I have failed. Oh Torment, I have failed!

-Arath Dralei, circa 2,900 Post Fall of Meridian

Ryla emerged back into the Forum to chaos and questions.

The normal chatting had turned into shouting in many parts of the room, and even the calmest of the nobles wore grim expressions. Ryla couldn’t blame them. This announcement… well, it would affect far more than just Talar, but it would certainly change the lives of those in this room the most. Larsh always taxed those with the highest income first, and already Ryla could hear people asking if yet another increase was coming.

It would come, along with more responsibility for all of them; it took an extraordinary amount of work to field so many campaigns. Factories would shut down. There would be even fewer people for food production. More drafts would be enacted.

Do you think your father would survive if he were drafted? her mother’s voice whispered in her mind.

Honestly? No, she answered it. So I won’t let it happen.

Some of the nobles noticed her. Ryla mentally cursed as they approached, their faces taut with anger. She noted the woman who had thought about assassinating Ryla among them, and made certain to focus on her echoes especially as the group started spouting off questions.

“Do you know anything about these other campaigns?” one man said, nervously messing with the buttons on the collar of his nylon uniform. He was plump, and another, far more muscular man trailed behind him. His champion, likely, he couldn’t have maintained a high enough office to be here without one. “My, what a fuss this has caused. Surely Larsh told you something, my dear girl?”

He smirked slightly as he regarded Ryla. They’re trying to humiliate me, she realized, reading the man’s echoes. They think if they can get me to mess up, they can delegitimize my claim.

Well, she was inclined to show them otherwise. She paused for a moment, considering, then decided boldness was her best option. She stepped forward, briefly closing her eyes and lighting ablaze with Ever. She Reached for the noble’s thoughts in particular as she did, ensuring she knew their schemes. They were flimsy things, really; their plan depended far too much on the subtext of the court. Subtext Ryla had no interest in learning.

“I’d advise you not to cross me, Shal Isinal,” she said, using the man’s first name — which he’d never told her. “Particularly not without enough Power in your skin to hide your thoughts. Do you understand?”

The man paled, and his champion stepped closer, hand drifting to a sword on his belt. Ryla eyed the champion, assessed the sword — which wasn’t a Surgeblade — then snorted, walking away.

“You didn’t answer my question!” Isinal called out behind her.

“I don’t need to,” she replied.

She pushed her way through the crowd, noting Naidi, now swarmed with questioners. They had ignored her before, but now it seemed everyone wanted to know the heir’s best friend. Ryla met her eyes, gave her a nod and a mouthed ‘sorry’, then made her way through the rest of the mob and out the door. Though many tried to ask her questions, she ignored them. With her glow as bright as it was, no one would risk pushing her further.

Probably wise. She let out a long breath as she strode out into the hallways of the capital building, where no one but servants waited, oblivious to what had happened inside.

She’d been brash, confronting Larsh like that. And foolish to further ostracize a pack of nobles who already hated her. Okron, how did people manage being a politician? She’d hardly spent two hours in the Forum, and she already felt overwhelmed.

It’s not just that, though. She fingered the knife at her belt as she walked, though she was careful not to touch the tiny Surge in its hilt.

Desolation. Did Larsh know such a thing existed? How had Cyrla gotten it?

“Doesn’t matter,” she muttered to herself, turning a corner to move even farther away from the Forum. “It’s a tool.”

Yet, couldn’t the same be said about Void? Larsh’s entire philosophy revolved around doing what she thought was necessary, no matter the cost. And she was so brutally, horribly wrong. Ryla had to be very careful she did not go down the same path.

Her holoscreen buzzed. She frowned, then retrieved it from the pocket of her robes.

To her surprise, it was her mother who had messaged her.

Kairus has been deployed to Grahala. Front lines.

Ryla’s frown deepened. So soon? That was unusual, though she supposed it made sense, what with the extra campaigns. He’d probably be fine, anyway, Grahala was folding quickly.

Except…

Horror filled her as she realized something. Cyrla was going to betray the Talar army on Grahala, as part of their plan to overthrow Larsh. In doing so, she would cause a slaughter within their ranks.

A slaughter that may very well kill Kairus.

***

The whip hit. Hard. It struck Perelor with such force that his face slammed into the cement below. Blood rushed down his nostrils and cuts opened across his cheek. Before he could recover, the whip hit again. He couldn’t feel the burns — the metal was hot enough to cauterize the wounds instantly — but he still felt his muscles tense as jolts of electricity ran through them.

Thirty-two left. There was no way he could survive that many. This was the end.

That thought, strangely, brought panic. Just a week ago he’d barely cared if he lived or died, but now, he nearly gave in and stepped back from this path.

Another blow. He had to resist the urge to gasp in pain; he would at least die with dignity. Three down… how many to go? Thirty-one? That sounded right, but his head was already beginning to ache, his vision swimming.

The whip came down again. It hit farther to the left this time, knocking the air out of one of his lungs. He felt his ribs creak; it was possible he’d already sustained a fracture. He’d taken far worse of a beating than this during battles, but the damage somehow felt more real without Purity.

Because it is, he reminded himself. I can’t heal until this is done. And when it’s done, I’ll be dead.

“Thirty!” the whipmaster called. He paused for a moment. Perelor wheezed.

“I’m sorry, Eliel,” he whispered. “I would’ve found you, if I could.”

He was rambling, and probably would’ve continued, but the whip came down again before he could. Flesh sizzled. The whip came down again. Flesh sizzled again. And again, and again, and again. He felt himself begin to fade. Within the tiredness of blood loss, fear gripped at his chest.

Give up, it whispered. Rise, while you still can. Let her die, she deserves it. Save yourself.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Time slowed again. Memories flashed through his mind. Memories of her. Playing as kids, as it rained. Her telling him a story as he stared out at the gloomy black sky of a darkseason. Walking to school together, through busy streets. She was holding his hand, guiding him.

Then, more painful memories. Her hand on his shoulder as he cradled his father’s burned body. Him taking her beating when she’d almost been executed. Plotting their escape together with Crelang…

Flames.

Blood.

Screams.

Rubble.

And that blade…

“Death has always followed me.” He wasn’t sure if he just thought the words or actually spoke them. It didn’t matter. “What’s one more fight?”

The fear retreated at that. Another blow slammed into Perelor.

“Twenty!”

Black spots swam all across his vision, blocking it almost completely now. He didn’t even know how much blood he’d lost. Enough he could feel it pooling underneath his elbows, sticky, warm. He closed his eyes. Hopefully Ithrey could take the remaining lashes without dying. If not…

Well, it didn’t matter. He was about to fade. Red lines of light writhed around him. An omen; his soul was about to leave his body.

Except, as the whipmaster continued, he still felt the strokes. They were lighter, now, strangely, and the jolts of electricity didn’t affect him as much. Why was that?

Doesn’t matter.

Bang.

Just hold firm. I have to take as many as I can for…

Bang.

For Ithrey.

Bang.

For Eliel.

Bang.

For father.

Bang.

The cuts were accumulating, Perelor wasn’t sure if any of the skin on his back remained. He doubted it. His arms trembled, though they hadn’t been holding him up for some time now.

“Fifteen!” the whipmaster called. Had it really only been five more strokes? It had felt like far more.

Bang.

“Eliel,” he whispered. “Help. Please.”

He wasn’t sure why he called out to her. The delusions of a mind dissipating, a part of him knew, but it seemed to him in that moment that perhaps her powers as the Endowed could help him. And there were those red lines of light, still dancing around him, growing brighter every moment.

Bang. He coughed as the smoke from his own burning flesh seeped into his lungs.

“Please.”

Bang.

His vision cut out completely, the blackness of his eyelids dissolving into pure nothing. Nothing, save for the red lines of light.

And then she was there.

It began as a green pinprick, then expanded into a flowing dress, long white hair, and an oh-so familiar face. She frowned, glancing at the lines of red light, then turned to him, eyes widening.

“Okron,” she whispered. “Perelor, where are you?”

Bang.

“Help,” he wheezed.

She frowned. “Perelor, there’s nothing I can do. You know what happened, I…”

She froze suddenly. “Ah,” she said. “You don’t know.” Tears began streaking down her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really am.”

Bang. “Ten!” the whipmaster yelled. His voice sounded distant, as if Perelor were deep underwater.

“El,” he gasped. “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

She faded. The red lines of light writhed inward, whispering to Perelor.

Save yourself. Rise. Fulfill your oath.

He trembled, on the edge of death. He could feel mist rising from his mouth. It was over.

Unless…

He could rise, he realized, and heal with his Purity Surge. Ithrey would still have to take all his lashings — his intercession would only count for something if he died doing it or took it all, if he backed down she’d take all thirty-six as if nothing had happened — but he could survive. He could see Eliel again. Could fulfill his oath, as that hallucinating part of him had said.

You know what you have to do, son.

“Some things are more important than oaths,” he breathed.

Bang. His face fell to the ground, his entire body overtaken by numbness.

Fine. As you wish, the red lines whispered. They writhed inward, exploding with light, fiery, orange light, a glowing hue distinct from any Perelor had seen. For a moment, that fire filled his vision. Radiant, blazing light.

After it came blackness.

***

Ithrey watched, bruised, broken, and naked save for a thin cloth robe a Talar guard had begrudgingly handed her, as they beat Perelor Krot into a hunk of bloodied flesh. For her. They were killing a man who deserved to live, to save a hypocrite and a failure.

A part of her wanted to go back to the whip. To what she deserved. But the rest of her… well, the rest of her was still a hypocrite. So she just stood, quiet and cold and shocked.

“It is done,” the whip master finally said. He stepped back, a puzzled expression on his face. Why? Krot was dead.

Unless…

“Torment,” she whispered. Somehow, Perelor’s chest was still rising and falling. Barely, but she could see it. His eyes were closed, blood pooled around him, and he was as pale as his own hair, but he was alive.

There was a long silence. Then, finally, Cyrla cleared her throat.

“He… survived. The punishment has been dealt, and the Endowed has judged him.” She glanced at Ithrey, fury in her gaze. “According to the law, Valeo is free.”

Another long silence hung over the crowd of watching Talar soldiers. Then, one by one, they turned and left. The whipmaster, the guards. Even Cyrla, though she glared at Ithrey as she did.

I survived, Ithrey thought. Okron, I survived. She immediately chided herself. Two curses in as many minutes. The Captain was rubbing off on her.

That same Captain, she realized, was currently lying in a pool of his own blood.

She ran to him, snatching the Purity Surge from where he’d tossed it aside earlier. She pressed it to his chest, then pushed Purity into him, imagining his body as it had been, using the Purity to try to shift it back to its natural state — the way one usually healed another with the Second Power.

It should’ve worked. Instead, the Purity dissipated uselessly into the air. She tried again. Same result.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no. Not you too…”

Except, somehow, despite it all, his chest was still rising and falling. And was that… a glow rising from his eyelids? No, it couldn’t be; he didn’t have any Surges. She was hallucinating. This had been too much, and her mind was breaking…

No. Focus. He needs a medic. Now. None would come, but she would do what she could. Gingerly, she slid her arms underneath the man, and grunting hoisted him into her arms. At least, tried to. She had lost blood, too, and she gasped as she nearly dropped him, then begrudgingly lowered him back to the cement.

“Oh no,” a voice said behind her. “Oh Torment, no!” Arrus knelt beside her a moment later, also a little pale, though the cut on his forehead had mostly scabbed over by now. “I tried to stop the whip with my Ever Surge, slow it down so it didn’t hit as hard… it didn’t work.” His shoulder slumped, and tears ran down his face. “He’s dead. I didn’t think it was possible, but…”

“He’s not dead,” Ithrey snapped. “Look closer, he’s still breathing. But the Surge isn’t working, and he won’t be alive for long if we don’t do something!”

Arrus paused, then his eyes widened. “You’re right,” he whispered. “How…” he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Help me lift him.”

Together, they hoisted his unconscious body, then began hauling it back toward camp. Ithrey kept glancing at his mouth, expecting him to fall still at any moment. Yet, somehow, he just kept breathing, in and out, in and out, as steady as if he were merely sleeping.

“You better live, Krot,” she said. “You better.” Her voice softened, and the tears returned. “Please. I can’t do this alone.”