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*Seven thousand one hundred years ago.* The vision continues in Tanavast's voice. He stands on the first planet in an avatar shaped to touch, and what his arms hold is the limp body of a dead child. He closes his eyes; divine sight does not let him stop seeing the rest — the dead carpet the ground, thousands more dying, the air thick with smoke. The first world burns.

Rayse appears at his side, tall as a mountain, hands clasped behind his back. He surveys the cities of the burned, the armies turned to charred bone, and concedes only that *that did not go as planned. Perhaps we went too far.* He roars in agony. *Don't be so dramatic, Tanner. There are always more people.* Rayse taps his foot against a body and admits, again, this was too far — and vanishes.

The kingdom he had raised up has fought valiantly against the empire — and the Honor shard inside him is *pleased.* It does not care that his followers have died. To the power, honour in death is the same as honour in life. That is all it values, and the realisation terrifies him. He himself feels every death directly, particularly the ones who had come to follow him. The souls flee to the Beyond, escaping the planet that on this day is renamed Ashyn — for the ash and the destruction that have become its only biome. He weeps for hopes cut short. For loves set ablaze. For dreams.

A voice. Nale is searching among the dead. He cannot see the god watching him, but he screams when he finds the body of his sister and holds her. A man approaches behind him, badly burned, followed by a small force of soldiers. They do not attack. Tanavast recognises the leader: one of the city-state lords who had joined the empire and adopted its ways. They call him Jezrien. He goes past Nale to Makibak's uncle and gestures peace.

Makibak sits apart, exhausted, eyes too far away. *You come to finish us off?* *No, Makibak, I come to offer the hand of friendship,* Jezrien answers. *I hope,* Makibak says, *that you lead them off a cliff, you bastard.* Jezrien kneels. *Zoral — he who was named the Voidbringer — is dead. I am king now, and I will be a better leader. Ishar can take us to a new world. He's found the songs. Bring your people.* *I have no people,* Makibak says, watching his nephew cry over a corpse. *I lead only ghosts.* Jezrien points: *He is alive. You are alive. Others live. The firestorm is returning, and the very stones are melting in rivers of lava. With luck, we can make a portal and flee. Join us.* *Just like Zoral said all those years ago,* Makibak whispers, ash blowing past him. *'Join us …'* *This will be different.* *Can you promise that?* Jezrien steps back. *If I wasn't willing, would I be here?*

Those words cut through some of Tanavast's pain. Loss is inevitable. It is part of mortal life. He has to help the living, not only mourn the dead. He sees, here, a king trying to make amends with his enemy, on a mountain of corpses. Maybe something can be salvaged.

He travels home to Kor's embrace and weeps in her arms until the portal opens on Roshar. They are here. Rayse, of course, has come with them.