He was on his knees and looking at Zekia’s new gun with a narrow glare. She didn’t know why—the gun wasn’t originally meant for him. Still, he glared, and the way his fellow soldiers paused and held their breath made Zekia wonder just how important his life was in all of this.

Was he a general?

Did he command them while Doyen Fenna Schulze ran and gave orders from the safety of her hideout in Yejlath?

“Killing you doesn’t matter,” Zekia said. “The future is what matters, and I’m going to fix it.”

The man spat on the ground by her feet. “You won’t win. Frjl will always prevail.”

The idea of freedom seemed funny to Zekia now. It was a dangerous thing to have and to be. Were these soldiers free as they followed orders to risk their lives and go against Dante Ashwood? Was Zekia free, trying to save the realms from a vision that had almost killed her?

If you knew the consequences of something, were you ever really free to choose what your heart desired?

“Creije will never fall.”

“You’re wrong,” Zekia said.

Conquering Creije would be hard, but not impossible, and once it fell, the other cities wouldn’t be far away. They looked to their capital as a beacon, following its example or trying to measure up to what it stood for.

If they took Creije, the rest of the Uskhanyan realm would come easy. Zekia was sure.

Almost.

As an Intuitcrafter, she should have had foresight, but now there were always far too many visions screaming in her head to make sense of. Too many futures that could come true and too many paths people could take. These days, guessing was the most accurate thing she could do.

She’d tried to focus and make sense of all the possibilities once, but she’d lost herself somewhere along the way, and now pasts and futures and their in-betweens swam through her veins like hungry fish.

It didn’t matter, though. Ashwood had shown her the only future that mattered. He’d shown her how to fix everything.

Zekia raised the gun to the man’s head.

She’d never shot someone before. She’d never needed to.

She wondered if it would feel different to destroy a person without magic.

She heard the shuffle as the soldiers behind the barricade gritted their teeth and adjusted their weapons. She was standing in the center, between her army and theirs, and if she killed this man, they’d fire their guns and her Crafters would fire their magic.

More of the dead screaming through her mind.

Zekia closed her eyes. Her finger squeezed against the trigger and—

“Don’t.”

Wesley was a shadow over her.

“Kid,” he said, placing his cuffed hand on top of hers. “Don’t.”

Zekia looked up at Wesley.