“Caledonia, we have followed you into a hell fight because you asked us to help you save your crew, and that is a good thing. But you need to tell me right now: What was that back there?”

Caledonia was angry now, her mind on full alert and her breath coming fast. “That was a terrifying display of power is what it was. Hundreds of people gathered to watch the torture of one!”

“Not just any one,” he said quickly. “That one deserved what he was getting. He designed it!”

That stopped her in her tracks, her mouth dropping open in surprise. She understood anger, but this kind of anger from Sledge was completely unexpected.

“And you,” he continued, trembling slightly. “I saw that look you shared with him, and it’s just a good damn thing that Sister assumed you were a Bullet. You might have got us caught. And for him?”

“Oran?”

“Oran,” he said, vehement and amazed. “You call him by his name.”

“Oran is a part of my crew,” she stated, giving each word weight.

“And you didn’t think it was worth mentioning that your crew included a Fiveson? That you were asking us to save a Fiveson?” He towered over her now, his temper barely contained. “Do you remember who we are?”

“Yes,” she stammered. “I do. And he is the same as you: a Bullet who defected.”

“No. Not the same as us.” Sledge drew a hard line between them. “And I won’t risk a single one of my people to save his life. You want to do that? You’re on your own.”

“What?” Caledonia asked, and though she feared she already knew the answer, she added, “Why?”

“Because”—Sledge leaned in close—“Fiveson Oran is the Steelhand.”

The word was like a flood, swallowing her up before she knew it was there. It filled her lungs, her throat, her nose, her ears, until she was cocooned in its violent embrace.

The Steelhand.

She expected to feel shocked, surprised, somehow deeply horrified by this revelation, but there was only an unexpected kind of understanding. Part of her had always known that Oran’s past was littered with the kind of violence that shredded lives and families and minds. Now that it was laid out before her, it was almost a relief.

“Maybe that doesn’t mean anything to you,” Sledge continued. “But it means a great deal to us. The Fivesons are more like Aric than anyone. And for a while the Steelhand was more terrible even than Lir.”

At the mention of his name, an image of Lir ghosted through her mind, and she knew with unrelenting certainty that if anyone asked her to save the boy who had killed her family, she would react just as Sledge had. The only difference here was that Oran wanted to change. Once it wouldn’t have been enough of a difference. Now it had to be.