I looked back at Jennifer's body, motionless and broken.
With a tired gesture I waved my hand, doing the smallest thing still within my reach to restore her form.
It was not resurrection, not salvation, only respect. Even that felt like presumption.
I drove my sword into the ground beside her head, anchoring myself to a world I no longer believed in.
Then reaching into my chest I tore my heart free, placed it beside her as though symmetry might still matter.
The blood spilling from me did not hurt.
Pain required meaning, and I no longer believed the world was generous enough to offer that.
I sent my spear into my Inner World and released all power bound to it.
It vanished without resistance, as if it had been waiting for permission to leave.
My body began to decay immediately, flesh loosening, strength abandoning me without protest.
This was how things truly were when stripped of illusion.
I cried then, but not for Jennifer alone, and not even for myself.
It was pity. A hollow, exhausted grief for humanity itself.
If this was the world
He had shaped, if this suffering was the natural outcome of His design, then humanity had never been meant to endure.
It had only been meant to persist until it broke.
And yet He must exist. I am certain of that.
A world this cruel does not come from absence.
It comes from intention. If He exists, then perhaps He is dead, or worse, indifferent.
A silent God is no different from a corpse, except that the corpse at least has the decency not to demand worship.
I clenched my fists and lowered myself beside her, my knees pressing into the blood-soaked earth.
I leaned down and kissed her. It was selfish, I knew that.
A final indulgence of sin, claiming closeness in death that I had failed to protect in life. I accepted that stain willingly.
As my life drained away, one truth remained untouched by doubt.
God is dead.
And if that is not true, if He still watches and still allows this world to exist as it does, then I will correct that error myself.
I will kill God.
***
{Mirabel Barvavosta.}
Nicholas was a genius.
Over the course of his training, he had grown formidable, not merely in strength, but in comprehension.
He understood systems, patterns, outcomes. He saw wars not as chaos, but as equations waiting to be solved.
Still, he had failed to break through to the fifth wall. Perhaps even that was too much to ask.
Yet power had answered him regardless.
As I watched him now, seated across from me as he reviewed the reports, I could see it clearly.
The way his eyes moved, precise and relentless, scanning each line as the carriage rolled through the planes.
There was might in him, contained and disciplined, but unmistakable.
He flinched at the casualty counts, irritation tightening his jaw at the descriptions of wasted lives and mismanaged engagements.
He lingered on those passages longer than the rest, not out of grief, but frustration.
When he reached the end, he exhaled slowly.
He wore white armor, refined and molded perfectly to his frame, ceremonial yet unmistakably functional.
His sword rested across his lap, untouched but never ignored.
The symbol on his chest marked his station.
But it was his helmet that drew the eye, gold inlaid with rose motifs and a black visor that concealed everything once lowered.
It rested at his right side.
Once worn, he would look every part the warrior prince.
And yet, I sensed something missing. Not doubt, but disappointment. As if reality had failed to live up to his expectations.
"Mirabel," he said at last, his voice calm but strained.
"It seems the war has gone terribly. We have made virtually no progress, and many people have died."
He flipped through the pages again, more quickly this time.
"Of course, these reports are a few days old," he continued. "Do you have hope?"
I leaned back against the carriage wall and sighed.
"Hope might be a good thing to have," I said. "But we are facing an enemy far greater than we predicted."
His brow furrowed.
"That is precisely the issue," he replied. "I did predict this. Did no one read my plans or orders?"
I shook my head. "It is meaningless to plan an entire war in advance. There are too many variables. Too many wills at play."
His eyes flickered, irritation flashing briefly before he looked back down at the reports.
"I predicted all of this," he said quietly.
He sighed again. "Well, perhaps not the Rosen incident."
"And Dalinar," he added, almost absently.
"I wonder how that fight concluded."
I could not help but chuckle.
Watching him acknowledge his own arrogance, even briefly, was strangely endearing.
He was sharper now, more grounded.
But I could not allow myself to cling to that impression.
Nicholas had many potentials. And if I wished to see the best of him realized, then the worst would have to be destroyed first.
"You must prepare yourself," I said gently. "War is terrible, Nicholas. Truly terrible."
The carriage slowed, then came to a halt. The knight outside tapped twice against the side, crisp and formal.
I opened the door. The smell of blood hit immediately, thick and unmistakable.
I stepped down first, then helped Nicholas as he gathered his sword and helm.
Once outside, he secured the blade at his side. I stored my own within my Inner World, as I usually did.
He surveyed the scene.
Medics moved among the wounded with quiet urgency, while behind them rose the stone bulk of a fortress under constant repair.
Fort Havel.
A newly constructed stronghold along the border.
Nicholas intended for it to become the heart of a military city, enclosed by walls and populated almost exclusively by soldiers.
A place of order and readiness, not comfort.
As we advanced, Kivana emerged from the inner grounds, her armor polished and extravagant as always.
Malachi followed behind her with visible irritation.
She ran forward and stopped directly before Nicholas, snapping into a salute.
"I greet the… I forgot the title," she said sheepishly. "But I greet you nonetheless, my prince."
Nicholas frowned slightly, then turned to Malachi.
"Do not greet me," he said flatly. "Just tell me everything."
Malachi scratched his head.
"You know most of it already. Sansir defeated Dalinar, but then lost to Horia when he entered the battle."
Nicholas's annoyance deepened. "Continue."
"It is not confirmed," Malachi said carefully. "So do not panic. But word suggests that Nicole is fighting Oliver."
My breath caught.
"Oliver?" I asked. "That Oliver? One of the finest swordsmen alive?"
Malachi nodded.
"All messenger birds we sent were intercepted or killed. Best assumption is that the battle is still ongoing."
Nicholas ran his fingers through his hair.
"Send a force further north, then have them circle south," he said decisively. "While that happens, we advance directly."
Malachi hesitated.
"And the southern front? Sansir is barely functional. He only managed to call for aid after his defeat."
"It will not matter," Nicholas replied. "When they see us approaching, they will turn back to engage."
He glanced at me. "There are others in the kingdom capable of responding, should things worsen. Are there not?"
I nodded. "In Solstice, near the capital, there is Ouroboros."
"And within the capital itself," I added softly, "there is her."
Malachi scowled. "We should not rely on my sister. She is not normal."
Nicholas laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Kivana stiffened instantly, unable to move or speak until he acknowledged her again.
"Do not worry, Little Darkness," Nicholas said lightly. "I have many plans in motion. All of them discussed thoroughly with Mirabel."
He glanced at me. I smiled in return. Malachi only looked more annoyed.
"And Nicole?" Malachi pressed. "Do you not wish to wait for word from her?"
Nicholas paused, then laughed outright.
"My sister?" he said. "She would never be so gracious as to gift me either her death or her life."
I watched him closely then. Nicholas was brilliant. Calculating. Charismatic.
And when he was annoyed, he was cruel.