BATTLEGROUND IN CODIFIER HALLS, the newslogs blared. Surit took a moment to work out what that even meant. Oma controlled the Codifier Halls right now, so battleground must mean the other divisions were trying to stop her. Surit’s side, technically. He stared at the feed of glossy corridors with dark-uniformed soldiers running in the smoke. He was dying. Did he even care who won?

And then Surit saw a silhouette he recognized.

Everyone Surit had ever met was imprinted on his memory. Some people were good at math, some had good balance, Surit had a mental drawer full of everything he’d seen. That meant he knew the way one lone figure ran before they slipped into a side door, away from the security guards with the news drone.

Was that Istara?

That was impossible. Surit killed the screen and strode back to the window, craning his neck to see the Codifier Halls. They sat there as they always had, built of warm golden stone, with domes and high walls and two wings extended majestically from the entranceway, like the claws of a crab. A thin plume of smoke emanated from one roof.

And Surit stared at the grand center of power, home to Tennal but strange to him, and thought of three things. First: It was completely impossible that Istara was in there, but he’d seen them. Second: He was dying, but he was not dead.

And third: He was still, even after everything, an architect.

When the Archer guard came with his food, Surit was sitting politely on his bed.

“I would like to leave now, please,” he said.

“What?” The guard seemed more confused than anything else.

The guard was by himself. That was a change from yesterday. At first, there had been three guards, all strong architects, one of whom had stayed out in the corridor—so, clearly, they knew Surit’s abilities. But then they’d seen Surit sick, helpless for hours at a time, and now Oma had declared him useless. Surit could leverage that. “General Oma doesn’t need me,” Surit said reasonably. “I don’t have long left. You don’t need to hold me anymore.” He had some sympathy for the guard, who was clearly just a ranker. That was why Surit stayed sitting.

The guard said shortly, “I haven’t had any orders.” And, as Surit rose to his feet: “Don’t move. I’ll get backup. I mean it.”

Surit closed his eyes. As soon as he looked for it, it was there: the well of power within him that he’d ignored for so long. Surit had no time to grieve—not for himself, not for what he’d had to do—but he could still use what he had.

Surit opened his eyes. “I would like to leave now.”

The guard’s mind folded in front of his like wet paper.