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The evening after the duel at Laqqi, Dalinar sits on the floor of his grandson's little room and plays at greatshell hunts with Gav. The boy, solemn beyond his five years, asks if his father died bravely; Dalinar tells him Adolin was very brave indeed, and that his mother — *evil, like Mommy?* — was brave too, and never did those terrible things herself. Gav tires quickly, clutches the wooden sword he carries everywhere, and falls asleep. Dalinar lingers in the doorway, determined not to miss as much of this small life as he missed of his sons'.

He has spent most of the day patching up the political aftermath of Jasnah's stunt with Ruthar by spanreed, putting the legality of it past dispute, and personally meeting with Relis — once beaten by Adolin in the warcamp arenas, now eager to prove his loyalty. Against Jasnah's decree he has quietly tucked the former highprince into a watched house in Azimir; he refuses to leave a former Alethi highprince scrabbling for scraps in the open. He walks the camp — a snarled landscape of patterned Azish scribe-livery, supply wagons from untouched Azish lands, Shardbearers cutting blocks while Windrunners float them into the stormwall, and the same too-familiar small signs of a town the war has chewed through.

Jasnah's other half of yesterday's conversation gnaws at him as much as the duel itself — that she expects to be Alethkar's last true monarch, leaving a neutered crown behind her on the Thaylen or Azish model. The thought offends him. A country, in his bones, is like an army; someone strong and decisive needs to be in charge.

The smell of supper carries from the Windrunner camp, and he turns toward it. The Windrunners have refused to put their nightly communal stew on the proper requisition — the tradition began in the bridge crews, and they will not let go of it. He has accepted his own rule that *when good men disobey, look at your orders.* Companylord Sigzil is at the storyteller's place tonight; Renarin sits in his Bridge Four uniform watching him with quiet attention. Dalinar realises the Windrunners take his arrival as approval at last; a squire fetches him a bowl. He accepts it, takes a bite, nods, and the camp applauds. He settles down with his son.

Renarin is smiling, hands not occupied by the little box he often uses to settle them. *Apparently it has only two lines of instructions,* he says of the Horneater stew. *Take everything you have, and put him in pot. Don't let anyone airsick touch seasonings.* Lopen calls after them, asking Renarin to look into the future and tell him whether he beats Huio at cards tomorrow; Renarin takes it with a chuckle, though it makes Dalinar wince. They slip out into the dark beyond the camp toward a tangle of broad-canopied trees, where they will not be overheard.

Renarin tells his father he wants to *get it right* and so summons his vision again, walking forward into it. To him the ground splits into dark, deliberately patterned glass; stained windows spread out across the landscape, lit by a phantom glow behind. He describes for his father what he sees: Dalinar as a tall figure in stark white Shardplate pierced by a black arrow, sword raised in the wrong direction; the enemy dominating the rest as a window of yellow-white light splintering toward infinity, like the sun. He reads the picture: Dalinar keeps fighting and fighting distractions because the enemy will never set terms for a contest he can lose. Dalinar replies that Odium has already agreed in principle; Renarin presses — *but the date is not set, no terms drawn.* He can keep the war running forever.

Renarin believes the enemy sees not events but possibilities, the way he does — and that with the Oathpact broken the Fused cannot be locked back away after death, so each Fused killed no longer stays killed. *I've been thinking about this myself,* Dalinar answers, *whether the Oathpact could be restored, or some other thing done to make him afraid.* He asks what else his son sees. Renarin points up at a sickness of blackness creeping in at the edges of both figures and tells him the easy part. *That's me.* Because his knowing the future changes what he will do, the enemy's sight cannot fix on him — or, he thinks, on anyone close to him.

Dalinar finds it comforting. *Whatever you are, son, it's a blessing,* he says, putting his arm around Renarin's shoulders. He tells him he need not hide his order or his spren. Renarin holds no illusions that broader Alethi or Azish society will accept anyone who sees the future as easily as Dalinar does. Glys, thrilled, pushes him to ask the rest. Renarin tells his father that Sja-anat has made others like him — a handful so far, only ever with the spren's consent — and that she means, in her own way, to find a path to peace between singers and humans. Dalinar is uneasy; Renarin does not say what he thinks of judging the many by the one. Dalinar eventually asks how many corrupted spren there are, accepts the count, and says he will think on it; if she reaches out, he wants to know. He tells his son he understands at least a little of what these visions are like — *you aren't as alone as you probably think.* As the stained glass crumbles and ordinary night returns, Renarin leans against him. Glys tells him they need more like the two of them. Renarin thinks of one perfect candidate.