It’s his father.

My head swims at the sight of him, and I have to grasp my emotions tight to keep them from running away. Before Mara’s defeat, I’d witnessed his cruelty countless times, striking Jeran with his fists or dragging his son away by his hair. I’ve seen Jeran’s arms and face and neck bruised black and purple from this man’s abuses, heard Jeran try in vain to make excuses for his father and shy away from fighting back. I’ve dreamed of sliding my own sword between his ribs, had to have Adena talk me down from lunging at the man.

Now he’s here, about to face execution.

He looks straight up to the stands and locks on to Constantine. The hard glint in his eyes has changed to defeat, and I can see the fear sparking in him now at the sight of the Premier. Then his gaze flicks to me and catches on my face in recognition.

His lips part, as if he wants to call to me, but no sound comes out. I stare back coldly, but somewhere deep bubbles a grim glee. It’s the same feeling I get when Karensan soldiers cringe at the sight of me. Talin, the Basean rat who never belonged in the Striker forces. Now I stand beside the Premier of the Federation, dressed in the black of an executioner, ready to watch this horrible man die.

Immediately, my glee melts into disgust. In that small moment, I allowed myself to ally with Constantine. And in doing so, I have become the monster he has made me. I become a Karensan standing with him.

Constantine senses the shift in my mood. A friend of yours? he asks me innocently.

My hands curl into fists against our ledge and I refuse to answer.

Of the other Maran prisoners, two of them are Strikers—their sapphire coats are still distinct even after so long in prison. I know both of them; they were on a patrol at the other end of the warfront, but I can still remember training alongside them in the arena, getting promoted and chosen for patrols on the same day. The girl is Sana, the boy Eres. They used to be nice enough to me. No crueler than most, at least.

I concentrate on the lump in my throat. Some of these people were horrible to me, and some were kind. But it doesn’t matter. They’re still going to die by the end of the day.

“Any final words?” General Caitoman calls down to them.

There is a long silence. The rebel leaders stare back in defiance. But one of the Strikers—Eres—breaks down, sinking to his knees in sobs. I take a closer look at him and I can tell that every single one of his fingers is broken, the joints twisted and black with infection. He cradles his hands gingerly.

I have a vague recollection of how elegant Eres’s hands had been. I can picture the dexterity he had with his weapons back during our training days. Caitoman is good at figuring out how to take away what matters to you most.