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The elevator opens onto exactly what Zellion had feared. The Refuge is a capsule-shaped main chamber with workstations and wall monitors, two more levels for activities and quarters below, and a permanent crew of perhaps two dozen. It is, beneath the buried camouflage, a spaceship — a Scadrian science vessel sunk into the planet's ground while its researchers take their readings. At a crammed limit it might hold a hundred and thirty refugees, straining life support flat to the walls. Beside him, Rebeke, Confidence and Contemplation stare around them, technologically advanced people meeting something well above their ceiling.

Two researchers come to meet them, a man and a woman, wearing small red-enamelled triangular ornaments at the sides of their faces. TimeTellers — one of Scadrial's many political movements, ostensibly neutral, ostensibly scientific, in Zellion's private estimation a quiet arm of Scadrian military research racing to keep their world ahead. The man asks if they can please speak Malwish like civilised people. Zellion pretends not to understand; thankfully his old Azish has been overwritten by the local tongue, so he can claim ignorance of *that* one honestly. They switch to the local language.

Have you said the oaths, the man asks. Zellion lies that he has not — a free man, no part of any conflict, just trying to keep his head down. Can he fight? He has a Blade. The two researchers exchange a look. How did he get to this planet? Shadesmar, he says, shoved through by a temporary perpendicularity he can't quite explain. The woman folds her arms; strange things happen on this planet, she allows. The man brightens. They are leaving soon; travel is dangerous; they could use a fighter; he is hired.

Zellion turns the offer aside. He is already working for the people who came with him and is here to negotiate sanctuary for them. Rebeke drops to her knees and pleads: they are hard workers with strong souls, they have rejected the Cinder King's ways and overcome everything to reach this door. The woman finds the request amusing. *We're basically at capacity. What do you think we are? A charity?*

Zellion tries to lean on what is happening above. The man shrugs. They already have a few locals for research subjects; one or two more could be useful, no more. What they actually need are sunhearts, and that supply is already arranged. *Supplier?* Zellion asks, and then it clicks — the Cinder King. The man with the glowing eyes. The woman confirms it lazily: he delivers what they need, they pass him tidbits of technology and offworld knowledge; the locals never had any idea how to exploit their own Investiture. *Storms.* The tyrant had not been trying to *get into* the Refuge. He had reached it years ago. It is the secret source of his power — almost certainly where he learned to manufacture Charred and the bracers that control them. He has been protecting his pipeline, not seeking sanctuary.

Zellion calls the man a tyrant. *And?* the woman says. *What are their problems to us?* the man adds. There are dozens of these little planets scattered across the cosmere, every one with its own backward monarchy; do you want us to take in everyone having a bad day? The objections are all the obvious ones, and Zellion cannot quite mount the counter — because farther into the room a glowing jar sits on a workbench. Dor. An Investiture cell — pure power, exactly the charge he needs to fuel another Skip off this planet. This is what he came for. He has known what was going to happen here all along; he had been planning for it.

Confidence tries commerce, offering to trade for safety. The two researchers give her amused looks; if they had wanted anything from these people they would have taken it directly, instead of routing through the Cinder King for convenience. *We don't need anything.* They wave the Beaconites toward the elevator. *We've heard your plea. That's all interplanetary law requires of us.*

Zellion tries once more — destroy the Cinder King's ship, take Beacon in only until the sun passes, *do something*. The woman is already disengaging her attention. *You're welcome to stay and take our offer, Rosharan.* The man gestures sternly at the elevator. Zellion knows scientists like these are never as harmless as they look, and he doubts even he could take the whole crew at once — and he is not sure he has the heart to try.

*You were right, Zellion*, Rebeke whispers, still on her knees. *You tried to warn us. There is no refuge here.* He looks back at the three of them expecting anger; what he sees is worse, the calm of accepted defeat. *You did everything we asked of you and more*, Contemplation tells him. *There is no need for that look.* It was, Confidence says with a small sad smile, a fond dream — and yes, it is a ship, an offworlder ship, like he is an offworlder. He confirms that they are here to study the sun, and that the vessel is not big.

They retreat to the elevator. He hesitates. *What do you think, Aux?* Aux answers, drily, that they have gotten precisely what they deserved out of the exchange. Wisely put. Zellion meets Contemplation's eyes and knows he is not getting back in the lift with them. What is the point of going up to die? He needs to keep running. That is what he does. *Stay*, Contemplation tells him in a heartbreakingly soft voice. *Stay with your kind.*

The door closes; the lift carries them back to the surface. On a monitor Zellion watches the Cinder King's forces creep closer with no answering shot from beneath the ground to scare them off this time. Beacon is out of power, out of options, out of resources, exhausted, defeated. It is over. Nomad sighs, settles down against a wall near the glowing jar — within reach of it — closes his eyes, and for once lets himself rest.