What I must do disgusts me. But it must be done.

-Aiedra Okron, writing to Li’astra Estus, circa 1,212 Post Imprisonment

“If he had listened, maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation!” Ithrey snapped.

“Quiet,” Arrus hissed, glancing worriedly around them. “Do you want the guards to hear?” They were back in the circle of cots, sitting on a rough, stained mattress, surrounded by soldiers in insectoid helms who had escorted them back here after the fight with the Voidling. Waiting, for the consequences to come.

Ithrey huffed, but forced herself to fall quiet. That man. That infuriating man! Marching in, as if Ithrey couldn’t handle things on her own. Nearly exposing them all.

Nearly dying, as part of Ithrey’s foolish self-sacrifice.

He probably saved Arrus, the rational part of her noted. And you. The plan was already sunk. You’re not thinking straight.

That part of her was right. She huffed anyway.

“We need a new plan,” Arrus continued. “And fast. I don’t know exactly what Perelor got called to Cyrla for, but it can’t be anything good.”

Ithrey just waited, silent, numb. Angry. She had almost died. She probably still would die.

And it was all meaningless.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. It felt like a confession, rather than a statement. “Do… do you?”

Arrus frowned. “Not really. But we can’t try that again, I don’t think.” He paled. “I got far enough into the transmission they’ll know it was me.”

Ithrey winced. “So they can execute you, then?”

“Yup.” Arrus let silence hang for a moment, then chuckled dryly. “All this time, and this is how it ends.”

Ithrey paused, debating if she should try to convince him he wouldn’t die, try to find some way to save him.

But, she realized, to do so would be to lie. If the Talar decided to kill him, there was nothing she could do to stop them.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It was worth it.” He smiled. “All these years in the camp I told Perelor he was wrong, and that we should try, but deep down I wondered if he was right. I can say now, though, that he wasn’t. Even if they take me, even if we never had a chance to begin with, it was worth it.”

Still, Ithrey thought. His blood on my hands. Her fist tightened, and for a moment she was on the verge of tears. All her planning, for what? Another dead friend?

He’s not dead yet, she reminded herself. Though her stomach twisted as she saw guards moving toward them.

“Thaus,” she swore. It was rare she let herself do that, but it seemed appropriate. She rose to her feet, pointing as Arrus gave her a quizzical look. He turned, saw the guards, then rose as well, hand drifting toward his Surgeblade. A faint blue radiance began rising from his skin.

Ithrey Reached and pulled in Purity as the guards formed into a circle around them. Their helms were on and their rifles were all out, indicators flashing, barrels glowing. All save one, a man with long brown hair who held a long, black Void Surgeblade in his hand. On the breastplate of his armor, a painted Bladed Wheel reflected silver in the crimson light of his Surge. He stood for a long moment, his soldiers waiting, Ithrey and Arrus standing defensively next to each other.

“If you’re here for me,” Arrus said finally. “Then take me.” He dismissed his Ever, then dropped his Surgeblade to the ground.

The man with the Void Surgeblade snorted. “We’re not here for you.” He pointed to Ithrey. “But the girl has been sentenced to death by whipping.” He grinned. “Three dozen lashings, I heard. Your corpse will be quite mangled by the end.”

Arrus paled, and immediately his hand snapped back down to his Surgeblade. As he did, two of the guards stepped forward, leveling their rifles directly at his head. Two more stepped toward Ithrey, doing the same to her.

Ithrey’s mind spun. Me?

Arrus snarled. “You won’t have her.”

“That is not for you to decide, Yral,” the guard captain said. Red light began radiating from his skin. Impressive, Ithrey noted idly; he hadn’t even closed his eyes while Reaching for it.

“You won’t,” Arrus repeated. He stepped forward. The guards’ hands itched toward the trigger. Arrus’ hand still hovered near the hilt of his blade.

He’d do it, Ithrey realized. He’d actually get himself killed for this.

Except, what good would it do?

“Stop,” she whispered. “Stand down.”

Arrus frowned. “What?”

“Stand down,” she said. She turned, meeting his eyes. “Don’t get yourself killed here.”

Shock crossed his face. “But… the Endowed…”

Ithrey smiled. A wistful smile. “We were never going to win anyway.”

Arrus’ expression fell, and three more of the soldiers rushed Ithrey, slamming the ends of their weapons into her gut. She folded, gasping. Arrus shouted, but before he could attack, a purple armored fist hit him in the head. He toppled, and did not get up.

Please don’t be dead, Ithrey thought. Please.

A hand yanked her to her feet, then a knee urged her forward. A needle slid into the skin of her forearm, and her vision fuzzed. Iroxin, she knew, a drug designed to keep burners from Reaching. It didn’t work perfectly, but it was usually enough to stop a Surgewielder from using their power.

They didn’t need it. For something broke in Ithrey, as she knelt in the ash-covered soil of Grahala. All her plans, all her callous sacrifice and careful manipulation, had amounted to nothing.

In the end, she deserved her failure.

***

Perelor ran like he had not run in years, feet pounding against the dust, spraying it behind him as he continued forward.

Soldiers stared at him. Frowned. Gawked. For once, he didn’t care. He was an Ethean slave, given a Surge in the camp of his enemy. He had always been a sight to see. Always been an outsider here. A tiny island of light, among a sea of darkness. That’s what he should have been. What he was realizing he needed to become again.

He wove his way through the mess of soldiers, jumping atop wooden crates when he had to, twisting through corridors between metal-plate tents, and pushing his way around the few soldiers who still stood in his way. They glared at him.

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He didn’t care. They were the enemy.

The enemy. He accepted that, rushing through the dust. These men would kill him, if they had to. Break him, if they could.

He could not be neutral any longer.

Finally, he saw what he’d been looking for. What he’d been dreading. A mess of purple guards, shoving a woman in black and orange robes forward. Her clothes were already ripped, showing bruised skin beneath. The soldiers were laughing.

Laughing. Rage boiled inside Perelor. For once, he did not suppress it.

“Enough!” he shouted.

His voice was loud, clear. Stronger than it had been in a very long time. The soldiers stopped, eyes drifting toward him. For a moment, their laughter ceased. They stared at Perelor, and though their eyes were covered by insectoid helms, he felt as if he could see the shame in their gazes.

“Enough!” he yelled again. He Reached, pulling in Purity. “Let her go.”

A pause. Then the guards snorted, turning back to their work.

“Enough!” Perelor screamed. And this time…

This time he attacked.

He didn’t last long, didn’t even engage the first of the soldiers. The ground underneath him surged upward, Animated by a soldier with a Void Surge Perelor could not see. He tumbled to his feet as the earth twisted around his right foot. Dust sprayed into his mouth, ashy, rancid.

He grunted, trying to rise, but tendrils of soil lashed around him, pinning him to the ground. One of them twisted around his skull, pressing his nose to the floor. Breath fled him.

“I wouldn’t try anything else if I were you,” a voice said. Harsh, metallic. Familiar. “Larsh’s patience with you is thin.”

The tendrils released. Leaving him alone. In the dirt. He lay there for a moment, unbreathing. What would it be like to fade here? To just sleep, forever?

Can’t do that anyway, he reminded himself. Torment isn’t sleep.

We’re condemned, all of us.

He groaned, rolling onto his back, taking in a much needed deep breath. His lips trembled as he did. The taste of ash still permeated his mouth. He coughed, then slowly rose to his feet.

He hesitated, legs trembling beneath him, for too long. His eyes darted about, searching for something, anything. All he found was Arrus, laying face down, blood pooling around his head.

“No!” He lunged toward Arrus, rolling him over, pushing Purity into his friend, for the moment not caring about the consequences. “Sear it, no, no…”

He relaxed. Arrus’ chest was still rising and falling, and the wound was now sealed. As Perelor pulled his friend into his lap, he mumbled something incoherent, expression twitching. Soft red light was rising from his eyelids; he was having a Soulcursed episode.

“Give in,” he whispered, his voice a soft hiss, coherent now. “You are beaten, Krot…”

He shivered, gently laying Arrus back on the ground. His eyes drifted back toward the metal-plated buildings of the Talar camp. Then to the makeshift comms tower stretching above them.

Then back down to the soldiers dragging Ithrey toward the center of camp. She let them, hanging in her rags, eyes sunken. Defeated.

Torment, he knew that feeling. It was swelling in him now. The desire to simply fold into himself, to accept the bliss of not caring. He trembled, eyes drifting back to Arrus. He was too distant to hear the man’s mumbles now, but he knew what Oblivion was saying through his friend.

Give up. Give in. You have lost.

His shoulders sagged. His heart ached. And yet…

And yet, what choice was there, but to go forward?

“I’ll be back, Arrus,” he whispered. “Hang in there.” He sheathed his lasertip — it would do no good — and followed the Talar guards.

***

Ithrey wasn’t sure how long the soldiers drove her onward before they threw her to the ground atop a cement platform. Her head throbbed from a blow across the skull, and time blended together within the pain.

People swarmed around the platform, talking, whispering. There was a reason the Talar used whipping for executions, it always created a spectacle. She could only see their silhouettes through her blurry vision, but she knew what they would look like if she could view them clearly. Shoulders slumped. Heads down. Trying to ignore the fact that, with a wave of a Shalarhai’s hand, they could end up where Ithrey now knelt.

A hard shove on her back prodded her into place. A knife dug into her skin as they cut her clothes from off her, barely digging into her flesh, but still drawing blood. It dripped down her back, splattering to the ground.

“I want this to be painful,” she heard a voice say. Cyrla. “I want her to suffer for defying Larsh.” Her voice lowered. “For defying God.”

She moaned, softly. Tried to force herself to protest.

She couldn’t manage it. She deserved this. Because of her, it was over. Alaran would die, and there was nothing she could do. She had failed. The galaxy was lost.

She closed her eyes as the heat of the whip shrieked into her shoulder.

***

Perelor burst out of the front of the crowd just as the whipmaster struck Ithrey for the first time. Electricity crackled as the metal hit her back, and flesh sizzled and smoked. She slumped forward, falling off of her knees and onto her face. Blood flowed down her back. Cyrla stood behind her, a smirk on her lips, watching Perelor with glowing crimson eyes.

Thirty-six, Perelor thought. Thaus, there’s no way anyone can take that many.

The whip came down again. Again flesh burned. Ithrey whimpered.

Thaus, I can’t take that many.

The whip came down again. Ithrey didn’t whimper this time. She just sagged. Tears dripped from her eyes.

Time slowed.

You know what you have to do, son.

Except… he didn’t. If he died here, there was no way he could fulfill his oath. He would never see Eliel again.

What? What do I have to do?

His father’s voice was silent. He trembled.

You know what you have to do, that part of him had said.

He did, he realized, deep down. He’d always known.

The whipmaster cocked the whip backward again. Swung it down.

Perelor stepped forward, catching it.

***

Agony. There was no other word to describe this but agony. Though Ithrey was surprised at how little of that agony came from the whip.

No, the real agony was the realization of her hypocrisy. For all she’d claimed to be doing good, she’d thrown away lives as surely as Larsh. For all her talk of loving her friends, she’d nearly condemned two men without even asking if they wanted it. She closed her eyes, tears dripping from them, as she prepared herself for the third hit.

It didn’t come. Instead, she heard a voice, loud and familiar.

“I invoke the right of atonement.”

***

Perelor threw the whip aside, wincing as he healed the burns on his hand with his Purity Surge. “I invoke the right of atonement,” he repeated. He met Cyrla’s gaze as he spoke. “I take her lashings. All of them.”

There was no reply save for silence. The whipmaster cocked the whip back again, but Perelor lunged forward, slamming a fist into the man’s arm. He yelped, stumbling backward and dropping his weapon.

“I invoke the right of atonement!” Perelor shouted. “Did you not hear me? I take her lashings.” He stepped in front of Cyrla, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “All of them.”

To his surprise, Cyrla actually stepped back, cursing softly under her breath. Was that fear in her expression? It quickly fled, but he could have sworn it was there, if only for a moment. She snorted. “You would actually try to stop this execution, Krot? You cannot use Purity during a whipping.”

Perelor hesitated, then reached back and yanked the Purity Surge from his neck. Blood spurted from the gash where it had been, but he used the last of his Purity to heal it, then dismissed the rest and tossed the Surge aside. One of the Talar soldiers stepped toward it, but Perelor shot the man a glare, and the guard stepped back. “I know.”

Cyrla’s expression darkened. “And you would die for this woman?”

He hesitated again, for one treasonous moment.

You know what you have to do.

“Yes.”

Cyrla actually blinked in surprise at this, then muttered something under her breath that Perelor could not hear. She hesitated, for a long moment. The Talar guards all stared at her, waiting, breathless.

Finally, she spoke. “Larsh won’t like this. But I’m not sure I care anymore, so, let it be done. Perelor Krot will intercede between Valeo and death, as the Endowed shall intercede between Oblivion and humankind.” She waved a hand. “Proceed.”

There was a single moment, as the guards moved toward Perelor, during which he stood, alone, triumphant.

Then the butt of a lasertip slammed into his stomach. He doubled over. The whipmaster cocked his whip backward.

Pain began.