I’m afraid. I tell them this, and they stare at me with blank eyes, then laugh, and continue their chants of praise. I understand why they ignore me, even if I hate it. I’ve burned Unity from Dawnbreaker. I’ve mastered Veracity. I slew Vorcix at the Tower.

Yet, whenever I think of facing the Enemy, the true Enemy and the endless pit that is his soul, I tremble. I know, deep down, that I am not the Endowed, not yet.

And I know, deep down, that I have only a little more time to become what I must become.

-Nythala Magalas, circa 1,700 Post Fall of Meridian

Ithrey took in shaky breaths, trying not to lose control as the Ethean -- Perelor -- talked with Larsh. She knew what the slave squadrons were; she suspected that, with all the broadcasts, everyone in Delti knew them better than they’d like to. But it was one thing to watch something you were afraid of, and it was another to face that same fear head on.

The fear of death was overlaid with another fear: fear for Alaran, and the Endowed. She’d foolishly let herself believe, when Perelor had spared her, that she was now in a position to work toward helping them. But, after the meeting with Larsh, she couldn’t deny the truth anymore: she was in a terrible position. Her breaths grew more frantic as she considered plan after plan, and realized, time after time, that those plans wouldn’t work.

In truth, she only had one actual idea: rebellion. Escape on her own would be impossible; she’d heard enough about Talar security to know that. But a mass mutiny, that might work. Perelor was certainly a good fighter. There might be others, too, warriors forged by the harsh reality of battle with no armor. There had to be at least a few men who consistently survived, right?

The bigger problem, she suspected, would be actually getting said warriors to turn on their masters. Something told her that Perelor wouldn’t do so easily, and if the others reacted to slavery anything like him, she’d have a lot of very disgruntled, unstable men on her hands.

Larsh did assign my men to my squad, though. She hated that they were being put in such danger because of her. Part of her wanted desperately to crack.

Yet she trusted Aiedra, so she wouldn’t. Besides, having men she knew in her squad could help with the rebellion. She was contemplating how to press that advantage when the door swung open, and Perelor stepped out.

He looked… disturbed, though it was hard to read him, between his eyepatch and the way he seemed to suppress any expression from coming onto his face. He closed the door behind him, and stood silent for a long moment, his breathing heavy.

Then, shaking his head, he turned to Ithrey. “So. You’re part of my squad now.”

Ithrey hesitated. “Yes, I suppose I am. Though I should make you aware that I do not relish the idea of fighting for the Talar.”

Perelor snorted. “I’ve yet to meet someone who does. Even Arrus isn’t that much of a patriot.” He glanced back at the closed door, then shivered. “We should leave.”

“On that much, we agree,” Ithrey said softly.

They stepped into the elevator, and began ascending back toward the landing pad they’d arrived at. Perelor swung his mask back on, carefully fastening it to his face. Ithrey followed him; at first, she’d just thought he was being paranoid, but the longer she spent on Xilia, the more she realized it might be just as dangerous a place as the Ethean thought it was.

They rode in silence for a good minute before Perelor spoke.

“So. Who is this Aiedra?”

Ithrey raised an eyebrow. “So that’s what Larsh was talking to you about. Getting the secret out of me.”

“Yes,” Perelor admitted. “Though that’s not why I’m asking. I would, however, like to know why this is so important.”

“And why should I tell you?”

“I’m no friend of Larsh’s.”

“Didn’t stop you from bringing me in.”

Perelor winced. “I… fair. But, if it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.”

True enough, Ithrey supposed. But there was also no way in Torment she was telling this man about the Seekers of the Light. Besides, she didn’t intend to give up the one bargaining chip she had with Larsh. The Talar leader could read her mind to discern anything else, but the careful wards Aiedra had put in place would keep Larsh from learning anything important about the Seekers.

So, she remained silent. Perelor grunted. “I see.” More quiet followed. Then Perelor spoke again.

“So. Miradoran general. Commanding a losing army isn’t a very typical career choice.”

Ithrey rolled her eyes. “If you’re trying to make conversation, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Perelor shrugged. “I’m not paid to talk.”

“From what I understand,” Ithrey sighed, “neither of us are actually paid to do anything.”

“If you don’t want to have a conversation, then tell me, and I’ll stay quiet. No need to be dramatic about it.”

Ithrey hesitated. He is a potential ally. Though that depended on how loyal he really was to Larsh. Even if he only obeyed the Talar leader out of fear, he still might betray her. Frankly, even her own men might turn on her, if the right threats were put in place. It was one thing for soldiers surrounded by allies to stay true, it was another when those same soldiers were placed behind enemy lines. She was going to have to be very, very careful about this.

“I apologize,” she said finally. “But I will not — I cannot — tell you anything about Aiedra; even if you don’t give that information to Larsh directly, she’ll take it from you.”

“I see.”

“But I’m also not opposed to working with you. I will need to escape, I think.” That was a simplification of the truth, if a bold one, but she suspected that he knew as much already. What slave didn’t dream of escaping?

His face turned grim at the words, and he said nothing for a long time. The elevator began slowing to a stop.

“If you think that’s possible,” he said finally. “Just don’t get any of my men killed when you try it.”

My men, Ithrey thought, not yours.

The doors slid open before she could reply, and they stepped into the bustling hallways of the main Xilia complex. Perelor pulled out a buzzing holoscreen, glanced at it, then waved for Ithrey to follow him.

“Come. Let’s get you that Purity Surge.”

***

Ryla drifted through the air, carefully burning trace amounts of Ever to counteract gravity as she hovered over a hundred feet above the bulk of the Fifty-Second Talar Army Division. Naidi floated beside her, also held up by a steel plate and Ryla’s use of Ever. For a less experienced memory burner, lifting two people at once would be a challenge, but Ryla had been trained by the best. Larsh might not be a good person, but she was an extraordinary burner.

Larsh. Ryla frowned, anger building in her chest, almost more than she could contain. How dare she ask Ryla to burn Void. After promising she’d let Ryla choose for so long, after swearing over and over she wouldn’t force Ryla to become her mother, she’d finally broken that oath.

Ryla wasn’t surprised. But she was furious.

And she needed a way out.

Cyrla and I’s offer is still on the table…

“Great view from up here,” Naidi noted. “I don’t know why we don’t do this more often.”

Ryla shrugged. “Looks like just a lot of dusty plains to me.”

“Yeah but interesting dusty plains. Look at all the red swirls over there. And the purple lines to the east.” Naidi pointed toward a patch of ground that looked like it had a little coloring, though not much. Still, Ryla let her ramble. It was a welcome distraction, compared to the other things on her mind.

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Is it worth it to work with a Voidburner, so I don’t have to become one myself?

Her holoscreen buzzed. She opened it to find a message from Traegus — she and Naidi would both fight under his command today.

The battle has begun. I want you to cover the south side. Cyrla will be there.

“Of course she will be,” Ryla muttered. As if I need more confusion today. But then, if Cyrla was there, the slave squadrons would be there, too. That meant she could protect Arrus, if it came to it. And it wasn’t uncommon that her cousin needed protection.

“What was that?” Naidi asked.

“Nothing,” Ryla said. “Just our orders.” She slowly began lowering them to the ground. “Let’s get this over with.”

***

An hour later, Perelor fastened his mask as he and Ithrey strode out into the toxic Xilian air toward a waiting cruiser. They were swarmed by guards now, including two wielding Ever Surges — now that Ithrey had her own Surge, it seemed Perelor’s supervision alone was no longer enough.

She had taken easily to that Surge, barely wincing as the doctors had implanted it into the back of her neck. Glancing over at her, he didn’t even see any scarring. Fortunate for her, really. He’d been sick for days after his own operation.

He tried not to think about what her new abilities meant for his squadron. If she tried to escape…

Flames.

Blood.

Screams.

Rubble.

And that blade…

He shivered, reminding himself that, if he and Arrus didn’t take part in the rebellion, they would be fine. Still, the feeling did not leave him. He’d seen several such attempts in his time as a captain. All had ended brutally; the Talar ensured that being caught in a mutiny resulted in a far more painful death than simply falling in a raid.

They stepped into the cruiser, and the doors shut behind them as the ship immediately took off. Cursing, Perelor had to reach out and snatch one of the handholds on the walls before the cruiser’s gravity stabilizers took effect. Ithrey nearly toppled to the floor, but barely maintained her balance.

After that, though, there was a long silence. Ithrey kept glancing toward Perelor, but the guards around them seemed to keep her from speaking. Finally, as they neared the wormhole, the pilot’s intercom broke the quiet.

“Teleporting in: twenty. Destination: Grahala.”

Ithrey’s expression immediately shifted, her eyes widening, and for just a moment, a smile seemed to touch her lips. Then she looked toward Perelor again, and the moment ended as quickly as it had begun.

Perelor frowned, turning to the nearest guard. “My squad’s been transferred?”

The guard nodded. “Orders came in just after you left. The rest of the men have already moved there.”

Perelor sighed. “Lovely.” Well, hopefully Arrus had kept everyone in line. “When’s the next battle?”

“As soon as we get there,” the guard said. His voice was softer than before. He hesitated before continuing. “Be ready, kid. Larsh wants to draw out an enemy memory burner.”

Perelor studied the man’s face. He couldn’t be older than twenty-five; he had no right to call Perelor “kid”. But his eyes had the haunted look of a soldier walking into an impossible battle. Glancing around, Perelor could tell the others were worried, too.

That did not bode well for his own men.

At least we have another Surgewielder now. If she cooperates…

They struck the wormhole, and a few moments later, they were soaring toward Grahala, escorted by a pair of fighters. All around them, other carriers, large and small, also descended toward the planet. Asking around, Perelor quickly found out that the ground assault here had just begun a couple of days ago; it seemed that, with the imminent fall of the Miradoran capital, Larsh had decided to start mobilizing ground troops here. She had led the charge herself just hours before, crushing several Confederacy weapons depots with the assistance of her elite memory burners.

Grahala, unlike Mirador, was a planet that had clearly been terraformed. There were no continents or scraggly borders between bodies of water and land; instead, square lakes sat evenly spaced in a grid around the planet, with massive wheat fields surrounding those lakes. Even the poles had been carefully put to use, housing the planet’s two major cities. Though some carriers broke off toward the equator, Perelor’s ship twisted toward the south pole as they drew nearer to the surface. As they entered the atmosphere, he began to see the telltale signs of war.

Smoke was everywhere, ashy, thick smoke, pulsing as it drifted through the air. More Talar fighters soared in beside them, forming up in a protective sphere around Perelor’s carrier. When they broke through the cloud line, Perelor could see camps set up in the wheat fields below, fields dotted with burned-out sections, like scars on the skin of the ground. On the horizon, Perelor could see a Grahalan city, half in shadow, half in the dim light of dusk. The smoke was pouring from there, though the dancing spots of fighters in the sky told Perelor that the city had not yet fallen.

They pulled away from the city, heading toward an open patch of ground where several other carriers sat dormant. Their fighter escorts moved back into the sky, and they landed a few moments later, weeds crunching beneath them as they hit the ground. The doors opened, and Perelor and Ithrey stepped out, followed by their ever-watchful guards.

The air was humid, even despite the smoke. Definitely terraformed, Perelor thought. His father would have been in the Three Heavens here. He’d always loved studying ancient technology, even if most of the knowledge had long since been lost.

“Grahala,” Ithrey whispered beside him. “We’re actually here. Okron be praised.” She sounded almost in awe, her eyes staring at the smoky clouds as if they were a brilliant painted tapestry.

Perelor raised an eyebrow, snorting. “Okron be praised, huh? I wouldn’t say that just yet.”

She pursed her lips. “No,” she said. “You’re right. Not yet.” She shook her head. “Not yet.” She straightened, her expression returning to that same paranoid look she’d worn all day.

Such a strange woman. Granted, he’d almost killed her, so he couldn’t complain too much about her behavior.

The guards prodded them forward, toward where a few small campfires had been set up next to a grid of cots. Talar soldiers, wielding long shockrods, swarmed around the slaves who waited there. Perelor noted their uniforms were clean and crisp. That meant a recording was coming soon; the Talar replaced the clothing just before each battle.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have much time to think about that, for his eyes caught hold of someone staring at him. Someone he had desperately hoped would not be here. She folded her arms, nodding for Perelor to join her, her expression tight.

“Cyrla,” he muttered. “Torment.” Well, he’d known it would come to this when he’d made his decision. He tapped Ithrey on the shoulder. She jumped when he touched her, but quickly relaxed.

“Lay low for a bit,” Perelor said. “There are some people who… don’t like you here.”

Ithrey frowned, then suddenly seemed to see Cyrla. Her eyes widened, and she nodded. “I think you’re right.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” Hopefully. He turned away from her, then strode toward Cyrla. Her frown deepened as he approached.

“You have forced my hand, Krot.” Perelor did not miss the crimson glow that spread across her veins and into her skin as she spoke, fainter than it would have been if she were going to attack, but enough to cast a red shadow around him. Fear spiked in his chest, but he forced himself to stand tall, drawing in some Purity from his Surge.

“I disobeyed you.”

“No denying it, then?”

“I’m not here to play games. Not even games where the prize is my sister.” He winced, wavering as he remembered her. Did Cyrla actually know where she was? Had he turned down an opportunity to fulfill his oath?

But no. He couldn’t win that way. Not by becoming someone his sister would hate.

Cyrla was silent for a moment, meeting his gaze, those terrible red eyes seeming to bore straight through the false uniform he wore and into the wretch inside. Then she nodded.

“Eliel is not prize enough, I see. Either that, or you doubt my power to deliver.”

“I reported you to Larsh,” Perelor found himself saying. “She’ll deal with you. There’s nothing you can do to me, or Ithrey.”

Cyrla laughed. “I can deal with Larsh, Krot. And there is plenty I can do to you. Like I said, you have forced my hand.” Her frown turned to a smile, and she pulled a holoscreen from her pocket. “I wasn’t going to send your men on another raid so soon, you know. It has only been a few hours, and they are tired, and the fighting here is fresh and fierce. But…” She twisted the holoscreen in her hand, “my mind has been changed. Though it can be changed again…”

Perelor froze. Cyrla’s grin widened.

“How many lives are you willing to spend for her, Krot? Your own life, perhaps, but will you throw away the lives of others?”

Perelor tensed, cursing. “What do you want?”

“The same as before. Kill her. Now.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Can’t you? From what I’ve heard, you already bested her once.”

“You know what I mean, Voidling. Larsh would have me hanged in a heartbeat. Both of us.”

“I told you I can deal with Larsh. She already knew of my intentions, you know. She has no power over me. Only the one true god has any power over me.”

The one true god? Perelor shivered, realizing what she meant as he took in her red glow again.

What have I gotten myself into?

“She is a member of an organization called the Seekers of the Light,” Cyrla said, as if she could hear his unspoken question. “She has not told you this, I assume?” He was silent in reply, though that was answer enough it seemed, for she continued. “She will make you a puppet, if she lives. I have dealt with her kind before, always playing in the shadows, pulling strings.” Her glow intensified suddenly, and she stepped closer, leaning in, her breath against his ear. “But we don’t have to play in darkness, Perelor, do we? The offer is still on the table. Your sister, for a woman who lied to you…”

For a moment, he wavered, his sister’s tears raging in his mind, her cries as she’d been dragged away screaming at him, condemning him.

But then, he saw Ithrey’s tears, too.

“I won’t,” he hissed. “I will retain my honor.”

“You think you have honor left?”

“I…” he wavered again. “I do,” he said finally. Or at least, I want to believe I do.

Cyrla was quiet again, her eyes searching him. Then, pursing her lips, she nodded, then clicked a button on her holoscreen. All around Perelor, alarm bells rang, and the slaves stirred. The grin returned to Cyrla’s face.

“So be it, Perelor. You have forced my hand.”

She whipped around and walked away before he could say another word.