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Szeth strides into the great hall to fight Rit with only Lashings — his spren refuses, for now, to grant him Division. The mural floor turns liquid beneath him. Stoneward: he had forgotten that the Stoneward Honorblade granted both Surges of the order, a Willshaper-like control of stone paired with a limited Bondsmith touch. He Lashes upward. Rit rides a column of liquid rock straight at him; the stone surges in a wave to engulf him; he Lashes himself down through a gap as the stone hardens — the unmistakable cracking sound he remembers from his own days training with the Willshaper Blade.

Rit descends a sloped column to him. She is *amazing*, and beyond that *powerful* — burning Stormlight at a rate that should have left her dry. He cannot understand where the strength comes from; he has none of it himself when he holds a Willshaper Blade. His spren, more present and approving than usual — *think of that stone tomb, anticipate it; control it* — coaxes him into engagement. He is the better swordsman; he tries to force her off balance to land a hand and Lash her, but the floor will not stop running. He flies the length of the hall and circles back, while she vanishes down into the stone itself, not needing to breathe.

She turns the hall into a forest of stone: launching jets of liquid rock upward as columns and freezing them in patterns, the drained floor dropping until Kaladin and Syl in the doorway are looking down a twenty-foot drop. He slashes through columns as he passes, but each soon reseals. She can move only a few columns at a time — a limit on her range, his one chance. He realises the only way to make her commit and emerge is to *be still*. He sees Kaladin watching from above, closes his eyes, and lands.

Stone takes him. It hardens around him in the exact shape of his body, pinning each finger to his Blade, holding his eyelids closed, leaving no room to inhale. His spren tells him *she has emerged as you hoped*, but does not yet grant him Division. The voices of his dead grow loud. His Stormlight ebbs. He could touch the second power and be free in an instant. *Hold*, the spren says. He holds, trembling, almost whimpering, until the spren tells him *some of the others said you were not worthy because you would not choose the law as your guide; now I prove them wrong. Well done, Szeth. You may use your second Surge. Fight as a full Skybreaker.*

He breathes Stormlight outward in a rush. The column becomes char; the stone catches fire. He rips out trailing ash like a third shadow, forces his eyes open, and lunges at the figure in front of him — Rit, inspecting her handiwork. He sets the air itself alight as he moves, plunges his Blade straight through her skull into the next column, then commands the rear edge to sharpen so the corpse drops free. There is no blood. He hears her whisper from dead lips — *your family awaits you, pilgrim* — and the body disintegrates into black smoke, leaving only empty clothing.

Adolin meets Abidi the Monarch on foot. The Fused is using moving soldiers as cover; he diverts Adolin's Blade with one mace and rings his helm with the other — the helm cracks but holds. A pair of warforms dive for Adolin's legs and put him down; he drops Maya, punches one clear, kicks the other, rolls away from Abidi's mace-strike. The support squad — including a bearded Thaylen volunteer with long white eyebrows — fills in around him. The Thaylen plants himself between Adolin and the Fused; Adolin, to draw attention, throws Maya in a flashing spin into Abidi's side, missing the gemheart but catching the Fused's eye.

Abidi's eyes pulse stuttering red — a cracked gemheart, perhaps from Adolin's hit in Shadesmar — and he cannot fly, but he is a skilled enough duelist not to need it. The maces are aluminum-lined; Adolin tries and fails to cleave one. He has nothing to prove against this opponent, signals his squad with two fingers to fall back, helps the Thaylen to his feet, and withdraws. Abidi twitches as if to chase, recognises the trap, and turns away through his own ranks.

The Azish hold against the next clash and the one after; Adolin barely needs to engage. The crossbowmen prove vicious — a bolt punches clean through a singer breastplate, shattering carapace. After half an hour Abidi calls the retreat, and the enemy pulls back into Shadesmar platoon by platoon. *They're leaving?* Maya asks. Not for good. They will revise their plan. Adolin thanks May's archers with a raised fist and pulls his men out of the dome — there is still work to do; he cannot leave the Azish feeling humiliated.