They say I am a gift to mankind, their savior.

Yet, if I am their savior, their gift, who is it that can save me?

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

Cyrla swallowed as the Voidling raked its rotten, skeletal hand across her neck. She had been assured it would not harm her, a promise made by Oblivion’s own voice. Words still felt hollow, when staring into the eyes of a thing from legend.

The creature was fully formed right now — at least as fully formed as this one could be — but she knew that, if it decided to, it could break itself into a swirling cloud of atoms, held together by glowing black strands of Corruption, able to be destroyed only by someone wielding the Powers. Voidlings were dangerous things. Beasts created by Oblivion himself, using the departed souls of his most devoted servants. Cyrla might end up as one of them, someday.

It was at least two heads taller than her, and it towered nearly to the ceiling of the makeshift tent they stood in. Its eyes were two glowing red Void Surges, the rest of its body a dull black-and-grey, like oily tar. Its limbs were the appendages of a man starved, though Cyrla knew full well that Voidlings’ muscles were as strong as atom burners’. Stronger, sometimes.

According to the songs and stories, Voidlings were all locked on Morghol, slain during the Imperial Age and bound with the Avatar of Oblivion where they could not reincarnate. Before, the songs had been correct.

But fourteen years ago, Torvik Valeo had found and defeated one of the Formless seals on Oblivion’s prison. And now, though they were rare and secretive, Voidlings walked the planets once more. Cyrla was one of the very, very few who knew that.

Still, she had not expected to see one in person, not now. It made her nervous, even though she knew it shouldn’t.

The Voidling’s fingers — which burned like a hot iron as they touched her, though they left no visible mark — finally lifted off her neck. You have potential, it hissed. Its voice was harsh and metallic. It echoed not through the air but directly into Cyrla’s soul; no one but her could hear it unless the Voidling willed it otherwise. Oblivion was wise to choose you.

The tone made Cyrla shiver, though a part of her beamed inside. Recognition. Finally.

She straightened, forcing down her disgust. The creature was here to assist her; she had nothing to fear and everything to gain. “I am glad you arrived without trouble. I need you to…”

The Voidling chuckled, a sound like metal screeching against thick glass. “I know why I am here. I will attack Krot, as you have been told, and drive him further toward breaking. And neither he nor Valeo will die, just as Oblivion commands.”

Cyrla swallowed, though her fists tightened at the mention of Valeo. Here she’d thought she could finally dispose of the woman, and Oblivion himself ordered her to spare her? The girl and her cursed brother had almost prevented Torvik from breaking that seal in the first place. And why send Krot to kill her at all, if Cyrla wasn’t to finish where he had failed?

There were layers here. Oblivion claimed he wanted Krot as a servant — something he had not told her before today, but she had suspected for a long time. Yet still, why spare Valeo? Yes, there were layers. Plans Cyrla could not pretend to understand.

But God understands. You will have your victory; give it time. She let herself relax.

“Good,” she said, realizing the Voidling had been staring at her as she thought. “You should go then. There is no reason to wait, I think. I… look forward to seeing the results.” I’ll just have to wait to find out what Oblivion is planning.

The Voidling hissed. You do not give me orders. He has not given you that power, not yet. But it left anyway, dissolving into black mist that shrieked out of the tent and toward the waiting city.

Cyrla did not watch it go, instead turning to face the metal-plate wall of the tent, tapping her foot impatiently against the tightly packed soil of the Grahalan surface.

Layers. There were always layers to these things. Plans underneath plans. In time, the truth would become clear.

Sometimes she just wished time would pass a little faster.

***

Arrus threw his hand forward, burning Ever and summoning a shield as fast as he could — but it was not fast enough. A man to Perelor’s side yelped as plasma slammed into his thigh, doubling over in pain. Another bolt struck Perelor in the chest, and he gagged as blood rose in his throat. As always, the wound quickly healed, his body shifting back to its original shape.

No one else was hurt, as far as he could tell. Somehow, no one else died. He still froze, panic temporarily overtaking him, gunfire rattling steadily against Arrus’ shield.

If he didn’t have that Surge, they’d all be gone already. He’ll eventually run out of charge.

Torment, they’re going to kill us all…

He shook. Then, Ithrey yelled out a command.

“Forward!”

The shout ripped him from his stupor. Fool. You’ve done this before. “Forward!” he cried. Hopefully, if he too gave the order, it wouldn’t look like he was obeying the woman. So much for no mutiny.

The Miradorans in front executed the command with expert skill, stepping forward so they were just next to Arrus’ plasma shield, then shoving the tip — and only the tip — of their lasertips through the blue dome of energy, allowing them to fire back at the riflemen, while still maintaining their own protection. A classic, and simple, formation, but effective. In seconds, the Grahalans lay dead on the pavement, and without another casualty on the slaves’ side. Perelor paused, for a moment more impressed than he was angry.

That was surprisingly easy. I wonder if I could train the other slaves to do that…

The moment passed as Ithrey shouted out another order. “File out! Arrus, shift your shield into a dome surrounding the entire squad. Everyone, stay inside that shield. Always.”

It was smart. Too smart. The Talar would punish them for using such a tactic; it ruined the footage. It wasn’t against the Codes to be clever, but they would punish the slaves anyway. He knew it, for he’d tried it before.

But he could think of no rebuttal, no other way out, and as hastily as the men obeyed Ithrey’s orders, he doubted he could’ve stopped them from following her. Other Grahalans fired at them as they formed up, but Ithrey’s Miradorans responded with icy, trained calm. They filed out so that they each stood behind a portion of Arrus’ curved shield, then stuck out their lasertips and fired precise blasts to fell any Grahalans who harassed them. Ithrey stood at the center of that formation, as did the other slaves, who actually seemed to relax. One of them, per another of Ithrey’s orders, was propping up the man who had been hit in the leg. Standing beside Arrus, Perelor could faintly hear the slaves’ echoes. Could hear the words of their hopeful thoughts.

Thaus. Thaus thaus thaus. The shield wouldn’t last an hour, he realized. It couldn’t; Arrus didn’t have a strong enough Surge. Instinctively, he pulled in more Purity. He didn’t need it, but he had developed a habit of summoning more whenever he was nervous.

He turned, shooting a glare at Ithrey. Ithrey met him with her own defiant stare, but turned away before he did, calmly ordering a pair of gold-and-white-clad women to defend Arrus. The women hesitated, glancing toward Perelor. Growling, Perelor stalked toward Ithrey.

“I thought you said I was in command.”

Ithrey raised a bemused eyebrow. “That almost sounds like you’re asking me permission, Captain.”

Perelor sniffed. “You know what I mean, woman. I won’t have a mutiny midway through a battle.”

“And you won’t,” Ithrey said, waving a dismissive hand. “If you think what I’m doing is wrong, you can contradict it; I have no interest in infighting, either. But tell me, Captain, how well do you know these men? For that matter, how well do you know tactics? Your men certainly seem confused by my orders.”

Perelor hesitated. She set up a good formation, he noted. Maybe it will buy us some time. She seems to know what she’s doing.

And no one is dying…

Could this change things? He’d never thought to try formations with his slaves; they didn’t last long enough to train them. Yet maybe, if he could get around that problem, he could save them…

If she tries to escape, though, it all goes to ruin, he reminded himself. She’s a Seeker of the Light. She has her own motives.

“I don’t want a mutiny,” he repeated finally.

“You keep saying that,” Ithrey said, exasperation finally seeming to enter her voice. “Yet so far I have done nothing of the sort. We both want to survive. I ask you to trust me.”

He paused again, the crackle of plasma against the shield loud in his ears. He certainly couldn’t trust the woman; he knew that much. But if he protested now, the squad would split. That would only cause chaos, and get his men killed — the very thing he was afraid a mutiny would do.

No, he couldn’t confront her now, not if he cared about keeping people alive, and not while Ithrey’s strategies were working. No matter how nervous the idea of escape made him.

He swallowed. “Fine.” He nodded to the two Artensian slaves, who had been watching their conversation with wide eyes. “Go guard Arrus. Her orders were good.”

The slightest trace of a grin crossed Ithrey’s face as the slaves walked away. “So. You can be reasoned with.”

Perelor ignored the comment. “Arrus can’t hold the shield for an entire hour. And that’s if the Talar don’t tire of this before then.”

Ithrey’s eyes twinkled. “I don’t think that’ll be an issue, Captain. I took the liberty of cutting the ship’s antenna, you see.”

Perelor paled. “You what?”

“I cut the antenna,” Ithrey said, shaking her head. “You need to get your ears checked, Captain. With all the plasma, you can’t seem to hear a word I say.”

“Do you know how upset they’ll be if they find out?” Perelor hissed.

“I don’t. But I suspect I have a good enough idea of what will happen.” She met his eyes, the grin fading to pursed lips. “This will not be the first time I defy the Talar. I will not cause mayhem while we are on a battlefield, but things will change here, Captain. That I can assure you.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but the ice in her stare forced his lips to close. He swept his eyes back over the battlefield. Gunfire still rang out all around them, but it was eerily still on this street; the few Grahalans who had still tried to oppose them after Ithrey had set up her formation had either fallen or fled. The shield’s brightness had reduced visibly; Arrus must be trying to conserve his Ever while there were no enemies in sight.

“The shield,” he said finally. “It’ll break. And they might send melee fighters towards us. They won’t let a pack of Talar sit in the middle of a street forever.”

“We shouldn’t need forever,” Ithrey noted. “Just an hour. But you are right.” She glanced out at the street, then pointed toward a nearby set of shops. “We should take cover, in there. The Talar cannot give us orders, so they cannot protest if we do not move forward, yes?”

Perelor honestly wasn’t sure how well the Talar would respond to that logic, but he could see from Ithrey’s expression that there would be no talking her out of it. He nodded. “Good enough I guess.” He turned to shout the orders, then froze, then cursed as he saw something approaching on the street.

“Scatter!”

It was too late. A bolt of plasma rushed down the empty hoverlanes, then, blazing as bright as the sun in the sky, it slammed into Arrus’ Ever shield. The blue dome folded like powder to a sledgehammer. A wave of heat rushed over Perelor, and he yelped as he was thrown backward, skidding against the pavement. Blessedly, he maintained enough presence of mind to keep hold of his lasertip.

He lay dazed, for just an instant, before he swore and rose to his feet, twisting his lasertip up toward the source of the bolt and firing rapidly. The smoke around him cleared as he shot, and he could see clearly what had happened. A pack of Grahalan soldiers had set up a massive shield buster cannon — usually reserved for tanks — on top of a nearby building. Perelor’s attacks caught the cannon’s operator in the head, and two more of the Grahalans fell before they had the sense to retreat. A last shot down the barrel of the enemy weapon struck its power cells, and it blew apart violently. Perelor averted his eyes as the explosion flashed, and wished he could shut his ears to the thunderous roar as ash fell from the sky. He felt a brief spike of relief as the sound faded, then felt panic stab his stomach as he looked back downward.

Most of the slaves had only been thrown to the ground, and the Miradoran soldiers had risen as quickly as Perelor had. Most of them. The ones in the front had taken the brunt of the blow, and they were burned. Badly. Perelor would not have recognized Arrus’ face were it not for the ripped Talar robes on him. He reached out to Perelor with skeletal hands, eyes wide, mouth too burned to move.

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Screaming, Perelor ran and knelt beside his friend, hoisting him into his arms. Desperately, he ripped off a part of his uniform. A tourniquet. He needed a tourniquet. That could save Arrus. It had to…

His hands fell limp as he felt his friend trembling in his arms. He wasn’t bleeding, just burned. A tourniquet would do no good. There wasn’t a medicine on the planet that would do any good.

There was only one thing that could save him.

Perelor hesitated, heart pounding, his own body trembling as violently as Arrus’. He had to heal the boy. He couldn’t lose him. Ithrey had shot the antenna, so there would be no footage to incriminate him.

Except, if they found out, they’d slit his throat. And the others’ throats. It was akin to escape to them.

Escape. That was what Ithrey wanted.

Flames.

Blood.

Screams.

Rubble.

And that blade, calling to him as he twisted it toward his chest….

“I can’t,” he croaked. “I can’t. I…”

A hand pressed against Arrus’ head. White light flowed from it, lighting Arrus’ veins ablaze, twisting toward his neck. As it struck his neck, it bounded back outward, spreading into his skin, the burns melting away like stains before water. Arrus gasped as his cracked lips healed, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull. He shook for a moment longer, and then he relaxed, his breathing steadying. Blinking, he hoisted himself from Perelor’s arms.

Perelor’s eyes snapped up to see Ithrey standing above them. She frowned at him, but when she spoke, it was not of his failure to heal Arrus.

“I was able to heal the critical wounds.” She cringed. “Two of us died in the blast, but I don’t think I could’ve stopped that.” She turned to Arrus. “Can you get that shield back up?”

Arrus nodded, scrambling to find his Surgeblade, which had been thrown a few yards away. One of the Miradorans had his hand on the blade, though he handed the weapon to Arrus as the boy approached.

Holding a Surge. Healing with a Surge. Treason. If those cameras did record, they’re both dead.

If I can’t keep this secret safe, Arrus dies.

He rose to his feet, anger slowly replacing the fear. Anger at Ithrey, for waltzing in and causing this mess. Anger at the Talar, for being the Voidlings they were.

Anger at himself, for not knowing how to handle this.

His thoughts were interrupted as Arrus burst aglow with Ever — less of it, this time, he noticed — and put the shield back up. Ithrey shouted, and the slaves, following Arrus, marched toward the shops she had motioned toward earlier. They didn’t even glance at Perelor this time.

It’s all falling apart…

Cursing, he turned and strode forward to find Ithrey. She had to know that what she’d just done was illegal. She had to know what would happen if she were fool enough to try this escape. He would not lose Arrus.

Is that what this is about? his father said in his mind. Or is it about your own fear?

He swore at the voice, pushing it back. Echoes swirled in his mind, more than he’d sensed in a long time, and he stumbled over one of the two fallen slaves as he tried to make his way to Ithrey. He could see Grahalan soldiers gathering farther down the street. The explosion must have attracted them. It was hard to make out their numbers from so far away, but there had to be several dozen.

It’s been what? Five minutes? And they might make us stay longer if they learn what Ithrey did. Torment, we’re doomed…

He found himself at the door to one of the shops, and, still fighting through the haze of echoes and thought, he clumsily pushed it open. He was the last one inside, and a Miradoran soldier slammed it behind him, then stepped back, two other Miradorans falling into line beside him, aiming their lasertips at the entryway. Other Miradorans lay crouched beside each window, ready to skewer anyone who tried to bust their way through.

“Hold position!” Ithrey yelled. She knelt behind the ragtag line of men, placing a comforting hand on a nearby slave, a girl who was shaking. One of the Artensians, whom they’d sent to guard Arrus earlier. She had been healed, but the rips in her charred uniform told Perelor she’d been near Arrus when the explosion had hit. He notably didn’t see the other Artensian beside her.

“I don’t intend to lose any more of us this battle.” Ithrey’s voice rang out through the entire building, echoing almost unnaturally loudly, though she couldn’t have any Ever to amplify it. “If I get my way, I don’t intend to lose a single man ever again. Things will change here.”

The speech was met with silence, though Perelor did not think it was the silence of disagreement. Simply the silence of men who did not believe it was possible.

Because it’s not. She’s just going to get them all killed faster. Escape never works. Never…

He moved toward Ithrey, opening his mouth to protest. Yet, as he did, other words rang through the cavern, in a harsh, metallic voice that was not Perelor’s own.

Valeo. Daughter of Torvik. Traitor.

Ithrey’s eyes widened, and she immediately stumbled backward. “Scatter! Scatter, now!”

Perelor’s mouth snapped closed, and he, too, stumbled back. That had sounded almost like… but no, it couldn’t be. Strangely, the other slaves only blinked in confusion as Ithrey shouted, only a few rising to move toward the door.

I’ve lost it. It’s too much, and I’ve snapped.

As if the universe felt to declare him wrong, black mist suddenly poured into the room. Perelor’s eyes, too, widened, though he did not shout. Only a single, quiet word escaped his lips.

“Voidling.”

Before he could react any further, the black mist coalesced into a tendril in front of him, which then snapped forward, slamming into his stomach. He wheezed as the air was forced from his lungs, and he flew back, ribs snapping, then popping back into place, then snapping from the other side as he crashed into a cement wall.

He winced, cursed, then stepped forward, chest mending again as he hobbled, then ran toward the exit, throwing it open. More mist poured in through the windows, and screams and shouts rang out as tendrils lashed out at random, with ferocious speed that threw and killed every victim they touched. An elderly Darian man struck the ceiling, falling limp as his spine snapped. The Artensian girl was thrown all the way to the shop’s back, soaring over tables Perelor hadn’t even noticed and crashing headfirst into a metal oven. Two Miradorans rammed into the wall just beside Perelor, sliding to the floor in crumpled heaps as they fell unconscious. At least, Perelor hoped they were unconscious.

Growling, he aimed his lasertip and shot, but the tendrils were too small to hit. His shot flew past its target, nearly slamming into Arrus, then sizzling into the wall. In an odd twist of fortune, though, that seemed to snap Arrus to his senses. Shouting a war cry Perelor did not recognize, he let Ever run into his veins, then lashed out with a burst of heavenly power, burning most of the tendrils away. The flying bodies stopped.

Yet the black mist did not stop pouring through the window, and now, it twisted toward Ithrey, forming into the shape of a person, skeletal black arms stretching toward her neck, two red Surges blazing out from a featureless face.

Ithrey, to Perelor’s surprise, seemed to know how to fight the creature. She did not sweep her lasertip toward it — Voidlings were made of mist, and only became solid when they wanted to, so slashing them with a blade did no good. Instead, she moved her Purity into her hand, then stretched her blazing fist into the mist.

The Voidling screeched, its incorporeal body sizzling as Ithrey’s glow faded, the Purity destroying whatever energy it was that powered the demon. It drifted backward, legs not yet formed, and Ithrey attacked with her lasertip, firing rapidly toward the mist. The plasma, like Arrus’ earlier blast, made contact, and though it did not do as much as damage as the Purity had, the cloud of midnight gas still visibly diminished.

“Run!” Perelor yelled, throwing the door open even farther, then forcing courage into his veins and striding into the room. The slaves were still dazed, even the ones who had been soldiers had likely never faced one of these. Perelor himself had only fought a Voidling once, and that had been over a decade ago. It was mostly luck that had saved him that time. He had only the few bits of knowledge Crelang had randomly sprinkled into their memory burning training sessions. One thing he remembered though: you didn’t fight a Voidling in close quarters. And you certainly didn’t fight it if you didn’t have a Surge. They were legends, Animated beasts from Torment that mankind had not fought for twelve centuries. Every one of them was supposed to be sealed up with the Crimson Blade, trapped on Morghol until the coming of the Endowed. He did not know how this creature had escaped its prison.

He suspected why it was here, though. How does Cyrla have access to one of these? It had to be hers, but he didn’t have time to think further, for as he shouted again for the slaves to run, the Voidling surged back toward Ithrey. She threw her hand forward again, but this time, the Voidling was not surprised, and it had access to far more power than a single Surge could handle. It snatched her by the neck, then threw her to the floor, hard enough Perelor could hear the crunch of her chest even over the din of battle. She gasped, and rolled, her remaining Purity healing her, but the Voidling formed an oily black leg, pinning her to the ground.

Time stood still. The doorway was behind him, the Voidling in front. This creature had the power to kill even him, but if he ran, he could still make it out.

Can you really do that, son?

Would Eliel really forgive you if she knew you’d left?

“For Honor!” he shouted. An Ethean war cry, one his father had hated, but one familiar to Perelor after training so long with Yaenke. Strange, he’d almost forgotten about that. Old memories filled his mind, and he almost didn’t notice his feet pounding against the tile floor until he leaped, soaring through the air and onto the Voidling’s half-formed back.

The creature’s body was only partially solid, and it burst apart as Perelor hit, as if he were diving into a pool rather than jumping atop someone. Mist covered his vision, and he swatted it with his free hand, letting the Purity in his skin burn it away, though retaining enough of it he could heal himself. With his other hand he swung his lasertip, trying to find the two eye-like Void Surges within the chaos.

That’s the best way to take down a Voidling, Crelang had said. Go for the mist, and they’ll always have just a little left over you didn’t catch, and they’ll come back. Hit both of the Surges, though, and they’re dead. The Surges power their reincarnation.

But this creature was smart. Just as he found the Void Surges, they pulled back, just out of his Reach, and he stumbled and cursed as his swing hit nothing. The wild attack threw him off balance. A second later, a midnight-colored tendril — thinner and smaller than the first, but still solid as metal — struck him on his left, sending him spinning across a nearby table.

His vision swam, but in his peripheral he could see Arrus, firing bolts of plasma at the mist, and guarding the door as slaves — finally coming to their senses — scrambled back into the streets.

There’s Grahalans out there, Perelor realized. They’ll die if they leave…

But then, they would die anyway. Besides, he had the Voidling to deal with.

His limbs ached as he stood up on the table, then yelped as another tendril swept them back out from under him. A third struck him in the chest, and he careened through the air again, farther this time, crashing through the glass of a window.

Shards dug into his skin, opening gashes across every part of him. He felt each heartbeat as he tumbled onto the ground, felt the pulse of blood squeezing its way out of him. Desperately, he Reached for more Purity, healing the wounds as fast as he could. His legs had broken from the impact, and he had to wait as they knit themselves back together. It couldn’t have taken longer than a couple of seconds, but it seemed an eternity.

I can’t do this.

A heartbeat. Blood flowing down him.

Too much is changing. It’s all falling apart. Like… like when Ethea fell.

A heartbeat. More blood.

Is there no mercy? Must I suffer again?

Another heartbeat. No blood this time. His leg wound finished sealing. He stumbled to his feet just as Arrus flew out the door, punched in the gut by another tendril. Ithrey tumbled through another window a second later, rolling almost to the other side of the wide street before stopping. Her Purity was almost spent; Perelor could barely see her glow. His own Surge was dangerously low.

No mercy. This is how it ends, isn’t it? One last humiliation, before Torment…

Black mist poured through the windows, forming into a body again. Perelor was the only Surgewielder still standing, and the Voidling’s red eyes fixed on him.

Perelor Krot. Cyrla warned me of you. It seems her warning was exaggerated.

Trembling, and too tired, too beaten to reply, Perelor lowered his lasertip toward it, then cursed, realizing the weapon would do no good.

There was only one thing that could…

He hesitated, as he always did before Reaching, ever since his sister had been taken from him. Then, as the Voidling’s fingers swatted his lasertip away and clasped his throat, he closed his eyes, and attempted, for the first time in years, to connect to the Everrealm.

Immediately, the memories came. Mud and dirt spraying into the air. Crelang, summoning a shield to block the strikes from above as they ran toward the launchpad. Him, desperately swinging his sword to fight back the thousand snakes of Void extending from Larsh’s hands.

Eliel, her eyes wide, a lasertip held to her face as she was… as she was…

As she was torn from him.

Flames.

Blood.

Screams.

Rubble.

And the blade he wished he could use to kill himself…

“No,” he gasped. The words didn’t come out, with the fingers around his neck, but he tried anyway. “No. That didn’t happen. No!”

His eyes flashed open. His powers failed. The Voidling crushed his neck, then released it. Desperately, Perelor healed it. The Voidling crushed it again. Again Perelor healed it. Again the Voidling crushed it. He was almost out of Purity…

A fireball of blue crashed into the creature. Perelor saw only azure as he tumbled back to the ground, his neck healing one last time — and consuming the very last of his Purity. He heard an intense sizzle, a roar of flames, and then a shrill, metallic shriek.

“Get away!” someone yelled behind him. “And tell your master I’m coming for them.”

His vision slowly cleared, the blue light still consuming most of it, but he could make out more details now. Coughing, he rose to his knees. His legs were too tired to do anything more.

In front of him stood a young woman, probably in her late teens, wearing the crisp violet uniform of a Shalarhai noble. Her short hair was neatly tied back into a bun, and she gripped a long, titanium blade in her hand. Not a Surgeblade, but beautiful regardless.

She was a memory burner. There was no other explanation for it; no Surge could produce the intensity of that glorious blue glow. There was no Voidling behind her, though one of the Void Surges lay on the ground near her — one, not two, Perelor noted. The Voidling might be crippled, but it wasn’t dead. She inspected Perelor with angry eyes, gave him a curt nod, then walked toward Arrus.

His breathing heavy, Perelor spared a glance for Arrus — and let his muscles relax a little when he saw the man was still alive. One of his arms was broken, but maybe Ithrey could heal that. She shouldn’t, with a memory burner around, but she would anyway.

Ithrey. He felt bile rise in his throat. He should never have spared that woman. She had caused all of this. It was irrational, and he knew it, but he believed it.

He turned to find her wandering toward him, and he shouted as she approached.

“Stay away from me!”

She stopped, dazed, face glazed over with shock. “I…”

“Stay. Away.”

She stepped back, raising her hands in surrender. “I’m… sorry? What are you so…”

“I am commander of this squad,” Perelor snapped, rising to his feet. “I give the orders. I protect them, not you. I don’t need you meddling. I don’t want your agenda getting in the way. And I certainly don’t want you to get more of us killed! Do you understand?”

She only blinked, stepping back further, her eyes wide. Perelor felt the anger seep away; there had only been enough of it to last a moment. Aching weariness replaced it, and he felt tears roll down his face.

It had been too much. The changes, the Voidling, the Reaching. The Reaching especially. He hated that reminder of how he couldn’t use Ever anymore — Ever, the thing that had given him the power to help the people he loved. Ever, the one joy he thought he’d always have.

He’d thought he’d always have his sister, too. He’d been wrong. Whipping away from Ithrey, struggling to restrain it all, he ran, ducking around a corner until they couldn’t see him, screaming for them not to follow, until, finally, he slumped against the wall of a building, tears flowing freely as gunfire rang out all around.