The room felt colder now. Even Amelia's perfume was fading. That was fine; it made it easier to bury this weakness. He thought for a long time about the kiss. It felt more like a parting gift. Sometimes, two people ground each other down until they no longer fit together.

  "McAllister. The judges are ready to see you."

  The voice snapped Dane out of the spiral. He had almost forgotten there was still a verdict to hear. Still, a future for Chronowell hanging in the balance, if he could stomach whatever these people called justice.

  He stood. His legs felt steady. His heart did not.

  The guard led him down the corridor with the stiffness of a man walking beside a bomb. Earlier in the week, he'd talked during meals, grumbled about pay, and even laughed. Now he didn't look at Dane once. It wasn't fear for himself; Dane could read men too well for that. It was the fear of being seen with him, as if the stain of the Demon would rub off.

  They reached a room barely larger than a storage closet. It was a far cry from the grand tribunal hall where he'd stood when landing on Shattered Reach.

  Here, there were only five arbiters—one from each faction.

  "Competitor McAllister, we have a verdict on the victor of the void sea." The head of the table said, pausing as if he was playing to an audience that wasn't there for effect. "Given the spectacle you gave the crowd, you will continue in the games. But if you continue to avoid the main focus of the mission, you will be judged guilty of your crimes and publicly executed."

  Dane still didn't know what crime he had committed. Every competitor in the Crucible had been for something, real or imagined, and the Crucible wasn't exactly shy about making things up when it suited them. He had lost the first trial. Ryn had only killed a handful of combatants and a single Chimera, yet somehow the crowd adored him. Dane was the last man standing in that trial and had fought void storms and butchered the kraken, but he could already see the truth in the arbiters' eyes.

  Their judgment would always bend toward whatever earned the loudest roar.

  There was no point in arguing. Not here. Not with them.

  The Enslaver tapped a finger against the table, a dull metallic sound that carried more weight than any words. "As for the structure of your remaining crucible…" His visor tilted slightly, the closest thing that armor had to a smile. "Trials Three through Seven are being combined.”

  The Guilded Thorn representative shifted, robes rustling like smoldering charcoal. "This is an outrage. Nature demands seven cycles.”

  The Machine Faith didn't respond to him. "The Crucible requires order. Compression is efficient.”

  The Legion Arbiter sat forward, folding his hands. His gaze held none of the disdain the others had, just scrutiny, the kind a seasoned soldier gave a blade he wasn't sure would hold. "The next event will be a beast trial. Thirteen monsters that will progressively get stronger as you progress. The winner will be determined by the one who makes it through the most trials.”

  "And after that," the Consortium woman added, smoothing the cuff of her sleeve as if discussing the weather, "a final tournament. The crowd will love it.”

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  Dane waited for the rest. It came like a knife drawn slowly.

  "If you refuse," the Consortium rep whispered, "your death will still be profitable. I have heard that Tormund has been itching for a new sacrifice."

  Dane let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. It wasn't fear. It was exhaustion. He'd lost Amelia. He'd lost any illusion that this place cared about truth. And now they wanted him to play along because a crowd enjoyed watching him break things.

  He raised his eyes to the panel. "Do you want an answer?”

  The Enslaver didn't move. "You will give one either way.”

  Dane looked him defiantly in the eyes. "Your trials are pointless, and I look forward to breaking anyone you set in front of me."

  "Excellent," the Consortium rep said under her breath, relief leaking through her polished tone. The Machine Faith's lenses clicked. Guilded Thorn looked disappointed that he wouldn't get an execution.

  The Legion Arbiter nodded once. Respect, or the closest thing to it that Dane had seen here.

  "Five days," he said. "You may return to your cell to make any final preparations.”

  The guard grabbed his arm again. Dane didn't look back at the arbiters. He didn't want to see them. He didn't want to see how they'd already moved on to the following agenda item. To them, he was just a variable. A spectacle. Something to steer into the right shape for the crowd.

  The hall outside was quiet when he stepped into it.

  Tormund gazed out over the flatlands. War was on the horizon. It had been far too long since he'd raised his banners. His blood hadn't felt this alive in years. He wasn't marching for conquest. This little campaign had a single purpose.

  He needed to know more about his prey.

  Rain swept across the Reach in a thin silver sheet, cutting through the dust. A young soldier sprinted toward him, boots slipping in the wet grass. The boy tried and failed to hide the fear in his eyes. Tormund didn't blame him. The young always broke easily.

  "Sir," the soldier said, breath hitching. "The guards have repelled our eighth attempt to access Chronowell. Even when we told them it was a messenger, they refused entry. They say no one comes in unless Tomas orders it."

  Tormund's jaw tightened, though not from anger. Tomas Spearbound. The man with a spine. It was rare to find a man who still believed in lines, even if those lines got him killed. Tormund respected that. Too many in the Reach were soft behind their smiles. Tomas wasn't. Rumor spread fast of him standing alone against the Machine God faction, refusing Consortium demands, and defying men far stronger than him.

  Tormund knew who taught him that.

  He turned back to the soldier. "Your failure is not your own. It is mine for sending children to do a man's work."

  The boy flinched but bowed his head anyway. "I'm sorry, sir."

  "There is nothing to apologize for." Tormund's voice stayed even. "Raise your head. Ready your weapon. You will die like a true soldier."

  The boy straightened, pride rising like fever behind his eyes. He drew his sword with a shaking hand, trying miserably to hold it as steady as he could. Rain streaked down the blade. For a moment, he almost looked like a warrior.

  No one saw Tormund draw.

  The smile on the boy's face split apart before he hit the ground.

  The sword clattered beside him, swallowed by the grass.

  Tormund exhaled once and wiped the mist from his brow. "Someone bury him back home. He died a warrior's death, showing courage in his final breath. May his soul return to a stronger body next time."

  His warband moved quickly. Death was ordinary in the Legion. Expected especially when reporting failure. Just a way toward better reincarnations.

  Tormund looked north, toward the faint outline of Chronowell's walls. Rain blurred the horizon, turning the settlement into a smudge of gray and steel.

  Eight failed attempts. Eight wasted chances. He didn't blame Tomas. The boy was doing what any competent leader would: protecting his people, holding firm, refusing entry. But it made things simple.

  "If they will not parlay with me," Tormund said, settling a hand on the hilt of his blade, "then I will have to visit Chronowell myself."

  He looked at the spire one last time and felt something stir beneath his ribs. Good. A city built by a man was the most accurate mirror of his soul.

  Tormund stepped forward, rain sliding off his armor like a second skin.

  "Chronowell," he murmured, "will tell me who you are."