“The Eye lost. It needs to be made right. For the Nihil.”

Zagyar, again, showed no fear or anger—just responded, clear and honest. Marchion Ro could see how the man had become a Storm, and that was not an easy thing to do. You rose in rank in the Nihil by succeeding, and by doing whatever it took to make sure other people didn’t.

“The Strike who screwed up paid with her life. Seems like that’s something.”

“It’s something…but that Strike isn’t here. You and your crew are all responsible. One of you could’ve given Blit better guidance, could’ve helped her. You didn’t, and there has to be a price, and someone has to pay it. I’ll let you decide.”

Zagyar hesitated, looking at his crew, one after the other, the masks making it impossible to know what they were thinking.

A chant began, at the back of the hall and rapidly moving forward, until every one of the Nihil was saying the same three words.

“Pay the price!”

“Pay the price!”

“Pay the price!”

Zagyar’s crew tensed. Looked at each other, quick little furtive glances, not knowing who would be the first to move. Blasters were forbidden in the Great Hall, but they all had their blades, and hands were reaching toward hilts.

“PAY THE PRICE!”

Marchion Ro turned his head, looking toward the edge of the platform, where a line of glowing blue-white lights marked the border between light and life, and freezing void. He hated the little pageants Pan and Lourna and Kassav put on, pitting Clouds and Strikes and Storms against one another.

The Nihil all worked under the same banner, and all used the Paths Marchion gave them, but that was as far as it went. They were chaos. Everyone out for himself, each Tempest ready to undercut the others. Any Nihil would slit another’s throat at the slightest provocation or opportunity for profit.

The Paths could take the Nihil anywhere in the galaxy, but they refused to see it. The only one who could see the potential of the organization was, inevitably, the Eye. But the Eye was not in control. Each Tempest had its own boss, its Runner, and Marchion Ro had no real influence over what any of them did. He got his share of the payouts of any jobs that used his Paths, by the Rule of Three…but that was all.

The Eye could see…but the Eye couldn’t act.

Sounds of struggle came to Marchion Ro’s ears, but he didn’t turn to look. Someone was paying the price.

He watched—all the Nihil watched—as one of Zagyar’s crew was dragged to the edge of the platform, screaming and pleading about how unfair it all was, how loyal they were. Marchion Ro didn’t know who had been chosen. Maybe Zagyar himself. It didn’t matter. The lesson was clear.