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On a plateau assault toward the end of the long Weeping Dalinar feels the Thrill more intensely than he has in years and, for the first time in years, lets himself answer it. Astride Gallant, with Oathbringer in his hand, he cuts down Parshendi in pairs and trios and then in entire squads, the great Shardblade scoring the air faster than the eye can follow. The fight is not a contest; it is a harvest.

When it ends he draws up Gallant on a ridge and looks back over what he has done. Hundreds of Parshendi lie burned-eyed and broken in a long curve across the plateau, drowning in the open air around their own ended chants. He has not killed in numbers like this since the wars that united Alethkar under his brother. He had forgotten what it felt like to be that good at it.

For the first time in decades the count sickens him on the field rather than in the campsite afterwards. He swallows on the rising in his throat. He pulls his helm off as he walks back to his men and is grateful that the visor was down for most of the killing and they cannot read his face. He thinks, without saying it aloud, *you will need luck trying to understand me, Sadeas — because I'm having Damnation's own trouble understanding myself*. He has done what he was once paid to do better than any Alethi before him. He no longer knows whether he believes the man who did it deserves to wear the Codes he writes about at night.