I’m allowed to visit her once every two-week period. He pretends to do this out of benevolence, but we both know it’s only so I can see with my own eyes how my actions directly affect my mother’s life. To make me watch her live comfortably or miserably, knowing it was my doing.

Constantine has eyes watching me everywhere, making sure I do as I’m told. So I do. I force myself to follow his orders for my mother’s sake.

But my mind itself is not trapped. Not yet.

The Chief Architect warns me this won’t always be the case. Every day that passes, our bond strengthens a little more. My clamp on my emotions is a little less effective.

When we return to the Federation’s capital of Cardinia tomorrow, the Architect will continue to work on me in the National Laboratory. Slowly, steadily, my mind will fade, until I won’t be able to tell my emotions from the Premier’s.

In another year, I will no longer have control over my own mind.

Karensan troops have lined up along the rim of the arena floor, two soldiers deep. At one end of the space, a gate slides open to reveal a cluster of prisoners being shoved forward into the light.

I recognize who they are based on the rags of their former clothing. The captured rebel leaders stand out, although their heads are nevertheless still held high. I secretly feel a sense of satisfaction at the sight. One of them has a severe limp, while another is still covered in dried blood. But even Caitoman couldn’t break their spirits.

Others wear remnants of Maran silk coats and fine linen shirts. Constantine hadn’t been lying when he said there were noblemen among them. Six months of wasting away in prison, laboring to clear the land around Newage and hauling supplies off Karensan trains to drag into the city, being questioned by Karensan interrogators and sentenced before Karensan judges, and then waiting, waiting, waiting for their execution dates to finally come.

A part of me is surprised that Constantine bothers coming to a mass execution like this. Surely he must have better things to do as Premier of the entire Federation than hang around Newage, delivering death sentences to Marans. And yet, here we are.

Maybe he just enjoys seeing a country fall to its knees. Maybe he wants to watch with his own eyes as rebel leaders are put to death.

Leaning against the balcony, General Caitoman smiles without smiling. I stare at him, both curious at what he must be thinking and grateful that I will never be bonded to that man’s mind.

As the prisoners draw nearer, I suddenly recognize one of them. His Maran robes are in tatters, sapphires and reds now stained brown. His shoulders, once proud, are now hunched in defeat. Prison and hard labor seems to have aged him decades in mere months. The lines of his face, though, are a crueler version of Jeran.