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Still on watch at the Kholin sparring grounds while Zahel starts on Renarin across the sand, Kaladin takes the day's report from Lopen, who has wandered up with a wrapped meat-and-bread roll he calls chouta — a Herdazian food Kaladin pronounces disgusting and slovenly. The shell Lopen hands over carries Sigzil's troop tallies, Rock's ration estimates, Teft's notes on which of the old bridgemen are fit for proper training, and a proposed patrol route outside the warcamps. Kaladin sends it back to be redrawn closer to camp. Another highstorm is due two hours after sunset, with another chance for the countdown glyphs to appear on Dalinar's wall; he tells Lopen to suggest the highprince keep the family together and to pull fresh men out to relieve Moash and Drehy, who have been working too many hours. He will stand the storm watch himself.

Across the yard, Adolin works through a graceful Plate-and-Blade warm-up — sweeping postures more impressive than useful, but real movements all the same — and ends by driving his Blade mid-deep into the sand and dismissing it. Kaladin remembers seeing Adolin summon that same weapon long before the rescue in the chasms, to stop a man bullying a whore in Sadeas's camp. *He can't be too bad then,* Lopen says, before saluting Shen over and jogging off on the errand. Syl perches on the eave watching Adolin from a distance.

Zahel starts Renarin with deliberately absurd exercises — climb the corner stairs to the roof in full Plate and jump off; do it again, this time headfirst — to teach him what his armor will and will not let him do. The lad obeys without hesitation, leaps long-eels-style and crashes into the sand, picks himself up, and trots back to the stairs without complaint. Watching, Zahel tells Kaladin the prince will be fine; he has the things Zahel cannot teach — enthusiasm, obedience, no fear of looking foolish. Then he turns the offer on Kaladin — train under a weapons master, a chance vanishingly few darkeyes ever get. Kaladin waves it off. Zahel hails a passing ardent for a training Shardblade fitted with the strange edge-guards the king provides — adapts to any Blade's shape, makes it safely blunt, no use in real combat, perfect for training. He names Niter, the dead head of the Cobalt Guard whose job Kaladin now holds, and warns that anyone sending assassins for Dalinar's family will have access to Shardbearers and Plate.

They fight. Zahel watches Kaladin lock onto the Blade, drops it deliberately on the sand, slips inside his reach, and buries a fist in his stomach and another in his face before he can recover. Zahel takes the Blade up again and presses him in quick overhand chops around the perimeter until Kaladin starts to bleed his stamina. Then Zahel feints a dash at Renarin to force the engagement; Kaladin catches a half-spear an ardent throws him after his first is *cut*, runs it through Zahel's leg and takes the Blade across his throat in the same exchange. *Dead,* Zahel says. *And Renarin gets away,* Kaladin answers.

Adolin steps into the ring in full Plate with his own Blade point-down in the sand and asks, smirking, what Kaladin would have done about a second assassin — because he would never send only one. The condescension lands wrong, on top of the nameless Shardbearer who killed Kaladin's friends, on top of Sadeas, on top of Amaram. Kaladin charges. He slaps aside Adolin's careful warm-up cut with the back of his spear, fouls the follow-through, and bowls the armored prince over with his shoulder. On the ground he draws Stormlight without thinking — careful, just a little — and his dislocated shoulder reknits. He drives in again. The Stormlight flees him as suddenly as a storm passing, his pain returns in a wave, Adolin catches him by the arm with a gauntleted fist as his Blade re-forms, and Zahel's training Blade rests against Kaladin's neck. *Dead*, Zahel says, *again.*

Zahel sends Adolin off to help his brother land on his feet — and snaps at the prince for throwing an unarmored sparring partner around like a bundle of sticks. Kneeling beside Kaladin, Zahel feels for breaks, finds none, observes that he flinches less from a swung Blade than any spearman should and has clearly faced one before. He drops the lessons offer — *I don't think I could force you* — laughs that Kaladin reminds him very much of Adolin, who also refused at first, and walks off chuckling at the joke. Syl flits down and settles on Kaladin's chest while he stares at the sky catching his breath. She asks who he was protecting when the Stormlight went out of him. He does not answer. He drags himself up, draws a little Light this time on purpose, and lets it work on the bruises as he goes to check on Moash and the others — the physical ones, at least.