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He goes very still, but his breathing sounds shallow. He blinks, and to my absolute shock, his eyes fill.

He must realize it at the same time, because he jerks back, turning away, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Lord, Tessa.”

Seeing his ready emotion summons my own, and I feel my chest tighten. He looked broken in the chamber of the Hold. He looks broken now, like sheer strength of will is all that’s holding him together.

I touch his arm, and he jolts. His hands drop to his sides, forming fists the way they did in the shadowed chamber. His eyes are red-rimmed but dry. “Stop,” he says.

The word sounds like a warning. A plea.

I stop.

He has all the power here, but he faces me like I do. He doesn’t want to admit what he’s done, and I don’t want to ask, but the question is strung between us and someone has to grab hold. I have to clear my throat to speak. “Did you kill those prisoners?”

He doesn’t look away, and he doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The silence that follows that word fills the room until there’s no air left to breathe. I think of Consul Sallister, who was so terrible at dinner, and the control he has over Corrick and Harristan. The control he has over the entire country.

Ithink of King Harristan’s voice when he said that the King’s Justice can’t be lenient when people are bombing the prison.

Killing people is wrong. I feel that to my core. I couldn’t kill the king when I had the opportunity—not even when I was certain he deserved it. But like the king said, the penalties for smuggling are well known. Some of the people in the Hold were true smugglers—but some weren’t. Bombing the Hold was wrong, too.

Does any of that excuse Corrick’s actions?

I can tell he doesn’t think so. He wears the guilt like a mantle. I thought that all his power lay in his role here, as King’s Justice, but it doesn’t.

The only power he had was in the Wilds, as Wes.

And now that’s gone.

I swallow. “What happened?”

“You heard Allisander.”

“Yes. I did. What happened?”

He doesn’t answer for so long that I think he’s not going to. But then he says, “They were badly burned in the explosion.” His voice is rough, like he’s swallowed fire. “Hardly conscious. They weren’t captured. They couldn’t have escaped.” He runs a hand through his hair, and it must be sticky because he grimaces and yanks it free. He’s not looking at me now. “They wouldn’t have survived the night.”

“Why—” My voice cracks, and I take a breath to steady it. “Why are you—why are you—” I gesture at his clothing, and my breath shudders. “There’s so much blood.”

“Because I wanted it to be fast.” His eyes meet mine now, and I’m sure he’s seeing the horror in my expression. “I needed it to be fast.”

There’s a note in his voice that I can’t quite figure out, but my heart must be ahead of my brain, because my pulse begins to ease, the panic draining out of my chest before I understand: he didn’t want to do it, but if he had to, he was going to make it as quick and painless as possible.

In a way that looked as brutal as possible.

They wouldn’t have survived the night.

He made an execution out of an act of mercy.

I wonder how many times he’s had to do that. How many times he’s had to choose the lesser of two evils, because the option was to execute a prisoner or to watch more people die for lack of medicine. It’s a terrible choice to have to make. A terrible position.

I think back to the moment we were poring over maps, when the tiniest bit of hope flickered in the air. I wonder if the explosions burned it out, if there’s nothing left.

“Don’t pity me,” Corrick says. “If you pity anyone, pity them.”

“I do,” I say. But I pity him, too. I can’t hate him anymore.

He sighs and leans back against the wall. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes again. “Leave me alone, Tessa.”