No need to make complaining easier for a man barely fit to lead.

But there was no hiding who was involved in a bar fight with lighteyed soldiers above his rank. It also didn't help either that some of the bridgemen seemed to relish in Moash's behavior, even though they also should have known better by now. How could Kaladin teach someone that some fights weren't worth picking? It was like reasoning with a child.

"He's scary," Syl replied.

"Like Teft, then."

"Teft is a leader," she said, landing gracefully on his shoulder. "Moash yells."

Moash approached one of the boys, Wendin, and pointed at a spot on the ground. Everyone came to a stop at various parts in their movements, intently watching him as he spoke. Wendin's spearhead was about a foot from the spot to where Moash was pointing.

"They don't have medicine for what you have," Moash said over the laughs of the twenty bridgemen, "so you need to get sharper at this."

Wendin exhaled and straightened himself.

"From first forms," he said. "Go."

Everyone watched the lanky teenager, barely as sturdy as the spear, perform the base forms that would transition into the main stances. With his legs wide and firm beneath him, Wendin went into stonestance, keeping the spear flat in front of him. 

He swung mechanically, much like how a Shardbearer swung his Blade, turning the spear on each side. His lateral movements showed promise. Wendin had a bad habit of turning too much in stonestance. At one point Teft called him a blind crab.

Wendin changed into the eighth form, where he now raised the spear between four points—shoulders and both sides of his hip—and did a flat spin of the weapon. It was surprisingly decent, especially when he could do only windstance comfortably a matter of weeks ago.

Moash kicked Wendin's spear out of his hands. The weapon spun on its tip in the air, and it clattered to the ground.

"Almost there," Moash said, sounding bored.

"Wait!" Wendin jumped, rushing to grab it. "Can I try again?"

Moash looked to Kaladin, who now had his arms folded. "We have the time," Kaladin said. There were about fifteen minutes left before they'd have to leave, and thirty before he'd have to meet Sigzil. Plus, it was important to nurture the kind of curiosity Wendin showed; it was how great fighters were made.

"Fine."

Wendin performed the movements again, this time with more intensity, as though he were anticipating a hit now. Moash repeated the attack, and Wendin blocked it with a proud smile.

Then, Moash swept his leg under Wendin's, and he barely budged.

"You're all right," Moash said, taking a step back.

"All right?" Wendin repeated. "What's wrong?"

"He's saying that 'cause he's scared," Ino said. Ino was the same age that Kaladin was when he was a squadleader, which felt like a lifetime ago. All of the younger ones were. "Let me try."

"No. Both of you," Moash said.

The boys looked at each other in surprise, but that didn't stop Ino. He stood by Wendin, settling into stonestance. The group made a bigger space around the three of them, and Moash took out his spear.

This wasn't going to be as helpful as Kaladin wished. Ino and Wendin would be fine together, and one person wouldn't pose much of a real challenge to them. He waited anyway to see how Moash would fare.

Moash spun the head of his spear between Wendin and Ino, causing Ino to jump back. Wendin remained in stonestance, frozen by shock as Moash's spear cut towards his waist.

Ino was already to Wendin's defense, pushing away Moash's spear with the end of his own. Good reaction times.

Kaladin paced around them as they fought. Moash seemed to rely on standing between them, hoping to break whatever fledgling cohesion they had. He took one person at a time, and that was only possible by the other person taking too long to interpret what was happening.

He came to a stop by Tov, who watched with wide eyes. Kaladin patted his shoulder. "Go help them, Tov."

"Me? Sir, I—"

—Kaladin pushed Tov into the ring, where he stumbled into stonestance as well, holding out his spear. He held back another smile, seeing Tov frozen several feet from where the three bridgemen fought and yelled at each other.

"Come on!" Gije yelled.

Tov shook the nerves off and went to Ino's side, covering him as Ino went to strike Moash's torso from behind. While Moash blocked an attack from Wendin, he was wide open for Ino's hit, which knocked him off his balance. Kaladin was surprised at how delicate his balance was.

Moash spun around, facing the three encroaching bridgemen. "Are you serious?" he panted. "You needed help?"

"No!" Tov said. He charged at Moash, who already had his spear raised to block, but Tov slid under his legs. In the split second it took for Moash to turn around, Wendin and Ino knocked him off balance during the transition. Tov hit Moash with the end of his spear squarely in the chest.

Moash fell to one knee as he went into a coughing fit.

"He yields!" Ino called.

Kaladin narrowed his eyes at Moash's movements, noticing his grip tighten on the spear at his feet.

In the middle of him heaving another cough, Moash threw the end of his spear backwards into Wendin's stomach.

Wendin fell on his back with a groan. Ino tackled Moash from behind, and Moash threw him on top of Tov, who was confused just long enough to get knocked over.

"Are we done yet?" Moash asked Kaladin, clearly exasperated. The three bridgemen surrounded him on their backs, panting.

"You lied," Ino said, getting up. "Give us a real fight."

"I threw you."

"You were supposed to use the spear only," Ino said. He turned to Kaladin. "It's spear practice, not wrestling. Right, Captain?"

"Affirmative," Kaladin said with a smirk.

"Oh, piss off," Moash said. "They can't fight."

The three of them exclaimed with their own protests, but Moash gave them an amused smile at their reactions. "How about I add a fourth?" Kaladin said.

"I'll do it!" Hebem said, immediately stepping forward.

"Me too," Orim said, standing next to him.

"So five. That sound good?" Kaladin asked.

"That's ridiculous."

"I'll put you back with the King's Guard if you win," he said.

Moash rolled his eyes. Kaladin chuckled, knowing that he wouldn't have been able to even fake a reaction.

The five bridgemen had already surrounded Moash, each getting into formation.

"Somehow he looks scarier," Syl said.

"That's natural," Kaladin replied, "when you leave someone cornered."

Moash went into stonestance. He turned slowly with the spearhead lowered, cursing at them. The five bridgemen twitched at Moash's every movement.

He thrust the end of his spear backwards, where Ino and Tov jumped apart. Moash threw the spear forward and separated Wendin and Orim's formation. But Hebem jumped in and slammed his spear into Moash's, causing splinters to fly.

Despite separating the five of them, they quickly came back together and relentlessly attacked him on every side. Where Moash tried to separate them in one place, they came together in another.

One of them jutted the spear's end at his ankle, causing him to stumble forward to his knees. The other bridgemen closed in on him, blocking off any chance to separate them.

Kaladin grabbed his spear.

He sprinted towards the group. The only one to notice was Ino, who turned around the moment Kaladin struck his spear out of his hands. Ino's spear spun in an arc through the air before landing far on the other side of the training site.

The men all jumped away from Moash, now pacing backwards as Kaladin stepped towards them with his spear angled down.

"Why'd you stop?" he barked. Wendin opened his mouth, and Tov scrambled to get into a stance, but Kaladin picked his target. He darted forward with the spear at his side, then spun between Orim and Hebem, using the end of the spear to strike points in their hips and torso.

He normally didn't go into flamestance, which was a mixture of quick attacks and fast turns. It wasn't as intuitive as windstance was. But their reactions were too slow.

"You think too much," he said, blocking Ino.

Kaladin looked over his shoulder and found Moash with his back to him fighting off Wendin and Hebem.

He moved further backwards while Orim and Ino regained their bearings. Eventually his back was to Moash's, and they fell into a steady rhythm as they paced around in a circle.

"Tomuan," Moash spat.

"You're gonna have to explain what that means later," Kaladin replied as they paced in the circle. "Claw formation."

Claw formation was good for a scenario where they were outnumbered like this. It was all about having more eyes to watch on all sides.

The five of them charged at Kaladin and Moash, only for the pair to flat spin their spears, locking some of the spearheads onto theirs and knock them out of the men's hands.

They separated from each other, turning and fighting in a slow circle. Where Moash had his spear out to attack, Kaladin had covered him from behind, filling the gap.

"You shouldn't be getting tired," Kaladin shouted, easily pushing off Wendin.

The unbalanced sparring match continued, getting to a point where everyone was laughing either at the spectators' comments or at Moash's gibes. Despite the exhausting match (Ino was frustratingly persistent), Kaladin felt much lighter. He felt relaxed.

They'd agreed to call it a draw, despite all five bridgemen failing to counter properly without Kaladin or Moash going easy on them.

As they left the chasms, the recruits of Bridge Fifteen were now speaking animatedly amongst themselves about the match.

Kaladin walked ahead of them with his chin up. He'd almost forgotten what was most important.

He listened to their voices behind him, boastful and full of laughter, and felt the gentle pull of a smile on his lips.

He shouldn't have been surprised that Dalinar was close friends with Amaram. He shouldn't have even been surprised to see Amaram in the camps, as he'd always had plans to make it to the Shattered Plains.

This was all about buying time. How often would this many darkeyes abandoned by their society get an opportunity to make something of themselves again? It was a given that in an Alethi warcamp that different unsavory royals would be mixing with each other. As the saying went, every Alethi noble's seal was painted in blood first. The Blackthorn was certainly no exception.

If they were going to be here with the chance to form a powerful unit, then Kaladin needed to keep his promise and lead them there. He'd be a fool to let anything get in the way of that.

His grievances with Amaram were his own, and Kaladin would get his justice one way or another.

"You know what Teft said about you once?" Syl said coyly, flying around him.

"That my head is filled with chasm refuse."

"Not this time," she said, landing on his shoulder. "He said you're good at this. You're like a Bondsmith. But for people."

Kaladin looked back at the raucous group of bridgemen behind him, all pestering Moash with questions. He faced the front. "People aren't so difficult to make get along," he said. Sometimes all it took was a good fight. In this case, it would be a fight and a pot of stew.

⋆˚࿔

On his one afternoon off in weeks, Moash was in the marketplace, wading upstream through the mess of customers and soldiers on duty. He weaved through rug merchants carrying tall cases over their heads and Liaforan cobblers vying for the attention of anyone with a pulse. The shouts and conversations fell behind him as he made his way back to the less interesting part of the camp—that is to say, the side that didn't have tents and tarps full of makeshift businesses.

He'd finally ended up in the part of the darkeyed ring where off duty soldiers lingered outside the two taverns that were set up right across the street from each other. One was owned by a one-eye named Ros, and the other was the one the bridgemen preferred. Everything there was cheaper, and Ka, the barmaid, had always given them discounts.

He didn't feel like making conversation, so he went into Ros' tavern. Moash grimaced as he felt the top of his head almost brush the wooden ceiling on his way in.

Storms, he'd been in wagons bigger than this box. On his right he was met with a ramshackle bar, which had the names of drinks carved into the bartop.

On the left, tables with barely enough room to fit two people were pushed against each other, with a couple of them leaning against the wall. Light came in as dusty shafts through the narrow windows, only highlighting more of the damaged and worn furniture that filled the place.

He looked ahead to the back and made eye contact with a darkeyes in leathers, too big for his table, who nodded up at him. Moash returned the greeting. "You from the bridge crews?" the man asked. Southern Alethi accent. Those people practically had their own language with how they talked.

Moash nodded once.

"Come have a drink."

He crossed the room in a matter of two and a half steps before shuffling aside one of the tables to make room for himself at this one. Now that Moash was closer, despite being in the shadows, he finally saw the head of the axe's blade that glinted off his back. Suddenly, all his features harmonized together into the face of an old friend.

"Rill?" Moash leaned forward. "What're you doing here?"

Rill shook his head and rested a palm by his glass, each movement slow and laden by bone-deep fatigue. "I was looking for you."

"What happened with you?" Moash asked. The last he'd seen Rill was on Jam's caravan. Moash was such an entirely different person then that it felt wrong to even claim those memories as his own.

"We were on the route headed to the Takelekman settlement."

The words Takelekman settlement sparked another visceral reaction within him that he somehow managed to contain. "Couple of the caravanneers were working for one of Hashal's officers. We walked right into one of their traps."

"The whole time I thought you'd made it," he said.

He shook his head. "We were on the crews for about a couple of months. Then your guys pulled that stunt. Found out you were with them, so now I'm here."

His mind came up blank. There was nothing else to say in response to that when the stunt defied everything they knew to be true about nature.

"Aye, Ros!" Rill called towards the empty bar. "Another round! Make it two."

He sunk backwards into his much too small chair with a groan.

"I was wondering where y'went," Rill said. "I'm surprised to see you in uniform. You never went home?"

"Haven't planned on it in years," he said. Even the idea of going home sounded as foreign to him as going to another country.

"Figures. You'd be an idiot to leave. Pay looks good."

Paranoia or curiosity compelled him to look over his shoulder. Annoyingly, both emotions asked the same questions.

"Barman's slow," Rill said.

But Moash's thoughts were far from a drink. He turned to face Rill, a living relic of a time where Moash's wounds were freshest, and felt the dormant rage surge through his veins. He'd been able to contain it better in more recently.

The creaking of wood behind the bar prompted Moash to adjust his posture. The more he simmered, the more he grew aware of his surroundings. His eyes shifted to the floorboards, as if to see if there were any Cobalt guards hiding beneath them. Only a water damaged wall stood behind Rill. To their right was an overflowing shelf of old pots.

The floor creaked with heavy footsteps coming toward their table. Ros, a pudgy man with thick red fingers, set two mugs of foaming ale on the table. He cursed his leg and walked away.

Moash met Rill's eyes.

He remembered the first expedition he'd done after the last time he had come home. He remembered a shadow stretch over Rill's face when he'd told him about how everything had changed.

The shadow had shrunken and hidden itself away in his dark eyes, as if to show Moash that he didn't even have to ask if Rill remembered.

"Not much has changed, though. Even with the new job," he said. Mercenaries and lighteyes had one thing in common, besides being above the law, and that was speaking in codes.

Though he did speak truthfully. His feelings about the King hadn't changed. The lighteyes hadn't changed, despite them sharing the same titles. Everything was painfully the same.

"It's gotten tough to make a life," Rill said. "That doesn't surprise me."

Moash placed a hand against the cool wet glass. He wasn't far from making his own carvings on the table to give himself something to do.

"I've got a few friends around the Plains, jaanan," Rill said. "They've also got their own debts. They'd want help negotiating."

"Friends?"

"They travel in and around." Rill adjusted himself in the seat. Unfortunately, nothing he'd do would make it any less awkward looking. "One of them owns this bar."

"Is it-?" Moash tilted his head in the direction where Ros left, and Rill waved his hand to say no.

"He's clean cut," he said. "He's around here sometimes."

"Do you work with him?"

"For him, sometimes," he said. Moash's eyes flicked to the blade shining behind Rill, and he took a sip of his drink. His heart beat quicker. He didn't know why. "He's good at finding the people he wants to meet."

Rill leaned forward.

"I told him about you, so he might've seen you already," he said. "And I've been looking for you to tell you that if nothing's changed, you can move in with us. We're in the outer ring. It's a comfortable place. I'm in the room upstairs. Lets me see who's who."

Rill leaned back, then downed the rest of the ale in a single gulp.

By this point now the evening colors of Salas' moon had leaked into the windows, tinting everything in a very pale purple.

Then, in a loud clatter, Rill had gotten up from his spot, rattling the whole table and splashing Moash's drink everywhere. The mercenary had walked toward the counter, and once he'd turned, Moash had noticed the single braid he'd worn was half its length from what he remembered.

"You leaving?" a gruff voice shouted from the back.

"Yeah. Put all his drinks on the house. He's a friend," Rill said. He turned at the waist. "I've got an appointment. If I don't see you at the house, I'll see you here."

Rill placed two fingers against his chest, and Moash returned the gesture without a second thought. It was an old gesture they used to do during the caravanning days. Both a greeting and a farewell. But in this case, he wasn't sure what it was.

Chapter Text

That evening after dinner, Kaladin finished going around the barracks' grounds to collect empty stew bowls. He’d have to remind the lads these needed to be handed back. A good number of them did behave like proper soldiers, either because they were before being condemned to being bridgemen, or because they picked up instruction quickly. Others, he could tell were just unfortunate and didn’t have the discipline beat into them.

He handed the stack of bowls to Rock, who just chuckled. He’d been scraping the inside of the massive pot to clean out the dried stew.

“You work in kitchen too?” he said, his voice booming.

“I’m whatever I’m needed to be, Rock,” Kaladin replied. “At least until I can get everyone in order.”

“Mmm. You have likani. In your eyes.”

Did that mean sleep? Kaladin felt around his eyes, but didn’t find any crust. Rock laughed at him.

“What, is it a Horneater reference I missed?”

“Mmm no. It is word. You know big animal with three wings?”

“A kulikon?”

“Yes. It is in your eyes.”

Kaladin blinked. And Rock laughed. He leaned over the steel plates next to the big pot to be met with his confused reflection. There was a stray curl that slipped from behind his ear, but otherwise, nothing out of place.

“You don’t see?”

“…No,” he said.

Rock cursed in his language. “Silly language. You have no word for this?” he touched the bottom of his eye.

“Oh. Bags? That’s nothing to worry about.”

“Yes it is,” he said, now solemn.

Syl then appeared from behind Rock’s head and spun around his head, leaving behind a blue spiral of light. “Honored one!” he called, trying to follow her with his head as she spun.

“Syl, stop messing with him.”

“He doesn’t mind!” she said, slowing down as she smiled at him. Once Syl stopped between them, Rock bowed his head towards her. While his head was down, she gave Kaladin a smug grin before he raised his head.

“You know what we say? About likani in our eyes?” he said. Kaladin shook his head. “Of course you do not know. Likani are very heavy. You know what happens when I put likani claw on your tiny body?”

“It hasn’t come to mind, I guess.”

“It rips your face,” he said somberly.

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would I put that on my face?”

“Alethi people chase chasmfiends. Of course you don’t understand.”

“I’ll rest eventually, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just have to get used to this,” Kaladin said, gesturing to the barracks behind him.

“You should get used to it soon,” Syl said, looking at him with genuine concern. “Your skin could rip.”

Rock nodded, expression ever serious. “Also, it is good for others if you are rest. It is good for me.”

“It’s also good for me if you don’t worry about me,” he said. “That’s my job.”

At that moment, they heard clattering from one of the storerooms close to the gates. Light still came from the open door.

Kaladin realized it as soon as he saw the wagon of spears outside the first storeroom.

"I have to go take care of that," he said. "Anyway, thanks, Rock. But I mean it. Don't worry about me. I've done all this before. Things are just a little different now."

He jogged over to the first storeroom, which held the spears and training equipment for the bridgemen. The floor was littered with head and shin guards that Kaladin didn't think he'd ever seen used during practice. On both his right and left were long rows of spears, placed carefully in little slots in the wall.

Ahead in the cramped space, stood Shen. His back was to the entrance as he lifted one of the helmets and placed it in the empty shelf in front of him.

Kaladin raised his chin. “Hi Shen."

He paused and looked over his shoulder. Even while working, he still wore the carapace guards over his shoulders. The skin markings on his face, resembling veins, were darker in this light. “Good evening. Sir," he said. He was soft-spoken, so Kaladin had to strain to hear him sometimes.

“Did you take apart this entire place?" Kaladin asked, looking up at the now bare shelves that were once cluttered with dusty equipment.

“I was tasked with organizing the storeroom, sir."

Kaladin shook his head, picking up one of the shin guards. “I told Lopen to do that."

Shen's posture faltered.

“Don't let him pass on his job to you," he said. “He's always giving his jobs to people and calls it trading."

He nodded. Shen resumed diligently putting away the head guards on the top shelf. White shine traveled over Shen's carapace guards as he changed his position. They were a mesmerizing sight—each shell was arranged neatly in rows overlapping each other. They were the color of spilled oil, with various shades of red, green, and orange on a black base.

“I saw there was a wagon of staves."

Shen rose, not quite facing Kaladin. “They are rotted through, sir."

“Understood. I'll have Leyten put them out in the morning," he said. “Is there anything else you needed?"

“New staves, sir."

“I'll put in a request, then. Anything else?"

Shen held the head guard with two hands. He looked to Kaladin. “It is a question, sir," he said.

“Go ahead."

He waited to speak. Every word Shen spoke was careful and purposeful, like he was scared of saying the wrong thing.

“Am I Bridge Four?"

“Of course you are. What made you think otherwise?"

“Everyone else fights," he said. “I do not."

Kaladin tried not to let his surprise show. “It's not just you," he said. “Rock also doesn't fight. But he doesn't need to if he's in the kitchens, and you don't need to if you're in the storerooms."

Thankfully, Shen nodded. “I understand."

Kaladin let out a breath, expelling the tension with it. “I'll leave you to this," he said, gesturing to the mess. Shen had already begun putting away the gear.

He'd been dreading this conversation considering how much the spear took up the bridgemen's lives, but Shen should have known better. There was no world where a parshman could hold any weapon and not be seen as an enemy. He'd be risking all their lives, including his own.

Kaladin left. If Shen wasn't going to bear a spear, then he could have at least kept his guards.

༄.°

Moash was the last to get to the lighteyed training grounds on the one brightday they had that week.

Once he'd gotten down from the winding, sandy pathway that led to the fence, he saw that the other men he was supposed to be on shift with had joined the crowds of people watching an intense duel inside the grounds.

Plumes of brown dust rose from the sand, streaked with flashes of bright white light. Moash only caught brief glimpses of a blue coat and the light of a Shardblade jumping out from the dust clouds.

He moved past some of the gathered ardents, squinting past the sand that flew in his face as he approached the gate. As the dust clouds settled, the battle looked like it was calming down. Once the training grounds were visible again, Moash was looking at Zahel with a Shardblade high above his head.

And Kaladin was before him.

The light shined off of Kaladin's focused eyes, staring at Zahel with the same intensity he had when training. Any right-minded person who knew anything about Shardblades wouldn't have put themselves on the other end of it, even if there was a guard on it. But with Kaladin, there was never fear; only passion.

Zahel lowered the Shardblade and slipped off the brown guard that covered the edges. Its white light shone even brighter, its majesty self-evident, as everyone around him let out sounds of awe. It wasn't often that they used Shardblades in the lighteyed training grounds, let alone using them without the guards.

Even the ardents and other training lighteyes stopped what they were doing to look upon it with a believer's fervor.

But Moash waited with bated breath.

Zahel swung the Shardblade at him.

“Hey!” Moash leaped over the fence, hand already on his spear. Kal was fast enough to dodge, but there was no way he was going to survive against a Shardblade.

“Wait!”

Three ardents jumped in front of him, and Moash, about to shove them aside, felt himself get pulled back by another. He struggled against them, already grumbling about how strangely in shape they were.

“Sir, this is part of a routine exercise,” the ardent holding him back said. “The soldier simply requested for him to remove the guard.”

Moash stared ahead, expression hard as Kal all but flew like a ribbon around the Blade.

He really was incredible at this. At one point, Zahel made contact with Kal’s spear, basically reducing it to half its size. But Kal kept going.

He relaxed, watching them kick up sand and say things to each other he couldn’t hear.

Moash looked over his shoulder, seeing the ardent was still holding onto his collar. The others still stood in front of him, clearly fearful.

“You can let go now,” he said.

The ardent jolted, as if suddenly now noticing what he was doing, and let go of him. The others backed away slowly, regarding him as if he were a beast let out of his cage for the first time.

He leaned against the fence, folding his arms around the spear as he watched the fight. It wasn’t looking good for Kaladin. He was barely holding up. But it was still amazing that he was lasting this long.

If everyone in Bridge Four alone could hold up like he did, they would have been unstoppable.

On the other side of the ring, the princeling watched in full Shardplate.

The dust clouds continued to build up as the fight intensified. The Shardblade's light weaved through the dust clouds, causing the grounds to resemble a lightning storm in a desert.

The dust settled rapidly, and Zahel was standing over Kal, who lay on the ground panting, with the Blade to his neck.

“You’re dead, son,” Zahel said.

Moash walked around the ring to hear them better.

“…You aren’t chasing down Renarin like that,” Kaladin said, chest rising and falling. He tossed the quarterstaff aside with a thud. “I win.”

“You’re still dead.”

“My job is to stop you from killing Renarin. With what I just did, he escapes. Doesn’t matter if the bodyguard is dead.”

Moash scoffed to himself. Stubborn fool. He wasn’t sure if Kaladin was just trying to win an argument again or actually prove that he was the bodyguard Dalinar wanted him to be.

“And what if the assassin had a friend?” a new voice joined the conversation, and everyone was now looking at the princeling. He held his helmet in one hand, smiling as if he wasn't begging for his life on the battlefield only a matter of months ago.

“Kal,” Moash called as he now noticed the next group of bridgemen coming through the gates, already talking excitedly amongst themselves about what had just happened. He didn’t want to have to sit through hearing Adolin speak. “We g–”

“If there were two of them, bridgeboy?” Adolin asked louder as he took a step forward. “Could you fight two Shardbearers at once? If I wanted to kill Father or the king, I’d never send just one.”

Kaladin slowly got up, glowering as he rolled his shoulders. Moash scoffed. If it was him, Adolin wouldn't have gotten a chance to finish his sentence.

If it was him, none of them would get so comfortable talking to them like they weren't worth the dust beneath their feet.

Moash noticed the other bridgemen watching them with scrutiny all over their faces. There was no question they'd also heard what the princeling said, wondering how their captain would react. But it wasn't like that mattered. He waited for Kaladin to head toward the gate and get reports from the next waiting group as if nothing happened.

“All right,” Zahel said. “I’m sure he sees the point. No need–”

Kaladin sprinted towards Adolin.

And Adolin chuckled.

He put on the helmet and summoned his Shardblade. Adolin swung it towards Kaladin, clearly expecting for him to run right into it. But Kaladin halted just before the Blade and slammed his spear against it, causing it to fly out of Adolin’s hands.

Moash couldn't believe it.

The bridgemen cheered from the east entrance. But Moash knew those cheers carried a second meaning. Kaladin Stormblessed, the bridgeleader, wasn't all gone. And better than that, he charged at a Shardbearer.

He watched with his mouth agape. This was unnatural. It was incredible.

Kaladin slammed himself into Adolin’s chestplate, toppling them both to the ground. He pulled his quarterspear out, as if he was waiting for this moment. He struck downwards towards Adolin’s faceplate.

Adolin swept a hand upward. The hit landed on Kaladin’s chin, sending him flying into the air. He landed on the other side of the arena.

“Kal!” Moash called.

“Idiot!” Zahel snapped.

Kaladin got up, struggling to even move when he ran back towards Adolin, his right arm flopping at his side. Adolin stepped aside from Zahel, hand out to resummon his Blade. Kaladin kicked up the spear, about to make a connecting hit in one fluid movement.

Zahel brought out his Blade, stopping it just short at Kaladin’s neck. Adolin grabbed Kaladin’s arm, with his own Blade at his side.

“You’re dead,” he said. “Again.”

Kaladin’s back was to Moash and the rest of the bridgemen. He fell slowly to his knees as both Blades surrounding him vanished. His shoulders came in, clearly defeated. Kaladin fell backwards in the sand.

Moash felt something swell in his chest. Shardbearers normally fought other Shardbearers, because fighting anyone else was an instant death sentence for that person. But Kaladin proved them wrong, even if he lost. If he hadn't been cornered, if he had support, things would have been different.

If the bridgemen were with him, they'd be a threat. There would be no begging for mercy. No being thrown around.

“Go help your brother,” Zahel ordered Adolin before crouching by Kaladin.

Moash stepped into the dueling ring, where splatters of blood had mixed into the sand. Zahel paid him no mind.

“You don’t flinch when someone swings a Blade at you. You actually have fought Shardbearers before, haven’t you?” Zahel spoke.

“Yes.”

Zahel grunted, poking around at Kaladin’s arms and shoulders. “Nothing broken. How are your ribs?”

“They’re fine.”

“All right. Then I’ll just call you an idiot for thinking you had a chance,” he said.

Kal didn’t budge. He stared blankly upwards; like the most serene looking corpse there ever was.

“You both really are the same,” Zahel mused. “Adolin wouldn’t let me teach him either. Not at first.”

Kal’s eyes flew open with disgust. “I’m nothing like him.”

Zahel bellowed a laugh, even nudging Kaladin's leg before he walked toward the east entrance.

Moash watched the other sparring men on the north end, identifying which ones were using the Shardblade stances, and which ones were using the standard sword movements. He noticed Wendin and the other younger bridgemen watching the sparring sessions with great focus, as they hadn’t been down here before. Up until now, it had mostly been some of Bridge Four’s best that were sent up here to guard.

Now he was thinking about the unit Bridge Four could become with enough training. If they all fought like Kaladin, then there would be no need to watch their step or hold their breaths. They could all leave this behind, if they wanted to.

Kaladin sat up, exhaling breaths of faint white mist. His eyes were half open until they landed on Moash. Then, he stood up, moving more fluidly than before as he dusted off his uniform.

"Kaladin, that—"

“I heard you earlier. The next shift is here?” he asked.

Moash narrowed his eyes at him. Part of it was to see how much the Stormlight healed, which was an impressive amount. He still looked exhausted, but the bruises didn’t seem to be there. Moash also wanted to make sure that he didn’t look as stupid as Kal thought he must have been.

"Yes."

Kaladin cleared his throat. "Good."

They turned to walk back towards the east entrance.

"You held up well against him," he commented, looking past Kaladin's already sulking demeanor.

Kaladin said nothing, so Moash didn't either. He knew what a defeated man looked like, and there was no getting to him like that. He never listened.

“You know who’s on duty here next, right?” Kaladin asked. He paid no attention to the mix of darkeyes and ardents staring at him as they passed.

“Yeah,” he said. Their pace slowed as they approached the others.

“Sounds good. I have to go up to the palace. I’m leaving you in charge here. Just listen to whatever Zahel tells you.”

Moash furrowed his brow as he came to a stop. Kaladin continued walking on past the rest of the bridgemen without giving them so much as a glance.

༄.°

Kaladin polished his boots in the warm light of the fire again. In a funny way, the worst shifts were the ones where he had to do his job.

He didn’t even have to see that brat’s smug face under the helm. It was the cursed laugh. The very obvious show of him being so amused that he was able to get under the bridgeman’s skin. Everything was entertainment for them, if not just a tool. Culture, religion, people's lives.

Kaladin set one boot down with a quiet thud onto the stone. It shone.

It was well after dinner now, and he was the only one this close to the fire. The few other men that were off duty were talking amongst themselves in groups around the barracks' courtyard.

Kaladin picked up the other boot, setting the dirtied towel over his knee as he turned the boot over in his hands. Scuff marks stained the edges. He picked at one of them, finding there was a cut hidden among the marks. The scuffs from that spat were annoyingly stubborn.

He’d put all his energy into that fight. It still counted for nothing. Even with Stormlight, he still was tossed around like a leaf to the wind.

Despite the other men’s idealistic thinking, he ended up proving himself right. Even with these abilities, it meant nothing if he had this little control over them.

He picked at the cut. It cracked the dull shine of the leather, but there was no use in being upset over this either. Cuts just meant it was being used. It marked the boots as his.

Kaladin felt a presence, expecting it to be Syl, but no blue light poked at his vision. He looked up to find Moash headed towards him, having just left a conversation with one of the bridgemen. He’d been doing a lot of socializing since he began training in the chasms.

Where it was easier for Kaladin to talk in smaller groups or one-on-one with others, Moash weaved between groups of bridgemen fluidly. He was jealous at how easily it came to him.

“Hey,” he said, pulling up an overturned log and sat next to him.

Kaladin noted the spear on his back. “Hey,” he said. “You still didn’t eat yet?”

“I just came back from training. Skar told me he's going to Dalinar,” he said.

Kaladin set the boot down. He stretched his ankle. “I’m surprised you’re here. I thought you would have gone out by now.”

"No. I’m tired and don’t want Lopen to find me.”

“So he really does challenge people to play these games.”

“It’s not a challenge if you’re being forced to play it,” he said. “It also wouldn’t be so bad if he was physically capable of participating.”

Kaladin snorted. He put on the boots. “He’s gotten a lot stronger.”

“Not strong enough to hold down a single pint of this camp’s most watered down ale,” Moash said.

He chuckled, leaning back on his palms. For a moment, he looked towards the sky, finding it scattered with clouds stretching themselves just thin enough to let the moonlight through. The deep purple light had slowly grown even paler compared to the beginning of the month. Time was passing by quickly.

“I don’t know what you did with them, but the new bridgemen…it’s like they’ve transformed,” Kaladin said softly. "My original hope was that you’d all be trained reasonably in at least a year. But at this rate, it might be in half that time.”

“We’ll teach them how to use swords next then,” he said.

“Moash, we’re still–”

“–Darkeyes. Yes, whatever,” he said. “I'm sure you care a lot about that.”

Moash turned to face the fire.

“Tell me something," he said. "Since that Amaram fellow came to this camp, you haven’t been the same. I’ve seen how you look at him. I see how your face gets when the other bridgemen mention him. What did he do to you?”

Storms, he thought he'd watched himself better than this.

Kaladin’s hand rose towards the brands on his forehead.

The story of Kaladin's relationship to Meridas Amaram wasn't long or even complicated. He'd been a fool for a long time, even willingly, until he'd paid the price for it. Amaram was an honorable man. Nothing was ever his fault, even when he'd failed to protect Tien as he'd promised.

It was one thing to believe in ideals, but it was another to ignore reality. It had taken Kaladin much too long to realize that lighteyes being the stewards of humanity was only ever an excuse for darkeyed subjugation. He just didn't know why understanding such a simple truth took so much time.

“I was in his army,” Kaladin said. "The last place I fought. Before…"

He grew quiet as he searched for the words.

--

Moash stared at the brands, only able to recognize the glyph that marked him as dangerous. “That’s his work then?” he asked.

A pause. “Yeah.”

He looked to the fire, watching the wood splinter underneath the flames. “I didn’t know.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Doesn’t mean I‌ didn’t notice something was wrong,”‌ he said. “You’re gonna tell Dalinar?”

Kaladin scoffed. “He wouldn’t believe me.”‌

“Why wouldn’t he?‌” Moash asked. “Look at what we’ve done for him. What you’ve done for him.”

“It’s not going to add up to his reputation. It’s pointless.”

“So you’re just going to protect them while they celebrate him?‌ Come on, that’s ridiculous.”

He said nothing. In fact, he was still. Moash opened his mouth, but Kaladin spoke first.

“I’ll tell him.”

There was no emotion in the words. It didn’t even sound like he believed himself.

Moash watched him carefully. The fire was bright; lighting up every feature of Kaladin’s face. But it made the shadows harsher. He hid the anger or whatever it was pretty well. But in the light of the flames, he could still see remnants of it. The bridgeleader was in there, somewhere.

“You’ll tell him and then hope he’s executed, right? Better yet, he locks him up, since they’re still friends.”

He continued to stare ahead at the fire.

“He won’t execute him,” he said. “If he believes me, he…” he stopped short of himself.

“You’re not sure.” He didn't reply, so Moash was probably right. “And you’re willing to die for these guys?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Earlier, during that fight. You told Zahel it didn’t matter if the bodyguard died as long as the princeling was safe. I‌ could replace that with anyone in the royal family,”‌ he said. “And I‌ know you’d die for Bridge Four, but I‌ don’t know about the royal family. Maybe you would.”

“It’s our job to protect them.”

“I‌ know. So would you do it?”

“You know Zahel,” Kaladin said. “He’s an annoying man. I said that so he’d be quiet.”

“I don’t know. It sounded like you meant it.”

He grunted. “Maybe I‌ did.”

"You talk like you have no choice," Moash muttered, trying to keep his irritation tempered.

Kaladin said nothing.

Moash stood up. There wasn’t going to be more coming from this.

“So," he said, looking ahead at the gates. "Amaram’s not the hero people say he is.”‌

“His soul is as dark as any I’ve ever known.”

Moash’s hand balled into a fist as he looked at Kaladin’s back. How many of these stories was he going to hear? Forget the stories from the other bridgemen whose only solace in this camp was each other’s company. Forget Moash and his own grievances; how he was thrown into a metaphorical chasm on Sadeas’ whim. Ana and Da.

He’d always wondered how someone like Kaladin ended up in this life. He sounded too educated; seemed too highborn for it to make sense that he’d be branded as a slave with a shash brand of all things.

“Doesn't matter what you say. We’re going to get back at them,” he said. A breeze nudged his hair and the flames with it, but Kaladin didn’t budge. The words remained still, the statement hanging in the air despite the wind, and Kal turned around as if to see they were there, only to see Moash still standing.

Moash met his gaze. “Sadeas. Amaram. The ones who did these things to us,”‌ he said. “They won’t get away with any of it.”

“Mmm,”‌ he said, turning around and resting his elbows on his knees.

Moash nodded. It was good enough for him.

༄.°

Time in the Kholin warcamp passed slowly, but painfully. The highprinces of other camps continued expressing their doubts and suspicions, all to be stoked by Highprince Sadeas, who was proving himself to seem the more reasonable as the days on the Plains passed. Sadeas still had maintained and perfected what it meant to really be an Alethi general, to the discomfort of those participating in the war. His soldiers were always training outside of the camps, and his scribes regularly had stratagem meetings with the other highprinces. All the while he was working with Highprince Aladar and Sebarial on streamlining foreign resources among all the armies. There was little question about his commitment to punishing the Parshendi, which had the lighteyes of the camps talking amongst themselves. If the Alethi were true to their cause, then surely men like Dalinar weren't fit to lead.

But Dalinar didn't let these rumors compromise his morale, nor did he allow for anyone working under him to grow despondent. Despite what everyone in his camp had heard and felt, he continued to push forward in trying to unite the highprinces with the help of Adolin's dueling challenges. Except now, fewer and fewer duelists would accept Adolin's proposals as a result of Sadeas meddling in these plans with his carefully placed spies.

As for the bridgemen, life had become more difficult. The lighteyes clung to the tavern fight in the central ring as explicit proof as to why they shouldn't have been hired in the first place. Even their captain seemed to not care about the rules either. He kept talking during discussions not meant for his rank to participate in. He didn't use the proper titles of Brightlord and Brightness, instead using the standard military addresses. He and his men seemed intent on disobeying the rules.

But how could the lighteyes know that this couldn't have been further from the truth?

Kaladin, who mustered up the will to tell Dalinar the truth about Amaram instead of killing the rat outright, did everything to follow the rules. Maybe there was the one time where he didn't use the proper honorific for King Elhokar and made a jab at the lighteyed soldiers who trained for him, but he was quickly corrected and made sure not to let his emotions get the best of him. In fact, it was Moash of all people who corrected him. Surely that meant something.

All the bridgemen knew and understood the most important rules about being a soldier. Kaladin embodied those expectations.

A soldier was supposed to be focused on an objective——whether if it was to win a battle or to march to a certain destination. There was no room for resentment or distractions. Even if his commanding officer didn't believe the truth. Even if his commanding officer dressed him down for speaking the truth.

Though no matter how much Kaladin put on a stoic face in hopes of being an example for the men he led, Moash was there to add fuel to the fire that burned in every one of the bridgemen.

Sometimes he thought it was a mistake to have Moash teach so many of the Bridge Fifteen recruits. Many of them were Dunny's age and were highly impressionable, and they still haven't had that insatiable anger at society's failures towards them quelled yet. (Though perhaps quelled was the wrong word.)

As for Moash himself, anger fueled his every movement since he'd come to the Shattered Plains.

He didn't intend to cage it forever like Kaladin did, and only Rill remembered why.

༄.°

Excluding their first few interactions, Moash always thought Kaladin to be level-headed. He ran around with planks of wood, not to waste his energy, but to get stronger. He shared his food with the bridge crew, not because he wasn't hungry, but to show them they were stronger as a team. He talked to the air, not because he was insane, but because he had an invisible friend. There was always some good reason for the madness he displayed.

But there was no way to make sense of his behavior since they began working for Dalinar Kholin. Moash could have called Kaladin patient, but sometimes patience made fools out of reasonable men.

If Moash's brightlord dared brand him——if anyone were to, for that matter——there would be no question that he wouldn't leave that room with his limbs intact. And to be robbed of a Shardblade, no less. Moash would have been executed for trying anything, but that was more honorable than whatever Kaladin was doing.

He wasn't going to call him a fool, but he was close. Moash had his mind made up for over a decade on what to do when his life was taken away from him. Maybe caravanning dulled his head and left him thinking that every question had simple solutions. That was only natural—he wasn't Kaladin.

He came to a stop in front of a stone building, thinking that the windows were too narrow to be considered windows. It was just after dinner and he had nothing scheduled for the night.

When he went inside, he was hit instantly with the smell of cheap hardgrass smoke and fry oil. The air itself was weighed with the stench of all the pub's travel-worn customers. Many of them were poor looking darkeyed foreigners, with a few foreign lighteyes spread out among them.

He'd taken a seat at the bar at the front, deciding to give this an hour before he'd leave. The stench and the heat were almost as bad as the bridgemen's sleeping quarters.

Moash drummed his fingers on the countertop as he looked around at the groups of people talking with each other in a smattering of languages, with boisterous laughter ringing from every group.

He'd even seen a couple of the bridgemen on the other side playing fool's pieces.

Moash had yet to see a shining axehead at any of the tables.

He felt a nudge in his side from someone taking the seat next to him.

“So,” a man said, close enough that his voice was clear. Moash smelled perfume, then turned to see the Shardbearer from the other night. If he looked out of place there, he was an alien here. Not a strand of his coiffed, shiny black hair, piled high on his head, was out of place, and there wasn't a spot of dust to be found on his black overcoat. He could easily have been one of the princeling’s friends. "I'm surprised to see just you here."

"What's it to you?" Moash asked. He was struggling to remember his name.

The Shardbearer chuckled. "Nothing in particular. I'm here almost every day. My luck would have it that we're here at the same time," he said. "Barman!" he called, his voice comically jovial for such a run-down place. "Two glasses of frisia please."

"I'm not interested."

"Oh come on, Moash," he said, voice low. "We aren't strangers, you know. Some of your friends are some of mine."

Moash studied him. The scabbard at his hip was new, with immaculate silver work on the handle. Just the dross from that job could've been more valuable than anything Moash owned. He noticed the polished gemstones on the collar, each with a very faint glow to them. Even the sleeves were embroidered.

He held back from making a face. Moash didn't have any friends in common with a lighteyes that wealthy and high ranked, and he wasn't naive enough to think that he could.

At that moment, two glasses of some fizzing pink, transparent liquid were set in front of them. The barman was behind the curtain before they could say anything, and the Shardbearer gestured towards the drinks. "Please, try," he said. "It's also good before a duel."

"What do you want?" he asked.

"A drink," he replied simply, bringing his own glass close. "Go on. Before it gets flat. I think this is Prince Adolin's secret to winning so many already."

He waited for the man, who was probably too polite to just start drinking. High society had its own rules, but there was no need to bring that to a place that couldn't get real lights.

"Those duels are a waste of time," Moash muttered.

"Oh, far from it," he said, shaking his head. "It's preserved tradition to duel an equal."

Moash pushed aside the frisia. "I bet it is."

"You should see what it looks like when Brightness Istow isn't judging these matches," he said. "When it's anyone else, those matches can simply be bought by the highest bidder. There was no respect for the tradition for several years."

He didn't reply. Moash racked his memory to see if there was any house seal on the man's coat, since he couldn't look subtly now. Nothing came to mind. Just an expensive coat and even more expensive clothes underneath.

“She’s very strange,” he said. “She used to be a scribe the entirety of her life, and now all she does is judge duels.”

The man's name did come back to him. Graves.

"I've always admired her for that," he said, still talking. "That commitment to fairness. To justice."

“What would a man like you know about justice?” Moash found himself asking.

“A lot more than you think,” he said, voice soft. “Why don’t you come join us in the back? It's unbearably hot here."

"I'm about to leave." Rill was nowhere to be found in the entire time he'd been here, and he was tired of this man talking in his ear.

"Really? One of our friends has been waiting for a while," he said. "You remember him. He got a haircut recently."

Moash froze.

Graves swirled his drink calmly while Moash tried to make sense of the image. There was no way Rill would be involved with this guy unless if he were working for him. Did lighteyes so posh need mercenaries if they could just go through the law and have their wishes fulfilled? It's not like it mattered whether they did anything out in the open or not.

"I know you came to see him, but he attracts a lot of attention," he said. "I also like to get to know my tenants."

Moash's eyes briefly passed over the pub, overflowing with customers from wall to wall. What back would there be?

Graves chuckled. “Unbelievable, I know. But I’m also friends with the owner.” He stood up, looking at Moash expectantly.

“I bet you are,” he said. Moash slowly got up. He straightened his jacket and followed after him, the gap behind him immediately replaced by another drunk.

Moash followed Graves through the crowd and smoke to a door covered by a curtain. This was apparently reserved for staff.

Graves tapped the door in a certain rhythm, his ring making a hollow sound against the wood, and it opened on its own.

Moash was now facing a dark and narrow corridor he didn't even know could have fit in the building. Nobody even seemed to notice the door open behind the curtain.

It was too narrow for them to walk next to each other, so he followed close behind. They passed several doors to rooms holding other private gatherings, then came to a stop at the very last one.

Graves knocked the door with his ring again, and it opened immediately. He propped the door open and gestured for Moash to enter first. "After you," he said.

Moash took slow steps towards the threshold, only to see Rill standing with his arms folded in the back of a very small meeting room. They looked at each other, but said nothing.

A large, round wooden table stood in the middle, almost the size of the floor. Chairs were scattered around it, but nobody else was there.

Graves came in after him and shut the door, striding comfortably over to the seat at the head of the table. "Have a seat."

Moash took the seat nearest to the door, across from Graves and Rill.

"We couldn't talk much, so I figured a warning that Graves'd find you would work best," Rill said. He leaned against the wall. "I told him about you."

"You couldn't just put the axe away and meet me out there?" Moash asked.

"There are a lot of people looking for Rill," Graves said. "He's been busy since you two last saw each other."

"Ros' place has always been the safest. I'd been going in case you'd show up," he said.

Before the silence could settle, Graves spoke.

"How are things in the palace?" he asked. "I understand that Dalinar and his crew are very busy. Is it as bad as it looks on the outside?”

None of the officers will take us seriously, and half of the bridgemen don’t want to be here.

"Dalinar's fine."

Most of the bridgemen agreed that he was far from being like any of the other lighteyes, which was high praise on its own. The past few months working for him had been as reasonable as any darkeyes could have hoped for. Nobody died and nobody got sold into slavery. It could only get more reasonable from there.

Graves chuckled to himself and leaned back. "I invited you here tonight because I was curious about you, Moash. Rill has told me your story."

Moash did not speak. He wasn't very guarded about his background. He just didn't parade it around like the others did.

“And yet, you are one of the Royal Guard," Graves said.

"The King's the King," he replied, keeping his voice even.

"Indeed he is."

"At first I figured he already had his own team."

"He does," Graves said. "But His Majesty could always use more guards. As you know, the King is the King."

They sat in tense silence.

"What do you want?" Moash asked. He knew Rill well. There was no way he was going to trust a rich lighteyes.

"Why do you stay with the Royal Guard?"

“I’m not going to leave my friends.” The simple answer.

“Ah,” he said, dragging out the sound as he rested a fist on the table. “Brotherhood between bridgemen.”

The lighteyes spoke too lightly of running bridges. It was a death sport where men had become bait because they had the wrong eye color. Moash had to be forced to want to live again. He hated even hearing anything related to bridge crews come out of a lighteyes' mouth.

"And you undoubtably consider Dalinar to be a good leader. Otherwise you wouldn't have joined in the first place," he said.

"Yes."

Graves exchanged a glance with Rill, who nodded.

“You asked for plain language, so here is my proposal to you,” he said. Moash steadily kept eye contact with Graves.

“I’ve traveled far and wide enough to see that Alethkar has become a shadow of what it once was. And it's all thanks to a six year old regime with countless flaws. You, Moash, are just one of the many, many people who have been harmed one way or another by King Elhokar. It’s not just poor darkeyes that are suffering, but rather anyone who isn’t the King’s personal friend. You, me, everyone in this pub, storms, everyone in this kingdom, knows that’s no way to run a government.

My solution—our solution, I should say–is simple. We remove Elhokar and replace him with Dalinar.“

Moash remained still.

This had to be a trap. It seemed too perfect. If Rill had told him that they were going to go after Elhokar together, then there wouldn't have been a question that Moash would have been sharpening his spear that night.

Every darkeyes was well aware of how bad Elhokar was as a leader. Why would a fourth dahn lighteyes have any problems with him?

“Why me?” he asked, fighting to keep his head clear.

“Because it’s very clear that you also believe that there are terrible flaws with the king’s leadership,” he said. “He did ruin your life, after all."

"And what about you?"

Graves chuckled. "Moash. Before this Vengeance Pact business, I ran a few textile trades. When the war started, Elhokar ended up following in Sebarial's footsteps and sent for hide from Herdaz and silk from Thaylenah, all because he refused to budget for the war properly. He and those merchants got richer, and I had to sell half my businesses. It's an unfortunate and long story, but I managed to make a path for myself. I just dislike having to do it so often."

“There are plenty of others in this camp whose lives were ruined,” Moash said, the bridgemen’s faces coming to mind. “You singled me out.”

“Yes, good observation,” he said. “I’ve met hundreds of people who could be sitting in your position right now. You aren't the first person Rill recommended, you know. But you intrigued me.”

His face grew hard as he stared down Moash, eyes dangerous. Moash's palms grew sweaty.

Something shifted in the air, and the mask that Graves wore slipped. Moash grew tense.

Graves stood up, knocking his chair back with a rough shove.

He pressed a hand to his hip, and Moash leaped out of his chair, knocking it over as the Shardblade formed in Grave’s right hand. The white light was brighter than anything around them, burning an imprint of the flowing curves of the Blade into his vision.

Rill remained at the pillar, still as stone.

Graves lept up onto the table and swung the Blade towards Moash.

Images of Kaladin's duel returned in hazy pieces, mixing along with the princelings' sparring matches. They always closed the distance.

Moash swallowed the fear, replacing it with a deep breath, and darted towards Graves with the dagger. It was the only weapon he had, so he was going to use it.

Moash threw his shoulder into Graves’ chest, throwing the both of them to the ground. Graves' arms flew outwards as Moash pinned him to the ground with his free hand. He raised the dagger with his other hand as the Shardblade slid across the floor to the other side of the room.

Moash brought the blade down only for Graves to catch his wrist.

“A knife, Moash?” he spoke, his voice carrying a certain breathiness to it. His eyes had an eery glow.

Graves threw him off, then resummoned the Shardblade.

No time to think. If he stayed low then maybe he had a chance.

With a growl, Moash spun around on his knee with his dagger raised, only to be met with the eerily cool sensation of the Shardblade against his neck.

He stared at a smirking Graves with his teeth bared, feeling rage shoot through his veins. His eyes glowed bright grey, with mist now rising from his skin. Moash blinked and the image burned in his eyelids, inverted.

Demon, he wanted to say. But the frustration had lodged itself in his throat, taking his voice.

Moash remained frozen in his stance with the dagger raised, panting while Graves held the Shardblade against his neck, entirely calm. They remained like this for what felt like one long minute.

The Shardblade vanished in a puff of light and white mist.

Moash's head lowered. The room was silent, with not even the muffled din of the bar to fill it.

He grabbed Graves by the collar and shoved him against the wall. He pressed the tip of the dagger against Graves’ chin, cursing at him. Moash couldn't even take any satisfaction in seeing the newfound fear in his eyes.

Graves raised his hands above his head, straining against the dagger. He raised his chin.

"I saw you," he growled, muscles popping out of his throat, "in the training grounds."

He turned his head away from the dagger. "When it looked like your friend was in trouble with the old man and his Shardblade, you charged at them."

“So?”

“So, you must know then,” he said, squirming against him, “why I’m asking you. Storms, you didn’t even flinch when I summoned mine. Training lighteyes still wince when they see a man's hand at his hip, but you jumped at the chance. And you held me off for quite a while." Graves finally lowered his head once Moash stopped following him with the dagger. "A man with that drive, that lack of fear, is the kind of man that this kingdom needs. Especially one so close to the King."

Moash let out a deep breath through his nose as grief found him again, armed with a useless dagger.

When he closed his eyes, he saw his grandparents again, starving in a cell. Waiting for justice.

"I'm aware you could tell your superiors about me," Graves said quietly. "But why would you? Is that your plan after all you've been through?"

His mind went on to wander, relentlessly conjuring new images of his grandparents in that cell. In some, they were malnourished. In others, they were deprived of light.

He imagined them growing delirious, waiting for any news of any kind. A pardon from the king. A letter from him. Sometimes he wondered about their friends, wondering where Ana and Da disappeared to.

He remembered gallivanting around Alethkar, because he’d insisted that there was more for him than the simple life they expected to him lead.

His neck grew hot with shame, as if he’d exposed a part of himself. Moash looked at the wall behind him.

"I could have saved them," he said, his voice no louder than a harsh whisper.

“Maybe so. But I can’t imagine if the boy you were could have.”

Moash didn’t want to agree, though it made sense.

“But the man you are now can avenge them,” he said, "and all those who suffered.”

Graves gripped Moash's wrist.

“Moash,” he said softly. “Do you want justice for those who couldn’t protect themselves?”

He opened his eyes and was met with Graves' face. He would never forget what happened in this room.

Moash gripped the handle tighter.

He pierced the underside of Graves’ chin, keeping the blade against his skin. Blood trickled down the steel and over the back of Moash's hand.

The threat was just on Moash's lips, his teeth bared to speak.

Then the door burst open, and a shriek followed after. Moash turned to see Danlan, the scribe, standing in the entrance with her eyes wide in shock. She clamped her hands to her mouth.

Moash released Graves and took a step back.

There was no reason a woman like her should be here. Not unless if she also knew.

"Don't worry, Danlan," Graves said hoarsely. He wiped the blood off his chin with his fancy cloth. "We were just having a conversation."

"Conversation?" she repeated, her voice faint as her shaking hands lowered from her mouth.

Her light brown eyes searched between Rill and Graves, and that was enough of an answer for him. Moash sheathed his dagger.

"Yes, and we were almost finished," Graves said. "My question still remains, Moash."

He put away the blade, looking evenly at the Shardbearer. He was not like Kaladin. He knew better than to wait.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”