“These men would have surprised you,” Kaden said, turning to look at him, face sober, composed. “The children, though, the novices especially . . .” He trailed off.

The wind had picked up as the sun set. It whipped around them, scrabbling at hair and clothes, tugging Kaden’s robe, threatening to rip him off the rock. Kaden didn’t seem to notice. Valyn searched for something to say, some comfort he might offer, but found nothing. The Shin novices were dead, and, if they were anything like everyone else, they had died in pain and terror, baffled, confused, and suddenly, utterly alone.

“I wonder,” Kaden said quietly, “if I shouldn’t let them have it.”

It took Valyn a moment to find his bearings in the shifting conversation, but when he did, he shook his head curtly.

“The Unhewn Throne is yours,” he said firmly, “as it was our father’s. You can’t surrender it because of a handful of murders.”

“Hundreds,” Kaden replied, voice harder than Valyn expected. “The Aedolians killed hundreds, not a handful. And the throne? If I’m so desperate to sit on top of a chunk of rock, there are plenty.” He gestured into the night. “I could stay right here. The view is better and no one else would be killed.”

Valyn glanced over his blade, ran a finger along the edge, feeling for the nick.

“Are you sure about that?”

Kaden laughed helplessly. “Of course I’m not sure, Valyn. Let me list for you the things I know for sure: the print of a brindled bear, the color of bruiseberries, the weight of a bucket of water . . .”

“All right,” Valyn said. “I get it. We’re not sure about anything.”

Kaden stared at him, the fire in his irises so bright it had to hurt. “I know this: the Aedolians came for me. The monks died because of me.”

“That’s the truth,” Valyn replied, “but it’s not the end of the truth.”

“You sound like a monk.”