“Your house is no more,” Mraize said. “Your family’s grounds seized by a passing army. I rescued your brothers from the chaos of the succession war, and am bringing them here. Your family, however, does owe me a debt. One Soulcaster. Broken.”

He met her eyes. “How convenient that you, by my estimations, are one, little knife.”

She summoned Pattern. “I will kill you before I let you use them as blackmail—”

“No blackmail,” Mraize said. “They will arrive safe. A gift to you. You may wait upon my words and see. I mention your debt only so that it has a chance to find… purchase in your mind.”

She frowned, holding her Shardblade, wavering. “Why?” she finally asked.

“Because, you are ignorant.” Mraize stepped closer to her, towering over her. “You don’t know who we are. You don’t know what we’re trying to accomplish. You don’t know much of anything at all, Veil. Why did your father join us? Why did your brother seek out the Skybreakers? I have done some research, you see. I have answers for you.” Surprisingly, he turned from her and walked toward the doorway. “I will give you time to consider. You seem to think that your newfound place among the Radiants makes you unfit for our numbers, but I see it differently, as does my babsk. Let Shallan Davar be a Radiant, conformist and noble. Let Veil come to us.” He stopped by the doorway. “And let her find truth.”

He disappeared into the hallway. Shallan found herself feeling even more drained than before. She dismissed Pattern and leaned back against the wall. Of course Mraize would have found his way here—he’d likely been among the armies, somewhere. Getting to Urithiru had been one of the Ghostbloods’ primary goals. Despite her determination not to help them, she’d transported them—along with the army—right where they wanted to go.

Her brothers? Would they actually be safe? What of her family servants, her brother’s betrothed?

She sighed, walking to the doorway and collecting her guards. Let her find truth. What if she didn’t want to find the truth? Pattern hummed softly.

After walking through the tower’s ground floor—using her own glow for light—she found Adolin in the hallway beside a room, where he’d said he’d be. He had his wrist wrapped, and the bruises on his face were starting to purple. They made him look slightly less intoxicatingly handsome, though there was a rugged “I punched a lot of people today” quality to that, which was fetching in its own right.

“You look exhausted,” he said, giving her a peck of a kiss.

“And you look like you let someone play sticks with your face,” she said, but smiled at him. “You should get some sleep too.”

“I will,” he said. “Soon.” He touched her face. “You’re amazing, you realize. You saved everything. Everyone.”

“No need to treat me like I’m glass, Adolin.”

“You’re a Radiant,” he said. “I mean…” He ran his hand through his persistently messy hair. “Shallan. You’re something greater than even a lighteyes.”

“Was that a wisecrack about my girth?”

“What? No. I mean…” He blushed.

“I will not let this be awkward, Adolin.”

“But—”

She grabbed him in an embrace and forced him into a kiss, a deep and passionate one. He tried to mumble something, but she kept on kissing, pressing her lips against his, letting him feel her desire. He melted into the kiss, then grabbed her by the torso and pulled her close.

After a moment, he pulled back. “Storms, that smarts!”

“Oh!” Shallan raised a hand to her mouth, remembering the bruises on his face. “Sorry.”

He grinned, then winced again, as apparently that hurt too. “Worth it. Anyway, I’ll promise to avoid being awkward if you avoid being too irresistible. At least until I’m healed up. Deal?”

“Deal.”

He looked to her guards. “Nobody disturbs the Lady Radiant, understand?”

They nodded.

“Sleep well,” he said, pushing open a door into the room. Many of the rooms still had wooden doors, despite their long abandonment. “Hopefully, the room is suitable. Your spren chose it.”

Her spren? Shallan frowned, then stepped into the room. Adolin closed the door.

Shallan studied the windowless stone chamber. Why had Pattern chosen this particular place for her? The room didn’t seem distinctive. Adolin had left a Stormlight lantern for her that was extravagant, considering how few lit gemstones they had—and it showed a small square chamber with a stone bench in the corner. There were a few blankets on it. Where had Adolin found blankets?

She frowned at the wall. The rock here was faded in a square, as if someone had once hung a picture there. Actually, that looked oddly familiar. Not that she’d been here before, but the place that square hung on the wall…

It was exactly in the same place where the picture had hung on her father’s wall back in Jah Keved.

Her mind started to fuzz.

“Mmm…” Pattern said from the floor beside her. “It is time.”

“No.”

“It is time,” he repeated. “The Ghostbloods circle you. The people need a Radiant.”

“They have one. The bridgeboy.”

“Not enough. They need you.”

Shallan blinked out tears. Against her will, the room started to change. White carpet appeared. A picture on the wall. Furniture. Walls painted light blue.

Two corpses.

Shallan stepped over one, though it was just an illusion, and walked to the wall. A painting had appeared, part of the illusion, and it was outlined with a white glow. Something was hidden behind it. She pulled aside the picture, or tried to. Her fingers only made the illusion blur.

This was nothing. Just a re-creation of a memory she wished she didn’t have.

“Mmm… A better lie, Shallan.”

She blinked away tears. Her fingers lifted, and she pressed them against the wall again. This time, she could feel the painting’s frame. It wasn’t real. For the moment, she pretended that it was, and let the image capture her.

“Can’t I just keep pretending?”

“No.”

She was there, in her father’s room. Trembling, she pulled aside the picture, revealing the strongbox in the wall beyond. She raised the key, and hesitated. “Mother’s soul is inside.”

“Mmm… No. Not her soul. That which took her soul.”

Shallan unlocked the safe, then tugged it open, revealing the contents. A small Shardblade. Thrust into the strongbox hastily, tip piercing through the back, hilt toward her.

“This was you,” she whispered.

“Mmm… Yes.”

“Father took you from me,” Shallan said, “and tried to hide you in here. Of course, that was useless. You vanished as soon as he closed the strongbox. Faded to mist. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Neither of us were.”

She turned.

Red carpet. Once white. Her mother’s friend lay on the floor, bleeding from the arm, though that wound hadn’t killed him. Shallan walked to the other corpse, the one facedown in the beautiful dress of blue and gold. Red hair spilled out in a pattern around the head.