The blue sky mocked the bloody earth below it.

A mizaran-armored Shayfahan dragged Irfan to the center of the square, where the shell of a low circular empty fountain stood.

Faces peered down below from latticed windows and over balconies.

The men in the stalls along the roads had abandoned their posts at the sight of the Shayfahan, but several were gathering at the square now. But they kept their distance, hovering at the edges of the border of the square.

I pushed my way through the crowd at the border, searching the faces. Had Firthun gotten to them in time?

The Shayfahan hurled Irfan down to the ground, where his dark blue chador, now dusty and red with blood from his nose, splayed out around him like fallen wings.

Irfan raised his head, his cheeks muddy. The historian spat at the foot of the Shayfahan. The metal arm went swinging across his face, cutting deep across the skin.

I moved my way through the crowd, and saw the old man who had earlier greeted Surayyah when we arrived. He was still holding the small bowl with which he scooped up pistachios at his stall. “Uncle,” I grabbed his arm. “Have you seen Surayyah? Or Asfan?” The pistachio-seller’s eyes were wide when he saw my blood-stained robes. He shook his head.

The Shayfahan pulled Irfan up by the hair, and Irfan stumbled.

I searched the faces frantically around me. Where was Firthun? What had I sent him to?

In the metallic ring of the mizaran steel, the Shayfahan’s voice rose out over the square and the watching faces from the balconies: “You may think you are some scholar inspiring revolution, Irfan ad-Din, but you will always be just a filthy lying jhansari.”

Irfan began to laugh. Even as he laughed, he coughed up blood.

The pistachio-uncle muttered, “Has he gone mad?”

Across on the other side of the square, I glimpsed a navy-blue clad veil over the faces. I breathed out. Surayyah. If she was here, the others must be too.

Surayyah peered out over the crowd towards me. She was motioning something, but I could not tell what. Where were the others?

“You can’t stop it,” Irfan’s half-laughing voice echoed in the square. “No matter how many of us you kill, you can’t stop it.”

The Shayfahan gripped Irfan’s hair tighter and pulled him up, nearly choking him. Irfan’s eyes faced the skies. In his defiance I saw Al-Yaser’s own, in her final act of choosing death.

“You have confidence, scholar,” The Shayfahan said. He motioned for another Shayfahan, who brought forth a helmet. A mizaran helmet.

“Let us kill that ego, shall we?” The Shayfahan leader held Irfan’s head, and as he struggled against the grip, pulled the helmet down over his face.

For a while, nothing happened, and the crowd murmured, confused whispers rising. But the Shayfahan held Irfan’s body still.

“A traitor must be turned, or killed, if he chooses to rebel against the Shayfahan,” the metallic voice said.

I tried to turn back through the crowd, to take the long way to reach Surayyah on the other side, but it seemed the crowd had thickened now. I could not breathe and I could not move. When I turned to see across the square, Surayyah was gone.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

A scream tore through the air. I whirled back. It was coming from Irfan. His body was shuddering, and the scream seemed inhuman.

He convulsed and it seemed it would never stop, he would go on shaking until his bones shattered. Panic and fear rose among the crowd, shuffling away.

From somewhere within the crowd, a rock flew through the air, striking the metal of the Shayfahan leader. It did nothing but fling off of the armor, but the man looked up.

Another rock flew. It arced over the square, suspended for a moment, a streak of grey cutting the dull blue sky. It struck the metal chest of the Shayfahan.

Then, one by one, people within the crowd picked up stones, flinging them towards the Shayfahan until the entire square was a flurry of arms and shouts, a roiling wave.

And among them, from the other side now, I saw the figure of Imraan, Surayyah and Asfan leading a group raising makeshift swords, charging through the crowd towards the Shayfahan.

The one holding Irfan threw him aside, drawing his sword and fighting Imraan.

As I stood there swordless, for the first time I realized I wanted to summon the danger of the power I’d tried to suppress for so long, that I had dreaded.

I backed away against a stone wall amidst the rush of people. Holding up my hands, I tried to summon something, anything.

Someone shoved into me, and I turned to find a Shayfahan bearing down upon one of Asfan’s recruits — a young man with hair braided along the sides of his head. He reminded me of Sulayman. The Shayfahan knocked him to the ground, beating his metal hand against the boy’s face. The metal fire prong the boy was using as a sword skittered away from his fingers.

What use was this power if I could not use it when I needed to? I clenched my fists in frustration, and realized it was still tainted red with Al-Yaser’s blood. Al-Yaser, who had given up her life to protect mine.

As the Shayfahan before me beat the boy with the braided hair, I rounded behind the metal armor. Grabbing the metal helmet tightly, I pulled it off of the man’s head. The Shayfahan whirled around, sweat-dampened hair and wild eyes. Before he could reach for me, my hands circled his throat.

A pain struck me in the stomach, and at first I thought he’d punched me in the gut, but his eyes had gone glazed. Starvation. Hunger. So painful I wanted to die. Until I wore the helmet, until its pain wiped out all else and I could serve none other than the one who had given me it.

But I could not let it weaken me now. I held my grip around his neck, until his body went slack and he dropped to the ground with the heavy metal weight.

The young man was gone.

Among the chaos of bodies roiling in the square, I glimpsed Surayyah at Irfan’s side, pulling off the helmet. Somehow, Asfan was still fighting, Imraan at his side.

As Surayyah helped Irfan rise, a Shayfahan lunged towards her, but she did not notice.

And that is when I finally found Firthun — heading for the man attacking Surayyah.

Firthun picked up one of the wooden batons dropped by a fallen recruit, and swung. The Shayfahan turned around.

“Firthun!” I called. The Shayfahan launched at him, throwing him to the ground, smashing a metal fist into his face.

I ran, weaving through the hurling of bodies, trying to keep my eyes on Firthun.

Even as I ran, I saw it through the flurry of motion surrounding me — the Shayfahan raising his sword, driving it into Firthun’s chest. “No!” I screamed. “No, no.”

Firthun’s eyes found mine when I reached him. I picked up the fallen wooden baton and swung at the mizaran armor. It barely scratched the smooth steel. The Shayfahan swung, and I ducked, but it struck my side. Sharp pain shot up my ribs.

But the Shayfahan was falling, slamming onto the ground. As he fell, Surayyah appeared, holding a wooden baton at his feet, tripping him up as he’d moved towards me.

Before he could rise, I launched at him, reaching for the crack below the helmet. My hands found his neck, and I did not have to summon anything this time. Grief and rage flowed through me already, and as the man’s eyes glazed through the slits in the helmet, I watched them. I watched them as they slid below, underneath the pain. For the first time, I wanted to watch the eyes.

I could hear, somewhere, Surayyah calling my name.

When I rose, I ran to Firthun. He was choking on blood, but when he saw me, his fingers reached for mine. I held the boy’s hand, and I felt too, that I was choking. “It’s alright,” I gasped out. “You’re alright, Firthun.” How easily I lied. Through my hands, I stole his sorrow, feeling it seep into my hands. I tried to hold on to him even as I wanted to collapse.

Through the blood, Firthun smiled somehow. “This is…” he said. “— for Alassin. For my friend.”

Surayyah pulled at me, and I saw Firthun’s soul leave his eyes.

Irfan was clinging to Surayyah. I stood up, helping her carry him through the raging storm all around us.

When the Creator informed the angels that humankind would be created as the successor on earth, they asked, “Why would you create them if they will cause bloodshed, Lord?”

And the Creator told the angels, “I know that which you do not.”