“Fine,” I say. I try not to think about the weight of what this Reaper will do—how many lives will cease to exist because of me.

Because if I think about it too long, I’m not sure I’ll be able to bear it.

“I can make some adjustments to the aesthetic, if your dress needs it,” Ahmet says.

I turn my wrist, studying the smooth silver lines. I’ve been working on a gown for days, and it still isn’t right.

I don’t know what a fitting color is for an executioner.

“This is okay, Ahmet. It doesn’t need anything else,” I say, slipping the cuff off and handing it back to him.

He lifts a brow, considering me. “People often talk about right and wrong like it’s simple, but it isn’t always. Sometimes there’s a lot of what’s in the middle—a lot of gray. And sometimes there are a lot of ways to be right and a lot of ways to be wrong. But if we don’t have consequences for hurting other people—if we don’t stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves—we are just as wrong as the people we’re trying to fight.”

“But is it still okay to punish people who don’t know any better?” I ask. “We learn what we’re taught. If Queen Ophelia taught the Residents to hate humans, shouldn’t we fight the lesson and not the people?”

“They aren’t people, Nami, however much you want to believe they are,” Ahmet says. “And we all have to draw our lines somewhere. We have to decide what we’re willing to allow and how much we’re willing to teach before wanting to enlighten someone becomes dangerous for those around us.”

And maybe that’s the problem; it’s not just myself I have to worry about. There are people depending on me. The entire human species is depending on me.

I don’t have the luxury of an unencumbered choice.

“I know where the line is,” I say quietly. “I’m going to destroy the Orb. But please don’t ask me to be happy about it.”

He nods. “You may not be sure whether you’re doing the right thing, but I am.”

I leave his workshop.

I’m not the Hero I wanted to be, but I’m the Hero they need.

I have to find a way to be okay with that.

Gil sits at his worktable, hands busy with a thin piece of metal. I knock at his open door, and he quickly stuffs the sculpture beneath a scrap of cloth, looking sheepish.

“It’s a surprise,” he says awkwardly, thumb tapping against his knee.

I scrunch my nose. “For me?”

“Yes. But… it’s not ready yet.”