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“You didn’t kill her.”

Marcus. I don’t draw a weapon at the sound of his voice, though I have a dozen at hand. If Marcus decides to kill me in this moment, I won’t lift a finger to stop him. But for once, there’s no venom in him. His armor is spattered with blood and mud, like mine, but he seems different. Diminished, like something vital has been torn out of him.

“No,” I say. “I didn’t kill her.”

“She was your enemy on the battlefield. It’s not a victory until you defeat your enemy. That’s what the Augurs said. That’s what they told me. You were supposed to kill her.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“He died so easily.” Marcus’s yellow eyes are troubled, his lack of malice so profound that I barely recognize him. I wonder if he actually sees me or if he just sees a body—someone alive, someone listening.

“The scim—it tore through him,” Marcus says. “I wanted to stop it. I tried, but it was too fast. My name was his first word, did you know? And—and his last. Just before the end, he said it. Marcus, he said.”

It dawns on me then. I haven’t seen Zak among the survivors. I haven’t heard anyone speak his name.

“You killed him,” I say softly. “You killed your brother.”

“They said I had to defeat the enemy commander.” Marcus raises his eyes to mine. He seems confused. “Everyone was dying. Our friends. He asked me to end it. To make it stop. He begged me. My brother. My little brother.”

Revulsion rises inside me like bile. I’ve spent years loathing Marcus, thinking of him as nothing more than a snake. Now I can only pity him, though neither of us deserves pity. We are murderers of our own men—of our own blood. I’m no better than he is. I watched and did nothing as Tristas died. I killed Demetrius, Ennis, Leander, and so many others. If Helene hadn’t unwittingly broken the rules of the Trial, I’d have killed her too.

The door to Helene’s room opens, and I rise, but the physician shakes his head.

“No, Veturius.” He’s pale and subdued, all his bluster gone. “She’s not ready for visitors. Go, lad. Go get some rest.”

I almost laugh. Rest.

When I turn back to Marcus, he is gone. I should find my men. Check on them. But I can’t face them. And they, I know, won’t want to see me.

We will never forgive ourselves for what we did today.

“I will see Aspirant Veturius,” a quarrelsome voice says from the hallway outside the infirmary. “That’s my grandson, and I damn well want to make sure he’s—Elias!”

Grandfather shoves past a frightened apprentice as I walk out the infirmary door, pulling me to him, his arms strong around me. “Thought you were dead, my boy,” he says into my hair. “Aquilla’s got more spit than I gave her credit for.”

“I nearly killed her. And the others. I killed them. So many. I didn’t want to. I—”

I’m going to be sick. I turn from him and retch right there, at the door of the infirmary, not stopping until there’s nothing left to get out.

Grandfather calls for a glass of water, waiting quietly as I drink it down, his hand never leaving my shoulder.

“Grandfather,” I say. “I wish...”

“The dead are dead, my boy, and at your hand.” I don’t want to hear the words, but I need them, for they are the truth. Anything less would be an insult to the men I killed. “No amount of wishing will change it. You’ll be trailing ghosts now. Like the rest of us.”

I sigh and look down at my hands. I can’t stop them from shaking. “I have to go to my quarters. I have to get—get cleaned up.”

“I can walk you—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Cain appears from the shadows, as welcome as a plague. “Come, Aspirant. I would speak to you.”

I follow the Augur with heavy steps. What do I do? What do I say to a creature who cares nothing for loyalty or friendship or life?

“I find it hard to believe,” I say quietly, “that you didn’t realize Helene was wearing scim-proof armor.”

“Of course we realized it. Why do you think we gave it to her? The Trials are not always about action. Sometimes, they are about intent. You weren’t meant to kill Aspirant Aquilla. We only wanted to know if you would.” He glances at my hand, which I didn’t even realize was inching toward my scim. “I’ve told you before, Aspirant. We cannot die. Besides, haven’t you had enough of death?”

“Zak. And Marcus.” I can barely speak. “You made him kill his own brother.”

“Ah. Zacharias.” Sadness flits across Cain’s face, infuriating me further.

“Zacharias was different, Elias. Zacharias had to die.”

“You could have picked anyone—anything for us to fight.” I don’t look at him. I don’t want to retch again. “Efrits or wights. Barbarians. But you made us fight each other. Why?”

“We had no choice, Aspirant Veturius.”

“No choice.” A terrible anger consumes me, virulent as a sickness. And though he is right, though I have had enough of death, in this moment all I want is to plunge my scim through Cain’s black heart. “You created these Trials. Of course you had a choice.”

Cain’s eyes flash. “Do not speak of things you do not understand, child. What we do, we do for reasons beyond your comprehension.”