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Dalinar's mind expands. He can see it all — past, present, possible futures — and his body evaporates into the vast, incomprehensible essence of godhood. What steps forward to meet Taravangian is a projection trailing infinity. *You have done it,* the Stormfather says, awed and tiny now. Dalinar, Honor, can meet Taravangian on equal terms — and consider a third option apart from the two he had been offered. What if he simply destroyed Odium? The old contract lets him attack as he wishes. Taravangian could defend himself, but Dalinar had been a soldier and Taravangian a philosopher.

The power of Honor wants this confrontation. Dalinar sees, in a moment of infinite lucidity, that this is part of why it had broken away from Tanavast — there is a darker side to *honor.* How many men had stabbed someone they loved over it? How many wars had been started over an insult to it? The power accepted those definitions of itself: the power of oaths and the pride men bore at being thought of as men of oaths. *So,* Taravangian says, *this is what it comes to?* *It is the only way,* Dalinar finds himself replying. *I accept,* Taravangian says — and dreams of splintering Honor for good. *I accept,* Dalinar says. *You should not have threatened my family. Today you shall know the Blackthorn.* *Dalinar, please.* It is the Stormfather's voice. The powers begin to touch, the tower beneath them shakes, the mountains tremble — and on the roof Gavinor cries the way he had as a child. Dalinar remembers his very first vision, of a cataclysmic wave engulfing his homeland, and at last sees it clearly: the cataclysm was always *him.* He sees himself frantically punching Elhokar again, burning Evi as the people of the Rift deserved, the tens of thousands of Parshendi killed on the Plains in the name of oaths broken. *No. Never.* He backs down. He still needs another solution.

On the Shin field, Kaladin and Syl kneel beside Ishar. Nightblood is draining Light at a furious rate; frost has formed on Kaladin's clothing. *That's bad,* Syl says, watching the black lines climb his hand. *I know.* *Ishar, can you hear me? Can you use the Bondsmith Blade to open a perpendicularity? We need more Stormlight.* *Kaladin,* Syl says, staring at the sky, *the spren feel something coming.* *They know,* the Wind whispers, *that we stand upon a cliffside. Dalinar Kholin faces his greatest challenge.* *What will happen?* he asks, feeling cold. *It is not written. Not yet. But be ready, Kaladin. Please. Be ready.* Sweat on his temples crystallizes to ice. Ishar groans awake, sees Szeth fighting the whisper-shades, and breathes *Oh. Oh no. What have I done?* But his power, his Surges, are gone. Kaladin yanks the pouch from Ishar's belt and breathes its Light into Nightblood. *It's coming,* the Wind says, voices overlapping a thousandfold, asking — afraid now — whether he will be there when she needs him. *Have I ever not been?* A sharp pain stabs through his hand; the black veins are running up his forearm; Ishar is tapped, Nale has nothing. Nightblood will soon consume him. Perhaps all of them.

Dalinar appears somewhere warm. The light through the windows is soft and blurred, like a dream remembered. Wooden bowls on the counter. Old paintings on the wall, slightly askew. Voices outside, indistinct and bright. The shorter Alethi or Veden man at the brick oven, silver beard and smile lines and old-fashioned grey robes, is Nohadon — pulling a thick loaf of Shin bread from the oven and gesturing him to the floor table. *I promised you Shin bread, my friend. I usually keep my promises.* They sit. *I don't have time for flighty visions,* Dalinar says. *I'm standing at the nexus of all things.* *Then this is the most important time for you to be reminded of lazy days baking bread. Why do you fight, if not for days like these?* Dalinar admits he had nearly destroyed everything. *That's progress, my friend.* He asks if there is a way to fight Odium without destroying Roshar. *I don't think there is. Powers like yours have clashed before without destruction — but always then, one of them wanted to preserve. When both want to destroy, it's violent.*

They walk through it together. Dalinar sketches what victory looks like — peace, without compromising his values — and realizes Taravangian benefits from peace as much as from war: time to recruit, train, and pick offworld engagements that veteran the next generation of Fused. *Every possible outcome serves him.* *Who can?* Nohadon asks. A knock at the door. Nohadon ushers in an Alethi child of indeterminate gender, gives them bread, sits them by the hearth. *Strange, how one so ancient can still be so young.* *Honor,* Dalinar guesses. *That's the power of Honor. It's started to develop its own mind.* He sits beside it. *I chose you,* the child whispers, *because you'd seen my life. But then you refused to fight.* Dalinar tries to teach it understanding — about Evi, about himself — and finds it can. It can grow.

*The powers must be able to change,* he says back to Nohadon. *Everyone can change, even me. Honor must learn. That's the answer.* The power needs time and lessons to grow — and time is exactly what Taravangian wants. He needs to buy time for Honor and deny it to Taravangian at the same time. Today, Dalinar has seen true honor — in Adolin standing for Azir, in Renarin setting right an old wrong, in Jasnah picking herself up from failure, in Shallan rising above what was done to her. And Kaladin — *Blood of my fathers,* he thinks, *Kaladin will preserve a piece. That's what we need.* He cannot stop Odium. But they can. He is willing to pay the cost. Nohadon smiles. *Good luck, my friend. Thank you for listening to me all those years.* The vision collapses. Dalinar is back on the rooftop, a god, his power pressed against Taravangian's. *I cannot best you. No matter what I do.* The remnant of Tanavast in him agrees — and this is his ultimate choice. He opens his eyes, beacons of blazing power, and speaks four fateful words. *I renounce my oaths.*