Jude spun again, his sword meeting that of yet another opponent. His eyes widened, breath punching from his lungs as he found himself blade to blade with Yarik. He was vaguely aware of the sound of ringing steel as Hector took on the remaining dozen swordsmen, but Jude’s focus narrowed to the man in front of him.

“Weatherbourne,” Yarik spat.

Jude might have called him a friend once. Warriors through and through, Yarik and his sister, Annuka, hadn’t grown up in Kerameikos as Jude had but had joined the Order as adults. Jude still remembered sparring with them in the practice yards, the two of them always perfectly in sync, fighting as a single entity. They were the first pair of siblings Jude had ever met, and he had often felt baffled by their connection, when he wasn’t aching with envy.

Now, he felt a piece of his heart break at the thought that that connection had been so irrevocably severed. All because Yarik had chosen to believe in a power-hungry charlatan over an oathbreaker.

“Yarik,” Jude said, unable to keep the plea from his voice as he dodged another blow. “Please. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I am upholding the ideals of the Order of the Last Light,” Yarik said with a vicious slash of his sword. “Which is far more than you can say.”

He struck again, his superior strength forcing Jude back as Jude met the blow.

“You’re upholding a lie,” Jude said desperately. “Whatever Pallas told you—whatever he said to convince you to join him, it’s wrong. The Last Prophet is alive—he’s with us, and all we are trying to do is what we pledged. Stop the Age of Darkness. Our mission hasn’t changed.”

He felt a shift in Yarik’s next attack. A beat of hesitation that hadn’t been there before. Jude’s words were getting through to him. He wasn’t so far gone down the Witnesses’ path. He wasn’t beyond saving.

Jude parried the blow, and when Yarik didn’t attack again, Jude dropped his guard.

“It’s not too late. You don’t have to do this. You can lay down your sword now.” When Yarik still made no move to strike, Jude sheathed his own sword. “See? We can both walk away. Your sister is at Kerameikos. I just saw her. If you go to her, she’ll forgive you. I know she will.”

A growl erupted from Yarik’s throat, and he launched himself forward. He struck at Jude with abandon, swinging his sword wildly through the air. But what he lacked in finesse, he made up for in brute force. Jude dodged and ducked the onslaught, heart pounding in time with the pulse of his Grace. Yarik’s blade instead met the dripping stalactites, raining rocks down.