I will find a way. I must find a way.

That is my pride and my burden.

-Arath Dralei, circa 2,899 Post Fall of Meridian

Cyrla paced around the confines of her makeshift command tent, muttering to herself. Oblivion had been nearly silent since the Voidling had returned, save for one message, over and over, exactly once every hour.

Krot must live. For now. As must Valeo. You will assure this.

What did it mean? Oblivion was God, so it must mean something.

“You worry too much,” a voice hissed. “It is not becoming of a servant so high in the ranks of the fold.”

“As if you have room to talk,” Cyrla snapped. “You almost had Krot turned, and you lost to that pathetic girl.”

“That pathetic girl you’ve chosen to work with?” the Voidling mused. Torment, Cyrla hated the way it could make its hissing voice sound so sing-song. It stared at her with a smile on its face, too; the creature was trapped in a weakened form after its encounter with Ryla. It spent most of its time appearing as a human, saving its strength.

Somehow that only made it more unnerving.

Cyrla waved a hand. “An alliance of necessity. Once I’ve overthrown Larsh, she will become mine, or die.” She suspected the latter, though the former was more possible than she’d thought. Ryla had been strangely cooperative these last few days.

Ryla was of no concern, though; the path to defeating Larsh was as clear as it had ever been. But Ithrey Valeo, a Seeker of the Light, here…

“I have to kill the girl,” she muttered to herself. “I can’t upset Larsh directly, not yet, but somehow I have to stage an accident.” The raid hadn’t worked — and had already gotten her a tongue lashing from Larsh. The Voidling hadn’t worked either, and certainly wouldn’t now that it was so weakened. Still, there must be a way.

“Oblivion forbade that.”

“He forbade me to kill her directly.” That, too, came out as a growl. Thaus, she was losing her composure. She let out a breath, then continued. “I doubt he wants her alive, in the end. I simply need to find out how he wants her killed.”

The Voidling sighed. “So disobedient. You should do as our master says. Keep the raids going, and watch for his hand.”

“Perhaps.” Cyrla continued to pace for a moment, then sighed, stopping. “There is another today. Hopefully that will rid me of my problems.”

“Hope is not a virtue of Oblivion. Do not hope, only obey.”

Cyrla turned to face the Voidling again. Even in this partially human form, its eyes were solid red balls of light, boring into her. “Yes,” she said softly. “You are right. There is no hope. Not for me, not for us.

“And, Oblivion willing, not for Ithrey Valeo, either.”

She straightened, then strode out of the tent — she did not want to spend any more time around the Voidling and its lectures. She may not be able to kill Valeo, but she certainly wouldn’t let the woman go unwatched, either.

The cameras, she realized.

She smiled.

***

“I truly thought you would’ve broken by now. It is rare that I am wrong about such things.”

Larsh’s words barely registered to Ithrey, who lay strapped to a hard titanium table, trembling as needles extended from a robotic arm and dug into her skin, sharp, cold, agonizing. Blood beaded atop her flesh. Her shaking, caused by her pain, made the suffering even worse, as the blades vibrated through her flesh.

“The recordings have done nothing,” Larsh said. “One would think you were not friends with your men to begin with.” In her peripheral, Ithrey saw her leaning against the wall, arms folded. Her expression was grim, cold, distant.

“The life… of a Seeker… is a lonely one,” Ithrey said through gritted teeth.

Larsh snorted. “Lonely… and painful.” She frowned. “This is the price we both pay to oppose Oblivion. The loss of our innocence. The loss of companionship.” She sighed. “We could’ve been friends, I think, under different circumstances. Perhaps we still could be.”

“I don’t serve you,” Ithrey hissed. She could feel the needles growing warmer. The worst part was almost here.

“But then, perhaps not,” Larsh said. She waved a hand, and blue flashed as the needles injected their payload.

The agony intensified, now amplified by chemicals racing through Ithrey’s veins. She howled; there was no containing her pain, not now. She bucked against her restraints, muscles spasming, the needles tearing her as they did. Desperately she tried to reach for Purity, but found it too slippery to hold: Larsh had drugged her earlier.

The Talar leader stepped toward her, placing a hand on her head. “It will end if you tell me what you know,” she said. “Nod, and I will stop the flow.”

Ithrey closed her eyes, trying to think through the agony. Trying to breathe through the screams. Was there any way out of this? Some lie she could fabricate about Aiedra’s whereabouts?

“I will know if you lie,” Larsh whispered. “I promise you that if you do, I will only make this worse.”

No, no lies then. For a moment, she teetered on the edge of giving in.

Then she remembered her brother. He would never fall prey to this. He was strong.

She could be too.

Larsh let out a long, exasperated breath, and the needles finally retreated. Phantom pain lingered, but Ithrey stopped screaming, falling relaxed within her restraints. Those restraints pulled away as Larsh stepped back.

“Another failure, then. You are strong, child. More so than you realize.” She shook her head, turning away. “It is a shame we must fight each other so.”

“That’s your choice,” Ithrey wheezed. “Not mine. The Seekers welcomed you before.”

“They did,” Larsh said. “But my path had diverged from theirs long before I first met Aiedra.”

“You don’t have to do any of this to fight Oblivion,” Ithrey said. She didn’t actually think she could convince this woman, but she had to try, if only for her own sake. “He’s manipulating you. Using you to cause the very chaos he wants.”

Larsh paused for a moment, her back to Ithrey, a silent, shadowed silhouette. Then she snorted.

“If only it were that simple, girl. If only.” She paused, then continued. “My patience will not last much longer with you. You are not the only Seeker in my grip, and I have no desire to keep an enemy empowered as you are. Let that be a warning to you.”

She left. Guards entered the room a moment later, hoisting Ithrey to her feet, then shoving her out of the torture tent and back out into camp. She made the trek back to the slave cots alone.

Let that be a warning to you.

She needed to escape this place. Now. More than just her own fate depended on it.

***

Flames.

Blood.

Screams.

Rubble.

And that sword, so tempting, just waiting to be thrust through his chest. He reached for it…

Perelor slammed his hand into the sand, burning Purity. Again. Again the sand crawled up his arm, fusing itself to his skin, all the way up to his elbow. It worked almost perfectly this time, only small bits flaking to the ground, rather than the large chunks he’d had problems with earlier. It seemed visualizing his arm was just as important as Ithrey had said.

Right again. At least she’d listened to him when he’d explained, once more, why healing the men in the squadron was such a bad idea. He didn’t have to worry about his entire unit being executed anymore.

Unless she does it anyway. But he needed to trust his allies. He hated that feeling of losing control, but he had no choice. Comrades relied on each other to have their back.

He let go of Purity, and the sand flaked off immediately, dropping to the dusty ground below. Stretching, Perelor turned his gaze up to the sky. The fleet was gathering above him. It was nearly time, then.

Right now, the slaves stood in a wheat field that stretched as far as the eye could see, but they wouldn’t be there for long; there was another recording scheduled today. That was why he was here. He knew nothing about electronics, and he had no contacts that could help them. But he did know how to stay alive, and Ithrey’s unconventional tactics during the last battle had gotten him thinking.

“You’re getting better at that.”

Perelor turned to see Ithrey, returned from wherever she’d been, in a crisp new Miradoran uniform. She was tapping her foot rhythmically against the dirt. She fidgeted a lot, Perelor had noticed, despite her otherwise serene composure.

“I hope so,” Perelor grunted. “This won’t work if I’m not.”

Ithrey shrugged. “You have your healing, either way. It will be fine.” She sounded far more sure than Perelor felt.

If she or Arrus dies, it’s over. I can’t make that plan work by myself. I have to keep them alive.

“Maybe,” he said. He slammed his hand into the sand, closing his eyes, envisioning the grainy substance flowing into him and across his entire forearm. He felt it stick to him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that it covered him completely; not even a little of it had flaked off.

Finally. He grinned.

“Getting better indeed.” Ithrey gave him a weak smile.

Perelor stood, letting go of Purity and shaking off the sand. He didn’t have the Purity for more practice, he realized, the recording was too soon, and he wanted his reserves as full as possible. “How long did they say?”

“Anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours.” Ithrey scowled. “They seemed like they were deliberately being vague.”

“They probably are. I told you, Cyrla wants you dead.” He’d relayed everything to her, over the last few days, at least, everything he needed to tell. She knew more about his sister, and about how Cyrla had tried to cross Larsh in order to get her killed.

In turn, she’d told him things, too. More than he’d thought she would, though less than he needed to fully understand what was going on. It seemed she belonged to a secret order called the Seekers of the Light — just as Cyrla had said. Their goal was to find the Endowed, as well as to keep the Void’s avatar imprisoned until the prophesied hero could be found.

They were noble objectives. Though Perelor couldn’t help but wonder where these people had been when his sister had needed them, fourteen years ago. Ithrey had been too young — she was two years Perelor’s junior at twenty-six — but it sounded like the order had still existed at the time. Why hadn’t they helped Perelor’s father, when he had been trying to marshal the nations together? He’d asked Ithrey this, but she hadn’t been able to give any answers. He’d asked her why Cyrla wanted her dead, too, and she’d deliberately avoided answering that.

So many mysteries. It seemed, with Ithrey’s arrival, an entire new world had opened up, and he had no idea how to navigate it.

But I do know how to survive. And so, he straightened his uniform, brand new as of today, and strode back toward the bulk of the slave camp.

Physically, he knew it looked exactly as it had a few days ago; only the location had changed, the cheap foam cots and small cookfires were all exactly the same. Yet it seemed smaller to him somehow. The hollow expressions of the slaves bothered him more, and he cringed as he saw the wounds still open across many of their limbs and torsos. He knew he’d been right to tell Ithrey not to heal all of them — he could not risk the Talar executing the entire squadron — yet it was terrible all the same.

His eyes drifted to the guards, whose helms also seemed fixed on him. Cyrla’s new guards; she’d had the old ones replaced. These were worse, already they’d had two of his men beaten, one almost to death, for minor steps out of line. One had even tried to take away Perelor’s lasertip. Perelor had made certain the man knew why he shouldn’t try that.

I can’t keep them at bay forever, though. If Cyrla turns the entire army against us, what then? He might be free to walk a few miles away, but there were still trackers in his blood, and thousands of soldiers surrounding the area. If he really wanted to get away, he realized, he’d not only need to get rid of the trackers, but he’d also need a ship that could slip through the wormhole unnoticed. Those things were both nearly impossible in their own right. He was beginning to understand, on a new level, just how foolish Crelang’s escape plan had been, all those years ago.

And here he was, ready to attempt it again. Terrified, and feeling incredibly foolish, but ready.

He stopped as he saw his squadron — or, really, Ithrey’s squadron. There were only a few now who weren’t Miradorans, and they barely seemed to notice him. Arrus, though, perked up, stepping away from the cookfire and toward Perelor, who motioned for them to move away. Perelor waited until they were out of earshot of anyone else, then spoke.

“Any luck with that… noble of yours?” Okron, he still hated the idea.

“She hasn’t responded either way.”

“You’re being ignored by your own cousin?”

“Not on purpose, I don’t think,” Arrus protested. “She’s always been quick to respond before.”

Perelor just shook his head. “How long before we tell Ithrey the plan won’t work?”

“She will respond.”

Perelor searched the other man’s expression, then sighed. “I just hope you’re as right as you think you are.” He paused. “Have orders come in?”

“Just a few moments ago. We have fifteen more minutes before launch.”

Finally. Cyrla had announced the raid early that morning, and it was already mid-afternoon. As if she were trying to make Perelor more anxious.

Actually, that’s probably exactly what she’s trying to do. Cyrla hadn’t talked to him since the Voidling attack, but he knew it had been her. He still wasn’t sure how to deal with the fact that she had access to a searing Voidling.

“Do we know anything else?” Perelor asked.

“Nope.” Arrus tensed. “Do you think…” he shivered. “Do you think Cyrla…”

“Yes,” Perelor said. Arrus shivered again.

“That is not what I wanted to hear.”

“It’s the truth,” Perelor said. “But I have a plan.”

Arrus snorted. “Great. I don’t need to worry at all, then.”

“Oh, you need to worry. just not about Cyrla. Keep your Surge charged and your mind ready, and I’ll deal with her.”

“If you say so.” Arrus turned back toward the other men, frowning. Perelor suspected he knew why. Ithrey had specifically told them not to tell the Miradorans about their quest.

I only told you because I had to, she’d said. They know to obey me, but I don’t want any risk of Cyrla finding out about the Endowed. It was deceit that Perelor understood the reasoning for, but that he hated nonetheless.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

“They need to know that Voidling might come back,” Perelor muttered. “If we’re going to take it down, we’re going to have to be coordinated.”

“I don’t like thinking about that thing,” Arrus sighed, “but you’re right. How do we tell them?”

“We get straight to the point,” Perelor said. He strode forward, clearing his throat, then shouting.

“My squad! At attention.”

There was no response, save for uncomfortable shuffling. Some of the non-Miradorans looked at him with eyes wide, evidently unsure what his command even meant. The Miradorans, though, collectively ignored him.”

“At attention,” Perelor said, “means eyes on me. And it means all of you. So, at attention!”

Begrudgingly, the Miradorans moved this time, shifting their gazes to fix on him. They slouched, and they all looked exasperated, but they looked. Good enough for now, Perelor thought.

Oddly, he found he didn’t know exactly what to do next. He’d been a squad captain for five years, yet, he realized, he had spent most of that time doing the very basics, serving more as a force to push his men forward than as an actual leader. Now that he had to actually give his men orders, he had to pause to think.

“The Voidling isn’t dead,” he said finally. Best, like he’d said to Arrus, to be straightforward. “The memory burner girl got rid of one of its Surges, but it could be back with the other at any moment. We need to be prepared for that.”

There was another pause. Then one of the Miradorans snorted.

“You think we can beat that thing? Go to Torment. Wasn’t it you who said we were all going to die anyway?” The person who had spoken, a heavy-set man with several scars on his face, turned away. “Besides, if the General wanted us ready for that, she’d have said so.”

One by one, the other Miradorans turned away, then the other slaves after them. Perelor opened his mouth to protest, then cursed and shut it. Okron, he was no leader. Besides, what could these men do against a Voidling? They’d all be slaughtered. He turned away, shaking his head. Fool. One hint about his sister, and he was denying reality as surely as he had as a child.

“They’re not going to just follow you, I think,” Arrus said beside him. “We’ll have to get Ithrey to talk to them.”

“Maybe,” Perelor said. Yet, he’d seen those eyes in men before. Hundreds of different men. He’d seen them in himself, too, saw them, even now.

The eyes of utter defeat. No, Ithrey wouldn’t be able to solve that. Perelor wouldn’t be able to, either. Not as he was now. But maybe…

Alarm bells rang, and Perelor cursed again. Now, of all searing times? He reached behind his shoulder, unbuckling his lasertip from his back as slaves and soldiers began dashing about around him.

Ready or not, it was time to put on a show.

***

The sky glowed a deep red as the sun’s light scattered through the ash. The color seemed a sign; what was about to happen would require bloodshed.

Perelor waited in the carrier hold as the ship shot through the sky. They were still well within the atmosphere, but the thrusters seemed at full blaze, and Perelor had to keep his legs wide and hold on to a support bar to keep from falling. With his other hand, he idly twisted his lasertip in his hand, lost in thought.

It had been so long since he’d seen his sister, he realized. He’d changed so much during that time — almost none of it for the better. What if she had changed, too? What if she didn’t want the new Perelor?

But then, that was why he was here, why he hadn’t killed Ithrey and been done with it. He let out a shaky breath.

I just need a little more time.

“Nervous?”

The question came from Ithrey, who stood on his right. Arrus was in the back, where Perelor had ordered him to stand this time. To put up a shield, for Ithrey and the others, while Perelor went forward.

“A bit,” Perelor admitted.

“Good. You didn’t seem nervous at all last time. It was disturbing.”

Perelor snorted. “I was panicking last time. This time I’m just nervous.”

“Huh. There’s a difference?”

“Yes.”

They stood in awkward silence, fields of grain passing underneath. Finally, Ithrey cleared her throat.

“Arrus said you were a memory burner once.”

“Once.”

“What changed?”

Flames.

Blood.

Screams.

Rubble.

“I don’t know,” he lied.

“They just… didn’t work one day?”

“Not exactly. But once my sister was taken, they… faded. It only took a few weeks.” That was close enough to the truth. They’d vanished immediately the night it had happened, but he hated thinking of that night. Couldn’t think of that night. Even now, with his newfound second chance, he remembered only flashes.

“I see.” She paused again. “I hope you can get them working again.”

Perelor tensed. “No,” he hissed.

“But…”

“No. Don’t ask me to do that. I’ve done enough for you already.” He forced himself to relax. “It’s not a good idea. Trust me.”

“Having a memory burner would increase our odds,” Ithrey said gently.

“I know that’s what it seems like. But… it’s not just gone. It’s broken. I… don’t want to talk about it.”

“Ah. Like most things, it seems.” She nodded to his arms. “Those scars didn’t come from rolling around on your cot.”

Perelor winced, but did not contradict her. Last night… well, many things had changed, but not that. “I’m fine now.”

“I hope so. Who knows what Cyrla might throw at us.”

The ship began descending, and a bump of turbulence forced Perelor to temporarily drop his lasertip and grip with both hands. Cursing, he knelt when it was over and picked the weapon up.

“Whatever she does,” he said, “I intend to counter it.”

“Good,” Ithrey sighed. She stepped back, taking her own lasertip from off her back. She frowned at it. “I hate these things.”

“They’re good weapons.”

“They’re weapons. They kill, and nothing more.” Her eyes grew distant. “Once I thought I could avoid that. I can’t, but I thought I could.” She shook her head. “I’m rambling.” Her voice grew softer. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Captain. The stories I’ve heard about these squads…” She shivered.

The ship’s descent slowed. Perelor gave Ithrey a meaningful glance, and she nodded, turning to face the soldiers.

“Be ready!” she shouted. “Arrus will be shielding us from the front as we file out, and we’ll be in a bubble formation after that. Does everyone know what that is?”

The Miradorans grunted their affirmation. The other slaves were too timid — or too tired — to respond otherwise. There were only a few left anyway; as promised by Larsh, every slave Perelor had lost in the last battle had been replaced by one of Ithrey’s Miradorans.

She’s practically giving the woman a personal army. That can’t last for long. But Larsh was only the latest in a long list of problems. Steeling himself, he stepped to the very front of the troop hold, face just inches from the door. He closed his eyes, letting the blackness, the stillness, consume him.

The ship stopped. Arrus raised his hand. Perelor felt the heat of the plasma lap against his nose. Heard the hiss of the door as it opened. Felt the camera click.

But for this moment, he let himself be still. He closed his eyes. Envisioned his arms and torso. Hoped his preparation, limited though it was, would be enough.

The moment ended. Opening his eyes, he drew in Purity, more of it than he’d ever drawn at once, almost his entire supply. The resultant light shone out of the hovering troop carrier and into the smoky shadows, illuminating the faces of Grahalan men who waited behind stalks of wheat, holding metal shields and aiming pistols at Perelor’s men. They opened fire, the plasma shield shrieking as the bolts hit.

It was time. Ablaze with white light, he turned to Arrus and nodded. A hole opened in the shield, just large enough for one person to fit through. One person only.

Perelor leapt through it just before it closed.

It was a simple idea, that Perelor had once dismissed as foolish — because it was. While Arrus shielded the men, Perelor would run forward, using the raw power of his Purity Surge to keep the enemy distracted. With an untrained force, he suspected the tactic would go wrong in seconds. Surgewielders were forces to be reckoned with, but they could be reckoned with, especially when outnumbered.

But Ithrey’s new force was trained. In theory, they could push forward in a coherent charge, making good on the chaos Perelor caused before Perelor fell. If they worked well enough as a team, they might get away with far less casualties.

Might. It was a gamble. But necessity was necessity.

And so, as Perelor’s feet hit the ground, he forced the anxiety out of his gut and attacked by instinct.

It was amazing how easily the movements came after all these years. He spun around blasts of plasma, using his Purity to strengthen his muscles and move with blinding speed, running to the first soldier. He raised his makeshift metal shield to block Perelor’s lasertip, but Perelor grabbed it with his free hand, throwing it aside with unnatural strength, then impaled the man with his lasertip. Twisting the man’s corpse to absorb the plasma bolts that rocketed toward him, he then ran toward the next man, cutting him down. There were more men behind him, and finally, they dropped their blasters, drawing daggers to attack him up close. As they did, Perelor fixed his eyes on one man in particular — a soldier wearing a metal breastplate.

Ignoring the man’s stab at his chest, and letting his enemy’s blade sink deep into his lungs, Perelor thrust his hand forward and slammed his palm against that breastplate, burning Purity. Envisioning his entire body, he willed the metal, with all the focus he could muster, to become one with his skin.

Time slowed. It could not have been more than a second during which nothing happened, yet to Perelor it seemed minutes, his heart frozen mid-beat, the blood from the blade in his chest drifting midway through the air. His white glow flickered, and he his good eye burned with pain. Something trembled deep within him, a vibration he couldn’t quite describe, but felt regardless.

One he felt every time he tried to memory burn.

Panic rose alongside the pain in his chest. No. No, this is Purity. I can burn it. I can!

He pushed harder, with a strength he didn’t realize he could muster before that moment. And, finally, the Purity obeyed. Time sped back up, and the metal of the soldier’s breastplate exploded with white light, then began to flow away from the man, moving in a wave up Perelor’s arm, forming into a brilliant, thin suit of armor around his face, then his chest, then his arms. The metal bunched up around the dagger, then violently shoved it backward, throwing the Grahalan soldier back with it. The wound sealed immediately afterward, and the armor snapped into place around where the weapon had been. Perelor felt his uniform bulge as the titrite spread, and the acrid smell of smoke fled as it closed around his nostrils and mouth.

They could not see him grin— the armor had formed a protective seal over his lips — but he felt glee anyway as he saw the look of horror that crossed the Grahalan soldier’s faces. They had thought they could handle him.

They had been wrong.

He spun into them. To their credit, they did not buckle, instead pressing in harder, slamming lasertips and blades against his armor. But it did no good. He lashed out with his own weapon, slamming it into a man’s skull. It broke apart in a spray of shards. He slashed again. A man fell with a gaping gash in his chest. He swung the back of his lasertip upward, sending the butt of it crashing into a man’s jaw. His neck snapped with a loud, sickening crunch. Blood sprayed against Perelor’s armor. The camera whirred faster than it had before.

Through it all, he smiled. It was not the smile of joy. It was not even the smile of purpose seized, for he knew his men would die anyway, given enough time. It was the smile that came from simply moving. From doing something, after all these years of drifting along in the current of the Talar war machine.

The glory of defiance.

His Purity was running out fast, he noticed. Ithrey had warned him of this; according to her, it took far more of the Second Power to add substance to one’s body than it did to simply adjust the substance that was already there. He attacked with more vigor, lashing out with his gauntlet-covered free hand in addition to his lasertip. More men fell. The Grahalan line buckled. A war cry sounded behind Perelor, and bolts of plasma rammed into the few soldiers who tried to hold. Some of those bolts struck Perelor, too, but his armor easily absorbed them, and, finally, the enemy scattered before him.

Abruptly, the camera stopped whirring, and that monotone female voice Perelor hated rang in his ears. “Recording complete.” A few moments later, explosions rocked the ground in front of the slaves, followed immediately by Talar soldiers leaping down to fight the retreating Grahalans.

That was quick. He turned back to the men — to his men. Arrus’ shield was still up, blazing blue against the red rays of sunlight scattered through the sky. Ithrey stood at their head, sweating, but smiling.

And there were no corpses to be seen. He swept his eyes over them, taking a headcount, not daring to believe it at first. Forty alive. He looked over them again. Forty; he hadn’t miscounted.

Somehow, they’d went through an entire battle without losing anyone.

Arrus stepped to the front of the squad as the fighting continued to move forward, toward the grain silos they had come here to conquer in the first place. He was wearing a grin wider than Perelor’s had been during the fighting. No one, he mouthed. We did it!

No one. The plan had worked better than Perelor had dared hope. Slowly, he forced himself to relax, letting go of the Second Power. The titrite peeled off his skin like crusting paint, dropping with a loud crash to the ground. Arrus opened a hole in his shield, stepping forward, then spontaneously throwing his arms around Perelor.

“Torment! That was brilliant!” He squeezed Perelor tighter. Shocked, Perelor pushed him away, though he felt a grin spread across his own face.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure! Perelor, the way you fought… I mean, I’ve seen you fight before, but that was amazing.” He smirked. “Some of the others are whispering about you being an Eternal.”

Perelor snorted. “If only that were true.” But his smile did not fade. Ithrey walked up to them a moment later, folding her arms.

“Good work. You did better with that titrite than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Perelor hesitated, then gave her a nod of respect. “I had a good teacher.”

Ithrey shrugged. “I’ve never even used titrite, but I’ve heard the theory.” She paused. “With fighting like that, we might be able to pull off a mutiny.”

Perelor shifted uncomfortably. “That’s still not a good idea. Not until we’ve tried everything else.”

Ithrey paused, then nodded. “You’re probably right.” She sighed. “I wish I had more time to plan. But we do not have time, and so we must act.” She turned to Arrus. “Tonight?”

Arrus swallowed. “She still hasn’t responded.”

“Call her, if you have to. As good as the battle today was, Cyrla still knows I’m here. It’s only a matter of time before she gets around Larsh’s orders and has me killed.” Ithrey’s expression didn’t change as she mentioned her own death, but Perelor noticed her hand shake as she talked.

Not as firm as she likes to appear. He was noticing that more and more.

“I… alright.” Arrus straightened. “Tonight.”

The shield dropped, and the other soldiers began swarming around them, several of them giving Perelor nods of respect, one even giving him a slap to the shoulder. Their earlier attitude of indifference was gone. Some were even smiling.

Fools. This won’t last.

Except… what if it worked? He hadn’t broken any Talar laws; he’d checked the codes thoroughly before even considering this. If he perfected this, could he keep them all alive? It seemed unlikely, but then, finding his sister had seemed impossible just a few days ago.

He heard a hiss behind him. Frowning, he turned, then froze.

A ship had landed behind them, one he recognized: Cyrla’s ship. Its door snapped open immediately after landing, and Cyrla herself stepped out, accompanied by half a dozen guards, weapons already in hand.

Instinctively, Perelor walked forward, placing himself between Cyrla and Arrus. He had broken no rules. They couldn’t punish him for this.

They might not be here for that, he tried to tell himself. Relax.

As he saw Cyrla’s stony expression fix on him, he tensed anyway.

“Krot,” she said, folding her arms and stopping in front of him. “That was quite the stunt you pulled.”

“I didn’t break any rules,” Perelor growled.

“No, you didn’t. And you’re not why I’m here.” She gestured to the guards. “You know your orders. On with it.”

Moving in sync, the guards stepped around the pair, aiming their blasters, not at Perelor, but at the slaves behind him. Plasma shrieked.

Twelve of the Miradoran slaves dropped before Perelor could even react. As he turned and shouted, seven more were slaughtered. He drew his lasertip, but a tendril of red light snapped upward from the ground, snatching the weapon from his hand. Another tendril lashed around his boot, then pulled back, and he swore as he toppled to the dust. As he scrambled to his feet, the gunfire finally ceased.

Smoke billowed from the corpses, blocking his view. “Arrus!” he shouted. He hesitated before adding. “Ithrey!”

There was no reply, though as he scanned the corpses, he could not find them, and a moment later, the smoke cleared enough that he could see them, standing with their hands raised in surrender. Some of the other slaves had survived, too. Seven of them.

The ones who weren’t Miradorans, he realized.

“Larsh’s orders,” Cyrla said behind him. “She — finally — concluded that giving Ithrey a personal guard was not as good an idea as she’d initially thought.”

“Voidling!” Perelor whipped around, anger consuming him. He reached for his belt, drawing the knife that waited there. “I’ll…”

He stopped as he saw the red glow around her. What could he do, against that?

The knife slipped from his fingers. Echoes danced in his mind. His eyes moved away from Cyrla, toward the corpses waiting all around him.

Flames.

Blood.

Screams.

Rubble.

It was happening again. People were dying again, because Perelor was foolish enough to hope.

Cyrla smiled that predatory smile of hers. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you. Though it seems you’ve already realized that.” She moved her gaze past Perelor, fixing on Ithrey. “Stop trying to game the system, Valeo. We’re not fools, and we will catch up to you.” She turned back to Perelor. “Titrite is illegal for Elekhai now. Larsh passed the law the moment I told her what you were doing.” She stepped closer, whispering in Perelor’s ear.

“Let me remind you, though, that I can change all of that. How many lives are you willing to sacrifice to save Valeo’s?”

She turned, waving to the guards. “Our work is done here. Perelor, corpse duty. It should be a good reminder to you, yes?”

“You Voidling,” Perelor hissed. It came out so weak. Okron, what have I done?

“That title is a truer one than you realize,” Cyrla said. She walked away, and a moment later, her cruiser took off, kicking up dust as it revved its thrusters and soared away. Perelor coughed, falling to his knees as ash swirled around him. As the shock of it all faded into despair.

It would never happen, he realized, that elusive future of peace he’d always dreamed of, even when he’d barely dared dream. He had just performed a miracle, and they’d quashed it in moments.

There was no reason to hope.

Eliel. Eliel can save us. I have to keep going, for her.

Yet, as he remembered the corpses of men who had been alive just moments before, men who he had finally saved, he wondered.