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Eight years before the present, Dalinar stands in the back of Gavilar's den watching his brother work the heirs of the highprinces with talk of civic projects for Kholinar. His job is to loom in the shadow — to be the Blackthorn who is being watched from the corners of younger men's eyes. It is almost three years since the Rift; Sadeas has spun the city's burning as a regrettable accident on Rifter heads, and Gavilar has publicly censured both of them while privately benefiting from the silent threat of what the Blackthorn might be unleashed to do next. The arrangement has cost Dalinar one city — and, he suspects, his sanity.

When Gavilar suggests lighting a hearthfire for warmth, Dalinar takes the cue and slips out. He cannot stand fire. Smoke smells of burning skin and the crackling reminds him of her. He has moved himself and his sons into the royal palace because his own keep reminds him too much of Evi as well. Standing in Gavilar's den, surrounded by frightened eyes, has cracked the memories open again. He needs a drink.

The wine cabinet that has hidden vintages in the throne room's serving cupboards has been emptied — Gavilar, he suspects, has caught on. In the corridor he nearly walks past his son before recognising him. Adolin is fifteen, growing handsome in a fashionable suit with too much embroidery and silver-topped boots, eager to tell his father about an upcoming bout against a ranked duelist — a step toward winning his Blade. Dalinar, unable to face either his son's sincerity or the familiar smile he has inherited from his mother, scolds the boy for his out-of-uniform tone, then forces himself to promise he will watch the bout with pride. Adolin salutes and bounds off; Dalinar walks the other way as fast as his legs will let him.

His need for a drink is now urgent. Refusing to beg the kitchens — the cooks would carry the story straight to Gavilar — he descends to a place even his brother is unlikely to have considered: the Beggars' Porch, a small patio between the compost heaps and the gardens where the king's leftovers are doled out after dinner. The other beggars cower at his glare. In the shadows between two statues sits Ahu, an odd dark-skinned beggar with a matted black beard, dressed in scraps, who somehow always has a bottle. They have done this before.

Dalinar sits beside him and asks what he is drinking — *it had better not be water this time.* Ahu hands over a stout dark bottle of an unfamiliar white wine, sharp and burning, no sweetness, just intoxicating. Dalinar takes a long pull and hands it back. He asks after the voices in Ahu's head — soft today, the beggar reports happily, chanting about tearing him apart and drinking his blood. Ahu returns the question and laughs through his answer.

In the long, drunken slide of conversation that follows, Ahu says strange things. He asks which one got to Dalinar — *the Black Fisher? The Spawning Mother, the Faceless? Moelach is close. I can hear his wheezing, his scratching, his scraping at time like a rat breaking through walls.* Dalinar has no idea what he is talking about. Ahu calls it madness, then says it is not really madness at all: *we can't escape what we did. We let them in. We attracted them, befriended them, took them out to dance and courted them.* He pays for opening himself up; his brain, he says, was ripped out and made to dance, and he watched. Dalinar pauses with the bottle halfway to his mouth and presses it firmly back into Ahu's hand. *Drink this. You need it.*

He stumbles back to his rooms much later, thoroughly drunk and — for once — without a child's weeping in his head, and only realises at the door that he has the wrong one. Voices drift through it: Adolin worrying about his father, Gavilar gently saying Dalinar simply never adjusted to being alone after losing his wife, and a young Elhokar sneering that the drunken fool is down with the beggars again, that he will find any bottle hidden in the palace. Adolin springs to his father's defence; Gavilar quiets them both, suggests a distraction trip — perhaps to Azir — and tells them Dalinar is a soldier who will fight through this. The voices are enough to drag Evi's weeping back into Dalinar's head. He finds the proper door, lurches inside, and collapses on the nearest couch.