(title hidden — not yet read)

(summary hidden — not yet read)

The moment arrives. The contest begins. Gavinor attacks. Dalinar is forced to leap away as the young man drives him backward across the tower roof in flawless Flamestance with Oathbringer, bold strikes meant to end the contest fast. *Son, he's using you,* Dalinar tries. Gav — who sounds so much like Elhokar it tears at him — answers that he has lived his father's life a dozen times over in Taravangian's home realm, that the theme is always the same: *no one ever gets to decide. You decide for them.* Twenty years training alone under a god's eye has made him lethal, but it has also made his refusal to be used into the very proof of his being used. *Did you really come to a battle for the fate of the world unarmed?* Taravangian asks, appearing at Dalinar's shoulder. The Stormfather rumbles in the back of his mind, hoping he has an answer ready. *Still working on it,* Dalinar says. He pulls in Stormlight enough to stay ahead of the boy and, when Gav gets too close, accepts an unfamiliar Blade from Taravangian only to block — the held spren whimpering faintly in his hand. Gav tumbles in a clash, scrambles for Oathbringer again, comes again — and Taravangian snaps his fingers. The boy freezes mid-strike, eyes quivering, aware, unable to move. *He swore to me,* Taravangian explains. *So I can make him wait.* He offers, in a tone of patient cruelty, alternatives — a Fused Dalinar could enjoy killing inside a singer body; a hooded innocent he doesn't know on an altar — and bears down on the only real choice he intends to offer: *kill him while he watches, or forfeit and die by your own hand.*

Across the world the Azimir hallway has become a tempest of ten shimmering Blades. Adolin has paired experienced Shardbearers with newcomers and told the inexperienced to let loose — their companions are in Plate and can take an accidental hit or two. The result is enemies falling faster than the smoke can rise, burned eyes leaving black streaks at the ceiling. Songs falter. Warforms shy. Adolin sends Kushkam and his son back to check on Noura — a good thing, as they return with a dead Husked One that slipped past — and through the side can see Noura standing on the toppled throne with the Blade of Memories in her hand. The Plate warns him of a Magnified One slamming in from behind, then warns the back plate is failing, and then the Fused jolts forward with a Blade driven between her eyes from behind. Notum stands inside the blue-glowing Plate — the windspren have accepted him as bearer though he is barely substance in this realm. The line breaks; ordinary soldiers fall back; only irate Regals and Fused remain. Adolin levels Maya at an Edgedancer Fused — who looks up, hears something Adolin cannot, sighs, and walks away. The others do too. Noura runs from the throne room holding her small clock high: *the Blackthorn's contest has begun.* By the rules Odium himself set, the enemy can no longer fight in this land. They gather their wounded and lay down their weapons. Yanagawn pulls off his helm grinning like he has won his first duel, which he has, and tells the Fused in an emperor's voice to gather at the Oathgate and withdraw into Shadesmar. Adolin waits, tense, for a trick — but the enemy is gone, and his people step out into the sunlight of the tenth day to a free Azir, the only Rosharan kingdom besides Urithiru to stand.

On the roof of Urithiru, Dalinar rounds Gav, who is frozen like a statue. *Such a little thing to kill one man,* Taravangian muses, *in the name of preserving a nation.* He recalls the long hearth-side talks they used to share, the loneliness of rule, the empathy only another king can offer. *I remember,* Dalinar whispers, *a time when I thought I could trust you.* He tells him bluntly that he never really understood — that the visions used to break him were the proof — and that what Taravangian wants is not understanding but a fellow signatory on horrible actions. Taravangian steps in close, eyes burning with divine sense. He hears children both singer and human suffer across the whole cosmere and cannot close his eyes to it. He was ready to be done; destiny wrenched him back. He will be the evil that all men need but are afraid to embrace. There will be no stillness until the gods stand down or die. *Spare your grandson and stand with me,* he offers, *or kill him and feel a thimble of what I feel.* He will leave Alethkar alone, and continue without him. Almost, Dalinar believes the altruism — the passion is there — but he knows Taravangian too well: not just peace but to be the one to bring it, his way. In that they are alike, and always have been.

Dalinar looks back to Gav, frozen, weeping, straining against his bonds. *He knows you betrayed him,* he says. *Twenty years training, and you wouldn't even give him the chance to defeat me?* *A painful lesson,* Taravangian answers. *We, at the top, must taint our souls with the worst sludge of corrupt morality to spare others.* He counts off the cost of every kingdom — the slow consumption of Soulcasters to feed people, the darkeyes who toil instead of being freed, soldiers dying and singer children starving so the home morning is cheerful. *And if you aren't willing to dirty your pristine, godly hands with it,* he says, voice held like a note, *then I name you a coward.* *Never,* Dalinar hisses. *So be it.* Taravangian walks over, takes Oathbringer from Gav's frozen hand, and drives it point-down into the rooftop before Dalinar. *Forfeit and die. That will prove you a fool, but at least you'll be consistent. Then you'll rise again as my general, head of my armies. Blood and Terror shall be your surnames. The Blackthorn will live again.* He steps back. A billowing red storm manifests behind him, tendrils outlining him in red lightning. *The power of Odium and I have found one another. Its ambitions. My convictions. One god, for all the cosmere. Putting right what was broken thousands of years ago by a group of fools. It begins here, Dalinar, with your decision.*