Adolin walked up to join his father, watching as Elhokar plunged his Blade into the chasmfiend’s chest. Now that the beast was dead, the Blade could cut its flesh. Violet ichor spurted out, and Elhokar dropped his blade and reached into the wound, questing with Plate-enhanced arms, grabbing something.

He ripped free the beast’s gemheart—the enormous gemstone that grew within all chasmfiends. It was lumpy and uncut, but it was a pure emerald and as big as a man’s head. It was the largest gemheart Adolin had ever seen, and even the small ones were worth a fortune.

Elhokar held aloft the grisly prize, golden gloryspren appearing around him, and the soldiers yelled in triumph.

Let me first assure you that the element is quite safe. I have found a good home for it. I protect its safety like I protect my own skin, you might say.

The morning after his decision in the highstorm, Kaladin made certain to arise before the others. He threw off his blanket and strode through the room full of blanketed lumps. He didn’t feel excited, but he did feel resolute. Determined to fight again.

He began that fight by throwing the door open to the sunlight. Groans and curses sounded behind him as the groggy bridgemen awoke. Kaladin turned toward them, hands on hips. Bridge Four currently had thirty-four members. That number fluctuated, but at least twenty-five were needed to carry the bridge. Anything below that, and the bridge would topple for certain. Sometimes, it did even with more members.

“Up and organize!” Kaladin shouted in his best squadleader’s voice. He shocked himself with the authority in it.

The men blinked bleary eyes.

“That means,” Kaladin bellowed, “out of the barrack and form ranks! You’ll do it now, storm you, or I’ll haul you out one by one myself!”

Syl fluttered down and landed on his shoulder, watching curiously. Some of the bridgemen sat up, staring at him, baffled. Others turned over in their blankets, putting their backs to him.

Kaladin took a deep breath. “So be it.” He strode into the room and chose a lean Alethi named Moash. He was a strong man; Kaladin needed an example, and one of the skinnier men like Dunny or Narm wouldn’t do. Plus, Moash was one of those who’d turned over to go back to sleep.

Kaladin grabbed Moash by one arm and heaved, pulling with all his strength. Moash stumbled to his feet. He was a younger man, perhaps near Kaladin’s age, and had a hawkish face.

“Storm off!” Moash snapped, pulling his arm back.

Kaladin punched Moash right in the gut, where he knew it would wind him. Moash gasped in shock, doubling over, and Kaladin stepped forward to grab him by the legs, slinging Moash over his shoulder.

Kaladin almost toppled from the weight. Luckily, carrying bridges was harsh but effective strength training. Of course, few bridgemen survived long enough to benefit from it. It didn’t help that there were unpredictable lulls between runs. That was part of the problem; the bridge crews spent most of their time staring at their feet or doing menial chores, then were expected to run for miles carrying a bridge.

He carted the shocked Moash outside and set him down on the stone. The rest of the camp was awake, woodworkers arriving at the lumberyard, soldiers jogging to their breakfast or training. The other bridge crews, of course, were still asleep. They were often allowed to sleep late, unless they were on morning bridge duty.

Kaladin left Moash and walked back into the low-ceilinged barrack. “I’ll do the same to each of you, if I have to.”

He didn’t have to. The shocked bridgemen filed out into the light, blinking. Most stood bare-backed to the sunlight, wearing only knee-length trousers. Moash climbed to his feet, rubbing his stomach and glaring at Kaladin.

“Things are going to change in Bridge Four,” Kaladin said. “For one thing, there will be no more sleeping in.”

“And what are we going to do instead?” Sigzil demanded. He had dark brown skin and black hair—that meant he was Makabaki, from southwestern Roshar. He was the only bridgeman without a beard, and judging by his smooth accent, he was probably Azish or Emuli. Foreigners were common in bridge crews—those who didn’t fit in often made their way to the crem of an army.

“Excellent question,” Kaladin said. “We are going to train. Each morning before our daily chores, we will run the bridge in practice to build up our endurance.”

More than one of the men’s expressions grew dark at this.

“I know what you are thinking,” Kaladin said. “Aren’t our lives hard enough? Shouldn’t we be able to relax during the brief times we have for it?”

“Yeah,” said Leyten, a tall, stout man with curly hair. “That’s right.”

“No,” Kaladin snapped. “Bridge runs exhaust us because we spend most of our days lounging. Oh, I know we have chores—foraging in the chasms, cleaning latrines, scrubbing floors. But the soldiers don’t expect us to work hard; they just want us busy. The work helps them ignore us.

“As your bridgeleader, my primary duty is to keep you alive. There’s not much I can do about the Parshendi arrows, so I have to do something about you. I have to make you stronger, so that when you charge that last leg of a bridge run—arrows flying—you can run quickly.” He met the eyes of the men in the line, one at a time. “I intend to see that Bridge Four never loses another man.”

The men stared at him incredulously. Finally, a hefty, thick-limbed man at the back bellowed out a laugh. He had tan skin, deep red hair, and was nearly seven feet tall, with large arms and a powerful torso. The Unkalaki—simply called Horneaters by most—were a group of people from the middle of Roshar, near Jah Keved. He’d given his name as “Rock” the previous night.

“Crazy!” said the Horneater. “Is crazy man who now thinks to lead us!” He laughed in a deep-bellied way. The others joined him, shaking their heads at Kaladin’s speech. A few laughterspren—minnowlike silver spirits that darted through the air in circular patterns—began to zip about them.

“Hey Gaz,” Moash called, cupping his hand around his mouth.

The short, one-eyed sergeant was chatting with some soldiers nearby. “What?” Gaz yelled back with a scowl.

“This one wants us to carry bridges about as practice,” Moash called back. “Do we have to do what he says?”

“Bah,” Gaz said, waving a hand. “Bridgeleaders only have authority in the field.”

Moash glanced back at Kaladin. “Looks like you can storm off, friend. Unless you’re going to beat us all into submission.”

They broke apart, some men wandering back into the barrack, some walking toward the mess halls. Kaladin was left standing alone on the stones.

“That didn’t go so well,” Syl said from his shoulder.

“No. It didn’t.”

“You look surprised.”

“No, just frustrated.” He glared at Gaz. The bridge sergeant turned away from him pointedly. “In Amaram’s army, I was given men who were inexperienced, but never ones who were blatantly insubordinate.”

“What’s the difference?” Syl asked. Such an innocent question. The answer should have been obvious, but she cocked her head in confusion.

“The men in Amaram’s army knew they had worse places they could go. You could punish them. These bridgemen know they’ve reached the bottom.” With a sigh, he let some of his tension bleed away. “I’m lucky I got them out of the barrack.”