To be at peace with yourself, you must live outside yourself, or else you see only through the lens of your own blackened eyes.
-The Rift Code, Proverbs
One week after the beginning of the Talar invasion of Mirador, the blood of the slave who had tried to convince Perelor to escape streaked down Perelor’s hands as he stood silently on a Miradoran street. Plasma shrieked in the distance, accompanied by occasional bursts of deeper sound from laser cannons as the Talar army continued to press further into the Miradoran capital city. Closer, men groaned as they lay dying, stabbed and slashed and shot. Perelor could have healed them. Could’ve bought them a little more time, with the remaining Purity in his Surge.
But the Talar would kill them anyway, especially if he helped. So he just slumped against a broken building, staring at the blood on his hand as it dried in the evening sun. He remembered the look of terror on N523’s face as he’d pressed his hand desperately against the charred hole in his neck, then finally reached out to Perelor as he’d realized there was no way to stop his death.
Purity. Please.
He’d mouthed those words, begged for help. For a moment, Perelor had actually considered it.
Then he had remembered the last time he’d disobeyed orders, and he’d let the man’s hand slide away.
He didn’t know how long he sat there until Arrus sat beside him. “Three survivors,” the teen soldier said. He shivered. “That was… bad.”
“Always is,” Perelor muttered. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. His limbs ached. Bile was rising in his throat; today’s battle had been exhausting, in more ways than one. He knew it was probably just his imagination, but a part of him swore they were getting worse, as the years went by.
Or maybe I’m just wearing out. Slowly turning into a corpse myself.
“How are the survivors?”
“A little pale, but I bandaged them up as best as I could,” Arrus said. He winced. “One of them might die anyway. The medics wouldn’t treat her.”
Perelor nodded. The Talar doctors had strict orders not to help anyone in the slave squadrons. Arrus tried to talk them into it anyway, every time. “Which one?”
“An Artensian girl. Can’t be older than thirteen.” His voice darkened. “Voidlings.”
Perelor thought he knew the girl Arrus was talking about. It was a miracle she’d even survived a few minutes; she clearly hadn’t ever seen combat before. She probably wasn’t even a rebel herself, just a child of one, punished for her parent’s actions. Those were the worst to watch die. The ones that almost made him turn around during the fighting, and attack the other side.
But, inevitably, he took the route of the coward.
There was silence between them for a long time, as they listened to the dark music of the skirmishes around them. Then, finally, Perelor opened his eyes and spoke.
“I got inside last night.”
Arrus’ eyes widened. “So that’s where you were. I thought you were doing less… well, less enjoyable things.”
“I wouldn’t call it enjoyable,” Perelor said, “but I got the sheet. Had to slit a couple throats, but I got it.” His hand reflexively moved toward his left pocket, which, because of Perelor’s careful effort, had not been hit during the skirmish. Inside it rested a thick disk of metal — a datasheet. With the right permissions, that datasheet could, in theory, list out the names of thousands of Talar slaves throughout the galaxy, along with their exact locations.
Arrus grinned. “You covered your tracks though, right?”
“I did.” Perelor slid the disk out of his pocket, carefully pressing it into Arrus’ hand. “Can you read it?”
“As soon as I get a chance,” Arrus said. He tucked the disk into his own ripped pocket. He shook his head. “You should have at least told me before you went off like that.”
“That would’ve just left a trail,” Perelor said. “And incriminated you with me, if I’d been caught.”
“Yeah, fair, I guess.” Arrus suddenly tensed. Perelor raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
Arrus pointed down the street.
Perelor followed his finger, then tensed himself. “Cyrla,” he hissed. The Talar officer was headed toward him, accompanied by a half dozen armored soldiers.
Arrus stuffed the disk further into his pocket. “Bad timing.”
“Yeah.” Perelor rose to his feet, then stretched out his hand. “Hand the disk back over.”
Arrus frowned. “Why?”
“Just do it. Before they’re close enough to see.”
Arrus’ frown deepened, but he slid the datasheet back to Perelor, who hastily threw it back into his pocket. Though he didn’t intend to be caught, if he did, it would be better if he had the disk rather than Arrus; being a memory burner — even one without powers — gave him protections Arrus didn’t have.
He cleared his throat, stepping forward as Cyrla drew closer. “Shal Tarval,” he said, bowing as he used the honorific. “A pleasure to have you here.” If you think Torment is a pleasure, he added silently.
Cyrla smiled in reply. She was a muscular woman, with her hair tied behind her head. Her cheeks were each covered in a purple tattoo, the right side inscribed with the Talar rune for war, the left side stained with the rune for justice. Though she was not glowing, her eyes were still red from using Void. Perelor had to resist the urge to look away as those eyes stared hungrily toward him.
“Captain Perelor.” She swept her eyes over the carnage. “Only a few survivors today.” Her smile widened.
“We encountered some… resistance,” Perelor said. He laced his hands behind his back, straightening. He was never sure how to act around the Talar elite. Sometimes they acted like actual officers, demanding results, shouting orders, expecting the impossible. But other times, they acted more like Cyrla, bemused at the deaths of people they saw as beneath them.
“I see,” Cyrla said. “Well, they have proven their cowardice. No use in dwelling on their deaths.” She met Perelor’s gaze again, grin widening, as if daring him to contradict her.
He didn’t. It was a struggle just to keep eye contact, let alone speak out. “If I may ask, Shal,” he said instead, “what is your business here? My men need time to rest.”
Cyrla snorted. “Your men have not earned any rest. But, you are correct. I come with orders for you.”
“I fear our squadron is too weak for a battle,” Perelor said. He lowered his voice. “Whether it be for recording or not.”
“Oh, the orders are not for your men,” Cyrla said. “They are for you, Krot. Given by Larsh herself.”
Perelor paled, and his mind raced as he took in her words. It had been a long time since Larsh had asked anything of him. He had almost worried that she was thinking of disposing of him, rather than continuing to try to turn him into a servant.
Though the alternative might be worse.
Cyrla reached into her pocket, retrieving a small holoscreen projector from it and handing it to Perelor. “It is a task you will find simple, I believe. The attack on Mirador’s military headquarters has begun. They are, however, having some… difficulty with a particular sector of the building. One of their generals, a Surgewielder by the name of Ithrey Valeo, has set up quite the defense.”
Perelor pursed his lips. “So Larsh wants me to kill her.” He’d been on errands like this before. They were some of his most shameful memories.
“She does not,” Cyrla said, her voice growing suddenly quiet. “Valeo has proven to be an effective propagandist, you see. She has spread many lies about our activities here. Because of that, Larsh wants Valeo to die here, on camera.”
“Ah. So you want me to capture her, then watch her die,” Perelor said bitterly.
“Larsh does,” Cyrla said, voice still soft. “Larsh does.” She waved her hand toward the other guards. “Leave us.”
The guards obeyed without a word, walking down the street. Cyrla turned back toward Perelor, and suddenly, the hunger was back in her eyes. She sat down on a piece of rubble nearby, then waved for Perelor to do the same. Perelor remained standing.
“What is this about? If Larsh wants me to get to this woman, then I should be moving.”
“I’m aware. And you will be, in a few minutes.” She leaned forward. “But, for just a moment, let us talk frankly, Perelor.”
Perelor snorted. “If you want me to talk frankly to you,” he growled, “we wouldn’t be talking. I’d be putting a lasertip through your gut.”
Cyrla waved a hand, chuckling. “We both know what would happen if you tried that. It would only be an annoyance for me, and death for you. An unfair bargain, really. However, I may have a more… just deal for you today.”
Perelor’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He probably shouldn’t have said anything before. Experience told him that silence was the best way to deal with a politician.
“Larsh’s reign is ending,” Cyrla continued. “I have… plans in motion that will assure this.” She leaned forward. “But that is of little concern to you, I think. In fact, I think there is only one thing that concerns you anymore.” She met his eyes, and Perelor noticed hers were now glowing crimson. “I know where your sister is.”
It took Perelor a moment to process what she’d just said, but, when he did, he unsheathed his lasertip from his back, twisting it to point directly at Cyrla’s chest.
“Where? And how do you know?”
Cyrla chuckled, waving her hand, and a tendril of red light leapt from her fingers, snatching the lasertip, yanking it from Perelor’s grip, and tossing it aside. “Violence will not get you answers, not from me. I came here for a deal, remember?” She leaned forward, the grin fading, her voice suddenly becoming somber.
“Valeo and I have… history. Let’s just keep it at that. Larsh wishes her alive, but I need her dead. So, here’s our bargain. You stage a little accident. Then you bring her corpse to me. In return, I will take you to your sister.”
Perelor’s mind whirled. “You’re asking me to disobey Larsh.”
“I am. I advise you not to get caught. It would be unfortunate if Larsh killed you before you saw Eliel again, yes? And it would be even more unfortunate if something were to happen to your sister…”
Perelor’s fists tightened. “You wouldn’t.”
Cyrla’s eyes twinkled. “We both know I would. But none of that has to happen, should you do your job, yes?” She rose to her feet.
“Larsh will send a ship here shortly to take you to your assignment. Consider carefully what I have said.”
“And if I report you?” Perelor asked.
As he said that, Cyrla closed her eyes, her glow suddenly intensifying, making her almost impossible to look at.
“There are powers in the galaxy far more dangerous than the Talar army, Perelor. Cross Larsh, and I will protect you. Cross me, and you both die.” She smiled again. “But I expect you’ll make the right choice.”
She turned away, stretching her hand outward. A tendril shot up from it, snatched a nearby building, then retracted, launching her into the sky.
Perelor didn’t watch her go. He just shook his head, cursing, thoughts reeling.
Directly disobeying Larsh was dangerous, no matter what Cyrla said. Maybe she thought she could fight the Talar leader, as a Voidburner herself, but Perelor knew better. He’d already tried that. Three memory burners on one, and they’d still lost.
But a chance to see Eliel…
For a moment, he almost thought he could hear her, somewhere far away, weeping, alone.
He hesitated, walking over to his lasertip and picking it up from the dust. Then, sucking in a deep breath, he made his decision.
Keep your sister safe, son.
“I will,” he said. “I have to. Whatever it takes.”
***
Ithrey gripped her kneecaps, spots swimming before her, the taste of vomit rising in her throat. Her limbs felt like elastics that had been stretched too far, then snapped. A dozen cuts of various sizes oozed blood onto her torn black-and-orange uniform. Most of all, her mind felt like it was swimming through thick oil, thoughts taking far longer to formulate than they should. Supposedly, wielding a Surge was easier on the mind than memory burning, but Ithrey had consumed enough Ever today that it didn’t seem to matter. The physical exhaustion from the long hours of fighting didn’t help, either.
Is this how Alaran feels every day? If so, her brother was an even more competent memory burner than she’d thought.
“My lady, are you alright?”
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
It took several seconds just to process those words, but, gradually, she took her hands off her kneecaps and unsheathed her Surgeblade again. The Surge inside was barely glowing now, its reserves almost spent. This was the third one she’d gone through today. “I’m well,” she gasped.
“Are you sure?” The soldier who had addressed her bore an officer’s pauldron, but his face was covered by a black helmet, and Ithrey didn’t recognize his voice. “I can take the Surge, if you’re tired.”
Ithrey considered for a moment, then shook her head. “No. I can handle it. I have the most experience.” It was a flimsy excuse, but she needed to keep the weapon. The moment she had an opportunity, she intended to flee. As horrible as it felt to do that, she had to get to Alaran. She had to ensure that this Endowed of his survived.
Assuming I survive to help. I need a better plan. But she had no time to plan. Her eyes drifted toward the Miradoran corpses piled in the room’s corner, their armor hastily torn off of them to patch up the suits of still-living soldiers. Was it just her, or were they already starting to smell?
It didn’t help her anxiety to know how close they were to having no further retreat. This building was a confusing mess of hallways, which gave an advantage to those who knew how to navigate them, but they’d been fighting all day now, and the Talar were figuring out their tactics. Furthermore, there was the problem of the sheer Talar numbers; no matter how many they killed, there always seemed to be a new batch to replace them within just a few minutes. Now that they’d been forced this deep into the building, they only had one, maybe two hours before they were completely defeated. She needed to think of an escape plan, fast.
Unfortunately, her drained intellect wasn’t cooperating.
A burst of gunfire rang out nearby, and Ithrey tensed, hands shaking even as she tried to grip her Surgeblade more firmly. Currently, she and a few dozen other soldiers were trying to hold a narrow passageway, using Dispellers and the lack of space to force the Talar to fight them in one on one melee combat. It had worked well so far, but they were still losing men, and all it would take was a clever Talar soldier with a grenade, and they’d be scattered. Around her, the other soldiers tightened their grips on their own weapons.
The gunfire ceased a few moments later, and though Ithrey’s heart still pounded, no Talar soldiers came. Slowly, she forced herself to relax. At least, relax as much as one could while on a battlefield.
“We should have surrendered.”
It was barely a whisper, and once again, it took Ithrey multiple seconds to register the words. She turned toward the soldier who had spoken. Though she could not see his face, he was trembling, hard enough he likely wouldn’t be able to aim the blaster in his hand.
“We should have surrendered,” he repeated. “We weren’t going to win, and we knew it. We were fools.”
“The Talar don’t accept surrender,” Ithrey said softly.
“They didn’t. But Larsh does. She offered. I only heard rumors about it, but it happened.” He shook his head. “We were fools. All of us. And now we’re going to Torment for it.”
He was shaking more violently now, his legs twitching along with his hands.
“We could surrender now,” he continued. “All of us. We’re going to lose anyway. Please.”
There was a long pause, and Ithrey winced as she took in the other soldiers’ reactions. They, too, were trembling, though they hid it better than the man who had spoken. They were silent, but, with the touch of Ever still in her skin, she felt as if she could hear their thoughts drifting toward running.
We’re actually going to die, she realized. All of us. She’d known it for hours, but it sunk in deeper in that moment. She would never see her brother again. Never even see a sunrise again. Whether it was in minutes or days, Torment would find them.
She hesitated, closing her eyes, trying not to give in to fear. Then, slowly, she opened them again.
Maybe she could use their fear to get out of this.
“We can’t surrender,” she said. “So, logically, we have to charge.”
The trembling suddenly stopped, replaced by silent tension.
“We can’t win,” Ithrey continued. “Not here. But if we can get off-world, we can plead our case to the Confederacy, and come back with an army.”
Another long silence. It seemed the men were too tired to voice their own opinions. Well, tired or not, this was their only chance. Perhaps the galaxy’s only chance. She cleared her throat, then raised her voice.
“Collect your weapons and get into formation. I’ll be in the front.” She closed her eyes, pulling as much Ever as she could from her Surge. It wasn’t much, though it was enough to clear her mind and turn the hallway blue. “On my word, we’re getting out of here.”
The soldiers all hesitated, but they all eventually obeyed, forming up behind her. Gunfire sounded again, this time louder, closer. Ithrey sucked in a final deep breath.
Hope conquers fear.
“Forward!”
***
Just a few minutes after his conversation with Cyrla, Perelor stood inside the troop hold of a Talar carrier, soaring through the Miradoran capital toward the smoking military complex at its center. As they drew closer to the ground, the echoes began racing through Perelor’s mind, brief images from the battle raging below.
A Miradoran soldier tried not to sob as he gripped his broken leg, watching a Talar soldier lower his blaster to finish him.
A young woman knelt in a cave with walls of rubble. Out of the broken stones, a single hand poked into the light, limp. She wasn’t sure which family member it belonged to.
A Talar officer knelt over his fallen brother, guilt washing over him, for he was the one that had convinced his sibling to join up in the first place.
“You’ll be going in alone.” The voice interrupted the echoes, drawing Perelor back to reality. It came from the only other person in the hold, a man with a half-purple, half-green uniform. One of Larsh’s Tormentors. Fitting, for one to come to something like this. “It won’t be dangerous, though, Valeo is running out of men. Valeo herself will be the real challenge, particularly since your orders are to capture, not kill.”
Perelor nodded, though he did not meet the Tormentor’s gaze. “I wasn’t worried to begin with.”
“Good. Larsh is running out of patience with you. Suffice it to say I don’t think you’ll find much mercy if you fail.”
“Understood.” He twitched uncomfortably. Could he actually survive defying Larsh?
But then, Eliel depended on it. So it didn’t matter.
“Do you have Valeo’s description memorized?”
“Red hair, Herreon face.”
“That describes a lot of people.”
“I’ve seen the hologram. When I find her, I’ll know.”
The Tormentor nodded again. “Good.” They were getting close to the ground now, and Perelor had to grip the stabilizer handles as they twisted toward a flat section of roof on the east side of the building. “Don’t even think of trying to run away. Larsh has memory burners watching you. They won’t hold back if you try anything.”
Perelor snorted. If I wanted to escape, I would have tried a long time ago. But he said nothing.
The ship groaned as they landed, and the doors slid open to reveal a troupe of Talar soldiers holding a perimeter around the landing pad. Perelor stepped out, hunching over. No plasma bolts were flying here yet, but he knew from experience just how fast that could change. Smoke billowed around them, and the rumbling explosions were so loud Perelor could hardly hear the Tormentor’s voice as he pointed toward a nearby opening into the building.
“She should be near here, this is where we last spotted her.” He stepped back into the carrier, and a moment later, it lifted off, disappearing into the smoke-filled sky.
For a long moment, Perelor stood alone on the platform, listening to the sounds of battle. Watching the echoes of innocent men dying. He felt almost as if he were back on Ethea, on that day, when everything had fallen apart. He remembered how much he’d hated the soldiers who had taken his homeland, even knowing they’d only been following orders. Now here he was, doing the same. All to stay out of trouble.
It almost made him disobey. Almost made him angry enough to hope.
But hoping was foolish. He steeled himself.
Keep your sister safe, son.
He closed his eyes. Drew in Purity. Then, glowing white, he stalked inside to find his prey.
***
It wouldn’t be enough. Ithrey and her men fought through the bloodied metal hallways like stardrakes, continuing on despite wounds and losses and exhaustion and fear, but in the end, it wouldn’t be enough. They’d lost half of their forces already, and Ithrey’s Ever reserves were completely gone; she was now fighting on what little power the jewel generated. Her left arm screamed where a lucky shot had slipped past her defenses and burnt its way almost to bone. Her vision was swimming again, even as she drew in Ever from the Surge.
She had given this her all. And she’d still fallen short.
No. She growled, attacking another Talar melee soldier, her arms protesting the movement, but still moving just fast enough that she bested him, stabbing him through the chest. Gritting her teeth, she threw his body aside, then raised her hand and burned a trace of Ever to snap another approaching soldier’s neck. As the ethereal energy fled her body, she felt her mind slow even more. Her legs wobbled.
No, no, please! God Above, please. She wouldn’t fail. She just had to try harder. She yelled a battle cry, then attacked a pair of Talar, raw adrenaline pushing her forward as she slashed through their defenses.
She continued onward, fighting for what couldn’t have been longer than a minute or two but still felt like half of eternity. Then, abruptly, the battle calmed. The ever-present shriek of plasma fell quiet, and Ithrey found herself, for the first time, without an enemy to fight.
They retreated, she realized. Her eyes darted down the hallway. They couldn’t be too far from a landing pad; there were launch bays everywhere here. Involuntarily, she let out a loud laugh of relief.
That laugh was quickly stifled as she saw someone turn the corner.
He was a lone soldier, without armor. His uniform, blue and silver, was so tattered she was surprised it hadn’t fallen off. His white hair was flecked with black ash, and an eyepatch covered his right eye.
But his other eye glowed. Wisps of shining white mist poured off his skin. Wisps of Purity, far brighter than Ithrey’s own aura.
“Surgewielder!”
Ithrey’s battered men panicked, falling backward. Ithrey, however, just stood silent as the man approached, shaking, trying to convince herself she had it in her to beat the newcomer.
Just a touch longer. One more fight, and then you’ve made it.
As she stared at the man’s grim face, though, she felt her hope dim.
***
Seven men. Eight, if you counted Valeo herself. They stepped back as Perelor stalked down the hallway, hesitating. Afraid.
He could have killed half of them in their moment of indecision. But Perelor had his own misgivings today. And so, he too waited, the echoes of those seven men holding him at bay. Most were fighting for their families. Most wanted to surrender, and go home. All of them shook with dread as they saw his glowing figure.
He would have tried to spare them. But before he could, they opened fire.
Plasma tore into his shoulders, legs, and chest. Perelor forced himself to return to reality, snapping his lasertip upward, returning fire. Bullets continued to tear into him, but he could heal, and his opponents couldn’t. The last few tried to retreat, but it was too late. One after the other, all seven men dropped to the floor.
Perelor stopped, considering as he stared down Valeo. She looked ragged. Cuts and bruises dotted her skin. A Surgeblade waited in her hand, and she was Infused with Ever, but only a trace amount of it. Her eyes moved slowly as they took in her fallen comrades, then turned back to Perelor. Her limbs shook, but she fell into a defensive stance, sword held in two hands before her.
He could probably kill her now, with a plasma shot to the chest. But, that wouldn’t look like an accident to Larsh. So, instead, he snapped his lasertip back upward, falling into stance himself. In a close enough melee fight, he could make it look like he’d slain her in self-defense. He began striding toward her again.
“You’re an Ethean.”
Whether it was from surprise that she’d spoken, or surprise that she cared, the words somehow made him stop.
An Ethean. If only he still were an Ethean.
“You don’t have to fight for them.” Valeo’s voice was weak, barely a rasp.
She’s just trying to buy time. He stepped toward her, swinging his lasertip. She blocked the blow, but her parry was weak, and her sword flew from her hands. She tumbled to the ground, gasping.
As he expected, she burned the last of her Ever in that moment. It didn’t amount to much. An invisible force shoved him a few yards backward, but he kept his footing, and ran back toward her as she feebly attempted to rise. Lashing out with his boot, he knocked her back to the floor, hard enough he heard something snap as she hit.
So much for making it look like an accident. He frowned, hesitating, again. Hopefully Larsh didn’t have too close of eyes on him. Either way, though, he had to do this. He rolled Valeo over with his foot, then raised his lasertip to stab her. She looked up at him, eyes wide. Tears streamed down her face.
And suddenly, he was back there. On that terrible day, watching as Eliel was torn from him. Watching her eyes widen. Watching tears stream down her face.
She begged for mercy that did not come.
His hand suddenly trembled. His knees suddenly felt weak. Bile rose in his throat. How far had he fallen? What sort of man had he become, to even consider this?
No. I have to save Eliel…
The thought stifled itself as he stared again at Ithrey’s eyes. At eyes so much like his sister’s.
Would she really want him to do this? Would his father really condone what he was about to do?
But if it means seeing her again…
He stood torn, for one traitorous moment. And then he remembered his father’s voice.
Let go of what you must, no matter how much it hurts, so that you can focus on what matters.
Promise me you will let go, when the time comes.
“I can’t,” he said. He did not mean for the words to come out, but they did anyway. “I can’t lose her. I can’t fail.”
Let go.
“How?”
You know how. You’ve done it before.
He closed his eyes, and in that sliver of time, he remembered everything, no matter how hard he had tried to forget. A thousand slaves, a thousand corpses he had failed to protect. Before that, Crelang. Before that, his father.
It wasn’t your fault, his father whispered.
He didn’t believe him. Not fully. But he believed him a little, and it was enough. Slowly, hand shaking, he twisted the lasertip away from Ithrey’s neck, and opened his eyes. Making a different decision.
“Get up,” he said, voice soft. “You’re in my squadron now.”
The sobbing stopped. “What?”
“I said get up. You’re being taken to the slave squadrons. Larsh’s orders. But I get first pick there, so I’m your captain. Now get up.”
Ithrey just blinked.
“Being your captain means I can give you orders. Now get up. I’m not going to searing carry you.”
Finally, Ithrey rose to her feet. Her eyes darted toward the Surge on the ground, and she tensed, but Perelor placed his lasertip against her neck, and she let out a breath.
“I still have to take you captive,” Perelor said. “Neither of us are getting out of that part.”
Ithrey pursed her lips. “But you’re not going to kill me?”
Perelor was silent for a long time. “No,” he said finally. “I’m not.” He prodded her forward. “C’mon. It won’t be good for either of us if we get caught in a skirmish.”
Ithrey didn’t obey, instead meeting Perelor’s gaze. “You were going to kill me, weren’t you? And then… you didn’t.”
“I…” Was there any use lying? “Yes, I was. Can we have this conversation later?”
Ithrey’s eyes were suddenly wet again. “Who are you?”
Perelor met her gaze. Saw her tear-streaked face. Okron, it looked so much like Eliel’s. Shame washed over him as he realized that he’d caused those tears.
“I’m a broken man,” he whispered. “And not much else.” He nudged her forward. “C’mon.”
This time, she obeyed, though she walked with a limp, and she was still sobbing. She kept glancing around her, as if hoping someone would interfere. No one did. It seemed all those who could have saved her were already dead.
Except for himself. And as they arrived at the Talar ships, and Ithrey was bound in shackles, Perelor, to his shock, found himself swearing an oath. To himself, this time.
He would protect this woman, as best he could, up until the moment she died. His honor demanded it. He could not be a good enough man to save his sister if he killed the innocent.
He may be a broken man, but he wouldn’t break others. That much honor he would retain.
THE END OF PART ONE