They didn’t deserve their okanoba.

And with that thought, I took my hands off the reins of my will.

My mask flashed, a burst of light over the battle. None of the fighters noticed, too caught up in combat . . . but in an instant, the seven warlords of Djbanti fumbled their weapons, clutching their chests and wheezing. Their smug stature disappeared, and they stared at one another in disoriented confusion. I had not killed them. But the glow of their okanoba was gone—leaving seven old, winded men in a field of peasants out for blood.

“Now,” I growled, though I knew they could not hear me. “Let’s see how you do in a fair fight.”

In seconds they were set upon, commoners covering their bodies in a wave of flesh and iron. I could not determine the exact moment the warlords died—but judging from how quickly the peasants dispersed, whooping in victory, I guessed it had been quick. I squinted. No—one of the warlords still lived, albeit barely: Gakuru dragged himself up from the bodies of his fallen peers, clutching his side. A nearby peasant warrior cried out, preparing to finish the job, but Zuri got there first, plunging his pole in Gakuru’s side. I exhaled with relief . . . until, with a dying lurch, Gakuru ripped the crocodile mask from Zuri’s face.

The whoops of nearby peasants grew dull with shock—and then, as they recognized the king of Djbanti, they advanced with roars of rage.

“No,” I breathed, and then hollered at the top of my lungs, though I knew the enraged commoners could not hear me. “No, don’t hurt him! You don’t understand; he’s on your side!”

But my cries fell on deaf ears. Of course they did—as far as these starved, abused commoners knew, Zuri was just like the warlords. Just another noble, feeding off the sweat on their backs. Of course they thought that. It was exactly what Zuri had taught them.

“Stop,” I rasped. But my Ray had no power over those without okanoba. So I did nothing—only stood on that tower and watched as combat pole after combat pole lodged in Zuri’s torso. Before he fell, he looked up . . . and tears filled my throat in wonder and horror.

Zuri was smiling.

Smiling, because at last, he had been a successful tool.

This was what he’d wanted all along, I realized. He hadn’t planned to live past today. Hadn’t wanted to. I remembered now how he had evaded my questions on the Tsetse Fly, when I asked his plans for the future. His whole life had revolved around bringing about his revolution. To birth his new Djbanti. It was beautiful, Zuri’s cause—of that I had no doubt. It was selfless, unambiguously right. But he had given himself nothing else to live for. His world had gone adrift, and so . . . he had chosen to fall out of orbit.

In that moment, I saw my own future. Zuri had called us the same, and he had been right. As every care, every other focus in my life winked out, tunneling to a single focus until I could only find joy in one goal—do more—I was fast approaching Zuri’s ending. And it had taken this—the dreadful glory of Zuri’s death, the rapture of his dying face—for me to realize I didn’t want it.