Never held a spear in his life. Maybe if he'd never picked up that first spear, none of this would have happened.

He felt the smooth wood, slick with rainwater, memories jumbling in his head. Training to forget, training to get vengeance, training to learn and make sense of what had happened.

Without thinking about it, he snapped the spear up under his arm into a guard position, point down. Water droplets from its length sprayed across his back.

Moash cut off in the middle of another gibe. The bridgemen sputtered to a stop. The chasm became quiet.

And Kaladin was in another place.

He was listening to Tukks chide him.

He was listening to Tien laugh.

He was hearing his mother tease him in her clever, witty way.

He was on the battlefield, surrounded by enemies but ringed by friends.

He was listening to his father tell him with a sneer in his voice that spears were only for killing. You could not kill to protect.

He was alone in a chasm deep beneath the earth, holding the spear of a fallen man, fingers gripping the wet wood, a faint dripping coming from somewhere distant.

Strength surged through him as he spun the spear up into an advanced kata. His body moved of its own accord, going through the forms he'd trained in so frequently. The spear danced in his fingers, comfortable, an extension of himself. He spun with it, swinging it around and around, across his neck, over his arm, in and out of jabs and swings. Though it had been months since he'd even held a weapon, his muscles knew what to do. It was as if the spear itself knew what to do.

Tension melted away, frustration melted away, and his body sighed in contentment even as he worked it furiously. This was familiar. This was welcome. This was what it had been created to do.

Men had always told Kaladin that he fought like nobody else. He'd felt it on the first day he'd picked up a quarterstaff, though Tukks's advice had helped him refine and channel what he could do. Kaladin had cared when he fought. He'd never fought empty or cold. He fought to keep his men alive.

Of all the recruits in his cohort, he had learned the quickest. How to hold the spear, how to stand to spar. He'd done it almost without instruction. That had shocked Tukks. But why should it have? You were not shocked when a child knew how to breathe. You were not shocked when a skyeel took flight for the first time. You should not be shocked when you hand Kaladin Stormblessed a spear and he knows how to use it.

Kaladin spun through the last motions of the kata, chasm forgotten, bridgemen forgotten, fatigue forgotten. For a moment, it was just him. Him and the wind. He fought with her, and she laughed.

He snapped the spear back into place, holding the haft at the one-quarter position, spearhead down, bottom of the haft tucked underneath his arm, end rising back behind his head. He breathed in deeply, shivering.

Oh, how I've missed that.

He opened his eyes. Sputtering torchlight revealed a group of stunned bridgemen standing in a damp corridor of stone, the walls wet and reflecting the light. Moash dropped a handful of spheres in stunned silence, staring at Kaladin with mouth agape. Those spheres plopped into the puddle at his feet, causing it to glow, but none of the bridgemen noticed. They just stared at Kaladin, who was still in a battle stance, half crouched, trails of sweat running down the sides of his face.

He blinked, realizing what he'd done. If word got back to Gaz that he was playing around with spears…Kaladin stood up straight and dropped the spear into the pile of weapons. "Sorry," he whispered to it, though he didn't know why. Then, louder, he said, "Back to work! I don't want to be caught down here when night falls."

The bridgemen jumped into motion. Down the chasm corridor, he saw Rock and Teft. Had they seen the entire kata? Flushing, Kaladin hurried up to them. Syl landed on his shoulder, silent.

"Kaladin, lad," Teft said reverently. "That was-"

"It was meaningless," Kaladin said. "Just a kata. Meant to work the muscles and make you practice the basic jabs, thrusts, and sweeps. It's a lot showier than it is useful."

"But-"

"No, really," Kaladin said. "Can you imagine a man swinging a spear around his neck like that in combat? He'd be gutted in a second."

"Lad," Teft said. "I've seen katas before. But never one like that. The way you moved…The speed, the grace…And there was some sort of spren zipping around you, between your sweeps, glowing with a pale light. It was beautiful."

Rock started. "You could see that?"

"Sure," Teft said. "Never seen a spren like that. Ask the other men-I saw a few of them pointing."

Kaladin glanced at his shoulder, frowning at Syl. She sat primly, legs crossed and hands folded atop her knee, pointedly not looking at him.

"It was nothing," Kaladin repeated.

"No," Rock said. "That it certainly was not. Perhaps you should challenge Shardbearer. You could become brightlord!"

"I don't want to be a brightlord," Kaladin snapped, perhaps more harshly than he should have. The other two jumped. "Besides," he added, looking away from them. "I tried that once. Where's Dunny?"

"Wait," Teft said, "you-"

"Where is Dunny?" Kaladin said firmly, punctuating each word. Stormfather. I need to keep my mouth shut.

Teft and Rock shared a glance, then Teft pointed. "We found some dead Parshendi around the bend. Thought you'd want to know."

"Parshendi," Kaladin said. "Let's go look. Might have something valuable." He'd never looted Parshendi bodies before; fewer of them fell into the chasms than Alethi.

"Is true," Rock said, leading the way, carrying a lit torch. "Those weapons they have, yes, very nice. And gemstones in their beards."

"Not to mention the armor," Kaladin said.

Rock shook his head. "No armor."

"Rock, I've seen their armor. They always wear it."

"Well, yes, but we cannot use this thing."

"I don't understand," Kaladin said.

"Come," Rock said, gesturing. "Is easier than explaining."

Kaladin shrugged, and they rounded the corner, Rock scratching at his red-bearded chin. "Stupid hairs," he muttered. "Ah, to have it right again. A man is not proper man without proper beard."

Kaladin rubbed his own beard. One of these days, he'd save up and buy a razor and be rid of the blasted thing. Or, well, probably not. His spheres would be needed elsewhere.

They rounded the corner and found Dunny pulling the Parshendi bodies into a line. There were four of them, and they looked like they'd been swept in from another direction. There were a few more Alethi bodies here too.

Kaladin strode forward, waving Rock to bring the light, and knelt to inspect one of the Parshendi dead. They were like parshmen, with skin in marbled patterns of black and crimson. Their only clothing was knee-length black skirts. Three wore beards, which was unusual for parshmen, and those were woven with uncut gemstones.

Just as Kaladin had expected, they wore armor of a pale red color. Breastplates, helms on the heads, guards on the arms and legs. Extensive armor for regular foot soldiers. Some of it was cracked from the fall or the wash. It wasn't metal, then. Painted wood?

"I thought you said they weren't armored," Kaladin said. "What are you trying to tell me? That you don't dare take it off the dead?"

"Don't dare?" Rock said. "Kaladin, Master Brightlord, brilliant bridgeleader, spinner of spear, perhaps you will get it off them."

Kaladin shrugged. His father had instilled in him a familiarity with the dead and dying, and though it felt bad to rob the dead, he was not squeamish. He prodded the first Parshendi, noting the man's knife. He took it and looked for the strap that held the shoulder guard in place.

There was no strap. Kaladin frowned and peered underneath the guard, trying to pry it up. The skin lifted with it. "Stormfather!" he said. He inspected the helm. It was grown into the head. Or grown from the head. "What is this?"