He did this.
The dead Waywalkers.
Children, some of them.
His own people.
The blank space where Kal should be.
I’m going to kill him.
All around us, the Weapon thrums, crystal humming and singing as it cools, and over all of it, the harsh rasp of my breath as the two of us stand, gathering ourselves.
Then our eyes lock, and I throw myself at him again, blindly smashing him to the ground, my scream echoing back at us from every direction, the breath knocked out of him as I drive a knee into his rib cage.
He rolls, and his hands are at my throat, squeezing, crushing. On instinct, I clasp my fists together and punch up between his forearms, forcing them apart and breaking his grip.
I’m going to kill him. That’s all that’s left to do.
I grope blindly for another shard of crystal, fingers closing around it, and I drive it up and into his side. It shears off his armor, but as he twists away, I roll out from underneath him.
We both scramble to our feet, backing up a handful of steps, and I shift my grip on my crystal knife. He’s huge, and he moves like a warrior even now, even injured. This is the man who taught Kal to fight.
But my mind feels like a sponge with all the water squeezed out—there’s no way I can use my power against him, so this is what I have. His own mind must be just as weak, or he’d have squished me like a bug by now.
It only takes one lucky hit.
This is what I’ll do with the time I have left.
He breaks first, lunging forward with impossible speed to strike at my throat. I skip back, step on something soft, stumble, lunge forward to slash at his ribs while he’s close.
He snarls his fury, but neither of us is in the mood for words. I follow up, dancing in for another swipe, but in a movement too fast to follow, he grabs at my arm and tosses me through the air like I weigh nothing.
My feet leave the ground, and everything’s suspended for a second before I crash into the base of the crystal throne, ears ringing, vision closing into darkness.
There’s a dead Waywalker staring straight at me, only silence where her mind should be, and her braids are a mess, and I want to smooth them for her, and I want to tell her I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, and helplessly my mind reaches out for Kal’s once more, a desperate midnight-and-silver unfurling in search of …
… is that … ?
… the faintest flicker of violet and gold.
Joy explodes inside me, and I whirl around to search the carnage for him, because he’s here, he’s alive, he’s …
“Wait!” I throw up one hand, and Caersan pauses, lip curled as he stares at me like I’m something that belongs on the bottom of his shoe.
“Weakling,” he sneers. “Now you seek mercy? Too late for your courage to fail you, girl.”
“No, I …” I’m grasping for words, and I lift my hand to gesture, to take in our surroundings. In my search for Kal, I’ve opened my mind, and abruptly I realize something’s changed. “Can’t you hear?”
He scowls. “I hear nothing.”
“Exactly.”
Caersan tilts his head, and at the edges of my own mind I can sense his cautious questing. Sniffing the wind from behind his barricades, refusing to make himself vulnerable.
I can’t hear anything out there. When we fought during the attack, the gulf of space around the Weapon was a whirl of battle, the minds of the humans, the Betraskans, and the Syldrathi pilots and crews—their fear, their anger, their focus. Somewhere in the midst of them I was aware of Finian, Scarlett, and Zila, my squad, my family.
But now … there’s nothing. Or rather, not nothing—not an absence, like they’re all simply dead. But something else. It’s like waking up on a snow day, like the world is strangely muffled.
“Where did the fleet go?” I ask quietly. “The battle?”
He frowns, and I ease up onto all fours, and finally I can see Kal, lying crumpled on the other side of the throne.
Keeping one eye on Caersan, I crawl around toward his son—the Starslayer notes the movement and dismisses it, returning to his contemplation of the strange silence outside.
Kal’s curled on his side, wearing the same peaceful, vulnerable expression he does when he sleeps. I woke up before him most mornings in the Echo. For half a year, I saw him like this each day.
I wrap one hand around his, and though I’m trembling with exhaustion, I drag up the energy I need from my soul itself, making my mental touch so delicate that I barely brush against his bruised and battered mind.