My voice broke when I reached them. “Ummi, my friend! I used your grappling trick and it saved my life.”

She nodded, her face weary, armor spattered with the blood of broken guardsmen. “I’m glad it could help you, A-zu.”

I turned to Assata and buried my face in her good shoulder, reminded of long days spent playing outside her tavern. “And you! I prayed that wink meant something good for us. Hoped. But I thought you might be dead.”

After a moment, she broke away, wincing. “I’m too old to be taken down that easily. At least you weren’t praying for my death.”

“Oh, Assata. Of course not. We didn’t believe the same things about how to proceed, but we were always on the same side. Always. And”—tears pricked my eyes—“I am so sorry about Warad. I am. I was reckless. I caused Uruku to retaliate…”

She shook her head. “You were foolish, but it was brave to try. You’re a healer. It’s honorable to want to save lives. But had we simply coordinated our efforts…” She let her voice trail off, a haunted look in her eyes. One tinged with bitterness that would likely take years to diminish, if it ever did.

Nasu crossed his arms over his blood-spattered chest, weariness on his brow. “I’m just grateful Dagan and I were able to work together.” He pointed toward the far wall. “He’s over there, by the way.”

“I’m grateful, too.” I went up on tiptoe and kissed his rough cheek. “Thank you for taking our side in the end. I’ll care for your wounds after, all right? And yours, Ummi and Assata?”

They all nodded at me, but Nasu spoke. “Of course.”

With one final smile, I left them to go find Dagan.

The boy I had loved since I was old enough to walk stood behind a chariot in the Pit, staring down at a guardsman whose legs were twisted beneath him, unblinking eyes gazing into the cloudless sky above.

“Dagan?” Relief flooded through my body as I said his name.

He was alive, and there were too many guardsmen lying near us who would never hear their names spoken again. My chest ached as I took in his battered, bruised body standing over a dead man whose family would probably utter his name in mourning this very evening.

I laid a hand on his arm.

“He was young, Kammani. Not too much older than I am.” He rubbed his jaw. “And I killed him.”

“My sweet.” My voice cracked. “You had no choice.”

He looked at the blood staining his hands. “When the battle ends, you feel victorious. But when you see the wreckage”—he looked around, his eyes bleak, face drawn—“there is a feeling of hollowness in my chest.” He swallowed with some difficulty. “I killed him, and another guardsman, and Uruku.” He looked up at me. “I killed him. Murdered him. And it was nearly you. I threw my dagger and it could have hit you.”