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Kaladin stands up to protect Szeth, Syl, and even Ishar — not because he has to, not because the situation forces him to, but because this *is* the man he wants to be. Everyone else on the barren field of Shinovar is on the ground, curled up, trembling, eyelids clenched against Ishar's pressed darkness. Even Syl is incapacitated, a cord of white light tethered to the Herald like the rest of them. Ishar cuts off his own rambling and turns. *Impossible. What are you?* *I'm just an old spear who wouldn't break, Ishar,* Kaladin says, and steps sideways to put his body between the Herald and Szeth. It is perhaps a hollow gesture, but there is a darkness emanating from Ishar, and maybe — like standing in front of a terrible storm — he can shield others from it. Szeth opens his eyes.

Ishar stalks toward him. *I don't believe it. How?* He looks at the cord, back at Kaladin. *This horrible darkness,* Kaladin says, *is what you feel?* Every day, the Herald answers. *It's awful, isn't it?* Yes. *I will not lie and promise you all future days will be warm. But Ishar, you will be warm again. And that is another thing entirely to promise.* *I don't know if that is true,* the Herald whispers. *It's different for us.* *It's not,* Kaladin answers. *I feel your pain now. Your lives might be supernatural, Ishar, but what you feel is what I feel. On one hand that is no consolation; your pain doesn't transform because another experienced it. Still — it seems to help. Knowing you aren't alone.* Speaking is barely possible. Whatever Ishar has done to him is worse than most of his worst days; like all of them distilled into a 200-proof awfulness. Worse than the days when he wouldn't move. Like the day he had stood in the rain above a chasm. *That is what the Heralds live with,* he thinks, and decides — laughably — that he has to help them.

But he can stand. And does. Somehow it helps. Szeth groans and looks up at him. Syl stirs. *How?* Ishar repeats. *What are you? Are you his spren? His god?* *No,* Kaladin says. *I'm his therapist.* Ishar blinks. *What is that?* *Honestly, I have no idea.* Ishar crosses the field in a Bondsmith pop of speed and clamps a hand at Kaladin's throat. *I will crush you. Everyone you love will die for this insolence. Doesn't that terrify you?* *Yes,* Kaladin admits. The darkness wants him to see himself failing. It tries. Except he has learned, and Words form without him realising they have begun. The Words both soldier and surgeon need eventually — two halves of one man, a singular lesson, a step forward from what he learned in storm and tempest two weeks ago. A counterpoint, learned in a peace that flows through him and holds the darkness off. Quiet Words, reminiscent of what Teft had once spoken. Kaladin rests a comforting hand on Ishar's shoulder, ignores the hand at his throat, and speaks them. *I will protect myself, so that I may continue to protect others.*

On the tower roof, the power of Honor gathers around Dalinar like a corona. The rumbling from Odium becomes tiny, buzzing instead of thunder. The power *knows* it is no longer like the others; it has spent too long without a vessel, and part of it craves to be held again. Yet it has seen so much betrayal. *I know,* Dalinar whispers, his heart trembling. *I was there.* Too much of his attention in the visions had been on Tanavast — natural, as he had been seeing them from the man's perspective. Now he accepts the power's viewpoint: trying earnestly to work with Tanavast, finding him infuriatingly uncaring about oaths. *I see your pain.* Lines of light begin to appear at his chest, vanishing into nothing, tethering him to something distant — or something here, but in another realm. *You,* the power whispers, *are the uniter.*

Yes. He had followed the command to unite. He had brought Alethkar together. Then nations into his coalition. He and Navani had built the tower and its people into a true kingdom. The lines strengthen. *I know you want a successor,* Dalinar says. *I do not think you'll do better than me, right now. I have grown so much, even in the past ten days.* The lines stay the same. The power does not care about his willingness to serve. Why not? It is the power of Honor and oaths, Dalinar realises. Not of self-improvement. It does not care if he has grown; it cares if he will keep his word. He thinks of the many oaths he has made and kept — sending Radiants with the Mink when it had hurt the war effort, very recently. And yet he finds himself uncertain. Was he really a man of his word? He had told Elhokar he did not want the throne, sworn it to Sadeas, vowed he would never be king — and then taken that throne in all but name. The power does not care, so long as he technically did not. That bothers him. The power has a certain immaturity he had not expected to find in a god — but it is newly aware.

*It is time, Dalinar,* Cultivation's voice says, quiet. *Speak the Words. You know them now.* He does. He fixates on the power's perspective and watches Tanavast betray it time and time again. He takes to heart the lessons of his road: in this case, the destination is not a place but a Connection. It is about who you have become, not about where you arrived. The power surrounds him, and he slams his hands together, opening a perpendicularity. Then he speaks to Honor the most important Words he might ever say — Words that only work if he can say them truly. *I understand you.*