You sacrificed some of your children so others could live. It was a law of nature. Humans didn’t understand it. But she did. She …

He was coming.

God of passion.

God of hatred.

God of all adopted spren.

Sja-anat flowed into the hallway of the palace and met with two of her children, touched windspren. Humans called them “corrupted,” but she hated this term. She did not corrupt. She Enlightened them, showing them that a different path was possible. Did not the humans revere Transformation—the ability of all beings to become someone new, someone better—as a core ideal of their religion? Yet they grew angry when she let spren change?

Her children darted away to do her bidding, then one of her greater children manifested. A glowing and shimmering light, constantly changing. One of her most precious creations.

I will go, Mother, he said. To the tower, to this man Mraize, as you have promised.

Odium will see you, she replied. Odium will try to unmake you.

I know. But Odium must be distracted from you, as we discussed. I must find my own way, my own bond.

Go then, she said. But do not bond this human because of what I said. I merely promised to send a child to investigate options. There are other possibilities there. Choose for yourself, not because I desire it.

Thank you, Mother, he said. Thank you for my eyes.

He left, following the others. Sja-anat regretted that the smaller two—the Enlightened windspren—were essentially distractions. Odium would see them for certain.

Protect some children.

Sacrifice others.

A choice only a god could make.

A god like Sja-anat.

She rose up, taking the form of a woman of streaming black smoke with pure white eyes. Shadows and mist, Odium’s pure essence. If he were to know the deepest secret parts of her soul, he would not be surprised. For she had come from him. Unmade by his hand.

But as with all children, she had become more.

His presence came upon her like the sun piercing the clouds. Powerful, vibrant, smothering. Some Fused in the hallway noticed it and looked around, though the common singers weren’t attuned enough to hear Odium’s song—like a rhythm but more resonant. One of the three pure tones of Roshar.

She didn’t fully understand the laws that bound him. They were ancient, and related to compacts between the Shards, the high gods of the cosmere. Odium wasn’t simply the mind that controlled the power: the Vessel. Nor was he merely that power alone: the Shard. He was both, and at times it seemed the power had desires that were counter to the purposes of the Vessel.

Sja-anat, a voice—infused with the tone of Odium—said to her. What are these spren you have sent away?

“Those that do your bidding,” she whispered, prostrating herself by pooling down onto the floor. “Those that watch. Those that hear.”

Have you been speaking to the humans again? To … corrupt them with lies?

That was the fabrication she and Odium played at currently. She pretended that she had contacted the Radiant Shallan, and a few others, working on his behalf—anticipating his desires. He pretended he didn’t know she had done it against his will.

Both knew she wanted more freedom than he would allow. Both knew that she wanted to be a god unto herself. But he didn’t know for certain she was taking actions to undermine him, like when she’d saved Shallan and her companions from death in Kholinar a year ago. She had played that off as accidental, and he couldn’t prove otherwise.

If Odium caught her in a verifiable lie, he would unmake her again. Steal her memory. Rip her to pieces. But in so doing, he would lose a useful tool.

Hence the game.

Where have you sent them? he asked.

“To the tower, Lord. To watch the humans, as we’ve discussed. We must prepare for the Bondsmith’s next move.”

I will prepare, he said. You focus too much on the tower.

“I am eager for the invasion,” she said. “I will very much like to see my cousin again. Perhaps they can be awakened? Persuaded?”

Odium had likely planned to send her on this mission, but her eagerness now gave him pause. He would follow her children and see that they were indeed going to the tower; that would reinforce his decision. The one she hoped he would make right now …

You will not go to the tower, Odium said. He hated how she referred to the Sibling—the slumbering child of Honor and Cultivation—as her cousin. But we are about to make a ploy with the betrayal of the man Taravangian. You will watch him.

“I would be of much more use in the tower,” she said. “Better that I—”

You question? Do not question.

“I will not question.” However, she felt a surging to the power that moved within him. The mind did not like being questioned, but the power … It liked questions. It liked arguments. It was passion.

There was a weakness here. In the division between the Vessel and the Shard.

“I will go wherever you demand,” she said, “my god.”

Very well. He moved on to speak with the Nine. And Sja-anat planned her next steps. She had to pretend to sulk. Had to try to find a way out of going to Emul. She had to hope that she wasn’t successful.

Odium suspected that she’d helped the Radiant Shallan. He was watching to see that she didn’t contact other Radiants. So she wouldn’t. Once he’d found her windspren, and unmade them to lose their minds and memories, he would hopefully be content—and not see the other child she’d sent.

And Sja-anat herself? She would go with Taravangian and watch him as asked. And she would stay close.

For Taravangian was a weapon.

Taravangian had long suspected he would not get a funeral. The Diagram hadn’t indicated this specifically—but it hadn’t said otherwise. Besides, the farther they progressed, the less accurate the Diagram became.

He had chosen this path, however, and knew it was not the sort that led to a peaceful death surrounded by family. This was the sort of path that led into the dark forest, full of perils. His goal had never been to emerge from the other side unscathed; it had always been to simply accomplish his goal before he was killed.

And he had. His city, his family, his people—they would be safe. He had made a deal with the enemy that ensured Kharbranth would survive the coming destruction. That had always been his end. That alone.

To tell himself otherwise was both foolish and dangerous.

So it was that he arrived at this day: the day he sent his friends away. He’d had a fire built in his hearth, here in his rooms at Urithiru. A real hearth, with real wood, dancing with flamespren. His pyre.

His friends gathered for the farewell. Recently they’d been spending more and more time away at Kharbranth, in order to make their eventual departure less suspicious. He’d made it seem as if they were needed to help rule that city now that Taravangian was focused on Jah Keved.

But today … today they were all here. One last time. Adrotagia, of course, kept her composure as he hugged her. She’d always been the stronger one. Though Taravangian was moderately intelligent today, he was still overcome with emotion as they pulled apart.

“Give my best to Savrahalidem and my grandchildren,” Taravangian said. “If they ask, tell them that I lost myself at the end and became insensate.”

“Won’t that hurt Savri more?” Adrotagia asked. “To know that her father is trapped among enemies, senile and confused?”