Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, crouched on a high stone ledge at the side of the gambling den. The ledge was meant for holding a lantern; both his legs and the shelf were hidden by his long, enveloping cloak, making him seem to be hanging from the wall.

There were few lights nearby. Makkek liked Szeth to remain cloaked in shadow. He wore a formfitting black costume beneath the cloak, the lower part of his face covered by a cloth mask; both were of Makkek’s design. The cloak was too big and the clothing too tight. It was a terrible outfit for an assassin, but Makkek demanded drama, and Szeth did as his master commanded. Always.

Perhaps there was something useful to the drama. With only his eyes and bald head showing, he unnerved the people who passed by. Shin eyes, too round, slightly too large. The people here thought them similar to the eyes of a child. Why did that disturb them so?

Nearby, a group of men in brown cloaks sat chatting and rubbing their thumbs and forefingers together. Wisps of smoke rose between their fingers, accompanied by a faint crackling sound. Rubbing firemoss was said to make a man’s mind more receptive to thoughts and ideas. The one time Szeth had tried it, it had given him a headache and two blistered fingers. But once you grew the calluses, it could apparently be euphoric.

The circular den had a bar at the center, serving a wide variety of drinks at a wider variety of prices. The barmaids were dressed in violet robes that had plunging necklines and were open at the sides. Their safehands were exposed, something that the Bavlanders—who were Vorin by descent—seemed to find extremely provocative. So odd. It was just a hand.

Around the perimeter of the den, various games were in progress. None of them were overt games of chance—no dice throws, no bets on card flips. There were games of breakneck, shallowcrab fights, and—oddly—guessing games. That was another oddity about Vorin peoples; they avoided overtly guessing the future. A game like breakneck would have throws and tosses, but they wouldn’t bet on the outcome. Instead, they’d bet on the hand they held after the throws and the draws.

It seemed a meaningless distinction to Szeth, but it was deeply steeped in the culture. Even here, in one of the vilest pits in the city—where women walked with their hands exposed and men spoke openly of crimes—nobody risked offending the Heralds by seeking to know the future. Even predicting the highstorms made many uncomfortable. And yet they thought nothing of walking on stone or using Stormlight for everyday illumination. They ignored the spirits of things that lived around them, and they ate whatever they wanted on any day they wanted.

Strange. So strange. And yet this was his life. Recently, Szeth had begun to question some of the prohibitions he had once followed so strictly. How could these Easterners not walk on stone? There was no soil in their lands. How could they get about without treading on stone?

Dangerous thoughts. His way of life was all that remained to him. If he questioned Stone Shamanism, would he then question his nature as Truthless? Dangerous, dangerous. Though his murders and sins would damn him, at least his soul would be given to the stones upon his death. He would continue to exist. Punished, in agony, but not exiled to nothingness.

Better to exist in agony than to vanish entirely.

Makkek himself strode the floor of the gambling den, a woman on each arm. His scrawny leanness was gone, his face having slowly gained a juicy plumpness, like a fruit ripening after the drowning’s waters. Also gone were his ragged footpad’s garments, replaced with luxurious silks.

Makkek’s companions—the ones with him when they’d killed Took—were all dead, murdered by Szeth at Makkek’s orders. All to hide the secret of the Oathstone. Why were these Easterners always so ashamed of the way they controlled Szeth? Was it because they feared another would steal the Oathstone from them? Were they terrified that the weapon they employed so callously would be turned against them?

Perhaps he feared that if it were known how easily Szeth was controlled, it would spoil their reputation. Szeth had overheard more than one conversation centered around the mystery of Makkek’s terribly effective bodyguard. If a creature like Szeth served Makkek, then the master himself must be even more dangerous.

Makkek passed the place where Szeth lurked, one of the women on his arms laughing with tinkling sound. Makkek glanced at Szeth, then gestured curtly. Szeth bowed his masked head in acknowledgment. He slid from his place, dropping to the ground, oversized cloak fluttering.

Games stilled. Men both drunken and sober turned to watch Szeth, and as he passed the three men with the firemoss, their fingers went limp. Most in the room knew what Szeth was about this night. A man had moved into Bornwater and opened his own gambling den to challenge Makkek. Likely this newcomer didn’t believe the reputation of Makkek’s phantom assassin. Well, he had reason to be skeptical. Szeth’s reputation was inaccurate.

He was far, far more dangerous than it suggested.

He ducked out of the gambling den, passing up the steps, through the darkened storefront and then out into the yard. He tossed the cloak and face mask into a wagon as he passed. The cloak would only make noise, and why cover his face? He was the only Shin in town. If someone saw his eyes, they’d know who he was. He retained the tight black clothing; changing would take too much time.

Bornwater was the largest town in the area; it hadn’t taken Makkek long to outgrow Staplind. Now he was talking of moving up to Kneespike, the city where the local landlord had his mansion. If that happened, Szeth would spend months wading in blood as he systematically tracked down and killed each and every thief, cutthroat, and gambling master who refused Makkek’s rule.

That was months off. For now, there was Bornwater’s interloper, a man named Gavashaw. Szeth prowled through the streets, eschewing Stormlight or Shardblade, counting on his natural grace and care to keep him unseen. He enjoyed his brief freedom. These moments—when he wasn’t trapped in one of Makkek’s smoke-filled dens—were too few lately.

Slipping between buildings—moving swiftly in the darkness, with the wet, cold air on his skin—he could almost think himself back in Shinovar. The buildings around him were not of blasphemous stone, but earthen ones, built with clay and soil. Those low sounds were not muffled cheers from within another of Makkek’s gambling dens, but the thunder and whinnies of wild horses on the plains.

But no. In Shinovar he’d never smelled refuse like that—pungency compounded by weeks spent marinating. He was not home. There was no place for him in the Valley of Truth.

Szeth entered one of the richer sections of town, where buildings had more space between homes. Bornwater was in a lait, protected by a towering cliffside to the east. Gavashaw had arrogantly made his home in a large mansion on the eastern side of town. It belonged to the provincial landlord; Gavashaw had his favor. The landlord had heard of Makkek and his quick rise to prominence in the underground, and supporting a rival was a good way to create an early check on Makkek’s power.

The citylord’s local mansion was three stories tall, with a stone wall surrounding the compact, neatly gardened grounds. Szeth approached in a low crouch. Here on the outskirts of town, the ground was spotted with bulbous rockbuds. As he passed, the plants rustled, pulling back their vines and lethargically closing their shells.

He reached the wall and pressed himself against it. It was the time between the first two moons, the darkest period of night. The hateful hour, his people called it, for it was one of the only times when the gods did not watch men. Soldiers walked the wall above, feet scraping the stones. Gavashaw probably thought himself safe in this building, which was secure enough for a powerful lighteyes.

Szeth breathed in, infusing himself with Stormlight from the spheres in his pouch. He began to glow, luminescent vapors rising from his skin. In the darkness, it was quite noticeable. These powers had never been intended for assassination; Surgebinders had fought during the light of day, battling the night but not embracing it.

That was not Szeth’s place. He would simply have to take extra care not to be seen.

Ten heartbeats after the passing of the guards, Szeth Lashed himself to the wall. That direction became down for him, and he was able to run up the side of the stone fortification. As he reached the top, he leaped forward, then briefly Lashed himself backward. He spun over the top of the wall in a tucked flip, then Lashed himself back to the wall again. He came down with feet planted on the stones, facing the ground. He ran and Lashed himself downward again, dropping the last few feet.

The grounds were laced with shalebark mounds, cultivated to form small terraces. Szeth ducked low, picking his way through the mazelike garden. There were guards at the building’s doorways, watching by the light of spheres. How easy it would be to dash up, consume the Stormlight, and plunge the men into darkness before cutting them down.

But Makkek had not expressly commanded him to be so destructive. Gavashaw was to be assassinated, but the method was up to Szeth. He picked one that would not require killing the guards. That was what he always did, when given the chance. It was the only way to preserve what little humanity he had left.

He reached the western wall of the mansion and Lashed himself to it, then ran up it onto the roof. It was long and flat, sloped gently eastward—an unnecessary feature in a lait, but Easterners saw the world by the light of the highstorms. Szeth quickly crossed to the rear of the building, to where a small rock dome covered a lower portion of the mansion. He dropped down onto the dome, Stormlight streaming from his body. Translucent, luminescent, pristine. Like the ghost of a fire burning from him, consuming his soul.

He summoned his Shardblade in the stillness and dark, then used it to slice a hole in the dome, angling his Blade so that the chunk of rock did not fall down inside. He reached down with his free hand and infused the stone circle with Light, Lashing it toward the northwest section of the sky. Lashing something to a distant point like that was possible, but imprecise. It was like trying to shoot an arrow a great distance.

He stepped back as the stone circle lurched free and fell up into the air, streaming Stormlight as it soared toward the splattered paint drops of stars above. Szeth leapt into the hole, then immediately Lashed himself to the ceiling. He twisted in the air, landing with his feet planted on the underside of the dome beside the lip of the hole he’d cut. From his perspective, he was now standing at the bottom of a gigantic stone bowl, the hole cut in the very bottom, looking out on the stars beneath.

He walked up the side of the bowl, Lashing himself to the right. In seconds he was on the floor, reoriented so that the dome rose above him. Distantly, he heard a faint crashing: The chunk of stone, Stormlight exhausted, had fallen back to the ground. He had aimed it out of the town. Hopefully, it had not caused any accidental deaths.

The guards would now be distracted, searching for the source of the distant crash. Szeth breathed in deeply, draining his second pouch of gemstones. The light streaming from him became brighter, letting him see the room around him.

As he’d suspected, it was empty. This was a rarely used feasting hall, with cold firepits, tables, and benches. The air was still, silent, and musty. Like that of a tomb. Szeth hurried to the door, slid his Shardblade between it and the frame, and sliced through the deadbolt. He eased the door open. The Stormlight rising from his body illuminated the dark hallway outside.

Early during his time with Makkek, Szeth had been careful not to use the Shardblade. As his tasks had grown more difficult, however, he’d been forced to resort to it to avoid unnecessary killing. Now the rumors about him were populated with tales of holes cut through stone and dead men with burned eyes.

Makkek had begun to believe those rumors. He hadn’t yet demanded that Szeth relinquish the Blade—if he did so, he would discover the second of Szeth’s two forbidden actions. He was required to carry the Blade until his death, after which Shin Stone Shamans would recover it from whomever had killed him.

He moved through the hallways. He wasn’t worried about Makkek taking the Blade, but he was worried about how bold the thief lord was growing. The more successful Szeth was, the more audacious Makkek became. How long before he stopped using Szeth to kill minor rivals, instead sending him to kill Shardbearers or powerful lighteyes? How long before someone made the connection? A Shin assassin with a Shardblade, capable of mysterious feats and extreme stealth? Could this be the now-infamous Assassin in White? Makkek could draw the Alethi king and highprinces away from their war on the Shattered Plains and bring them crashing down upon Jah Keved. Thousands would die. Blood would fall like the rain of a highstorm—thick, pervasive, destructive.

He continued down the hallway in a swift low run, Shardblade carried in a reverse grip, extending out behind him. Tonight, at least, he assassinated a man who deserved his fate. Were the hallways too quiet? Szeth hadn’t seen a soul since leaving the rooftop. Could Gavashaw have been foolish enough to place all of his guards outside, leaving his bedchamber undefended?

Ahead, the doors into the master’s rooms lay unwatched and dark at the end of a short hallway. Suspicious.

Szeth crept up to the doors, listening. Nothing. He hesitated, glancing to the side. A grand stairway led up to the second floor. He hustled over and used his Blade to shear free a wooden knob from the newel post. It was about the size of a small melon. A few hacks with the Blade cut a cloaksized section of drapery free from a window. Szeth hurried back to the doors and infused the wooden sphere with Stormlight, giving it a Basic Lashing that pointed it westward, directly ahead of him.

He cut through the latch between the doors and eased one open. The room beyond was dark. Was Gavashaw gone for the evening? Where would he go? This city was not safe for him yet.

Szeth placed the wooden ball in the middle of the drape, then held it up and dropped it. It fell forward, toward the far wall. Wrapped in the fabric, the ball looked vaguely like a person in a cloak running through the room in a crouch.

No concealed guards struck at it. The decoy bounced off a latched window, then came to rest hanging against the wall. It continued to leak Stormlight.

That light illuminated a small table with an object atop it. Szeth squinted, trying to make out what it was. He edged forward, slinking into the room, closer and closer to the table.

Yes. The object on the table was a head. One with Gavashaw’s features. Shadows thrown by Stormlight gave the grisly face an even more haunted cast. Someone had beaten Szeth to the assassination.

“Szeth-son-Neturo,” a voice said.

Szeth turned, spinning his Shardblade around and falling into a defensive stance. A figure stood on the far side of the room, shrouded in the darkness. “Who are you?” Szeth demanded, his Stormlight aura growing brighter once he stopped holding his breath.

“Are you satisfied with this, Szeth-son-Neturo?” the voice asked. It was male and deep. What was that accent? The man wasn’t Veden. Alethi, perhaps? “Are you satisfied with trivial crimes? Killing over meaningless turf in backwater mining villages?”

Szeth didn’t reply. He scanned the room, looking for motion in the other shadows. None seemed to be hiding anyone.

“I’ve watched you,” the voice said. “You’ve been sent to intimidate shopkeepers. You’ve killed footpads so unimportant even the authorities ignore them. You’ve been shown off to impress whores, as if they were high lighteyed ladies. What a waste.”

“I do as my master demands.”

“You are squandered,” the voice said. “You are not meant for petty extortions and murders. Using you like this, it’s like hitching a Ryshadium stallion to a run-down market wagon. It’s like using a Shardblade to slice vegetables, or like using the finest parchment as kindling for a washwater fire. It is a crime. You are a work of art, Szeth-son-Neturo, a god. And each day Makkek throws dung at you.”

“Who are you?” Szeth repeated.

“An admirer of the arts.”

“Do not call me by my father’s name,” Szeth said. “He should not be sullied by association with me.”

The sphere on the wall finally ran out of Stormlight, dropping to the floor, the drapery muffling its fall. “Very well,” the figure said. “But do you not rebel against this frivolous use of your skills? Were you not meant for greatness?”

“There is no greatness in killing,” Szeth said. “You speak like a kukori. Great men create food and clothing. He who adds is to be revered. I am he who takes away. At least in the killing of men such as these I can pretend to be doing a service.”

“This from the man who nearly toppled one of the greatest kingdoms in Roshar?”

“This from the man who committed one of the most heinous slaughters in Roshar,” Szeth corrected.

The figure snorted. “What you did was a mere breeze compared to the storm of slaughter Shardbearers wreak on a battlefield each day. And those are breezes compared to the tempests you are capable of.”

Szeth began to walk away.

“Where are you going?” the figure asked.

“Gavashaw is dead. I must return to my master.”

Something hit the floor. Szeth spun, Shardblade down. The figure had dropped something round and heavy. It rolled across the floor toward Szeth.

Another head. It came to rest on its side. Szeth froze as he made out the features. The pudgy cheeks were stained with blood, the dead eyes wide with shock: Makkek.

“How?” Szeth demanded.

“We took him seconds after you left the gambling den.”

“We?”

“Servants of your new master.”

“My Oathstone?”

The figure opened his hand, revealing a gemstone suspended in his palm by a chain wrapped around his fingers. Sitting beside it, now illuminated, was Szeth’s Oathstone. The figure’s face was dark; he wore a mask.

Szeth dismissed his Shardblade and went down on one knee. “What are your orders?”

“There is a list on the table,” the figure said, closing his hand and hiding the Oathstone. “It details our master’s wishes.”

Szeth rose and walked over. Beside the head, which rested on a plate to contain the blood, was a sheet of paper. He took it, and his Stormlight illuminated some two dozen names written in the warrior’s script of his homeland. Some had a note beside them with instructions on how they were to be killed.

Glories within, Szeth thought. “These are some of the most powerful people in the world! Six highprinces? A Selay gerontarch? The king of Jah Keved?”

“It is time you stopped wasting your talent,” the figure said, walking to the far wall, resting his hand upon it.

“This will cause chaos,” Szeth whispered. “Infighting. War. Confusion and pain such as the world has rarely known.”

The chained gemstone on the man’s palm flashed. The wall vanished, turned to smoke. A Soulcaster.

The dark figure glanced at Szeth. “Indeed. Our master directs that you are to use tactics similar to those you employed so well in Alethkar years ago. When you are done, you will receive further instructions.”

He then exited through the opening, leaving Szeth horrified. This was his nightmare. To be in the hands of those who understood his capabilities and who had the ambition to use them properly. He stood for a time, silent, long past when his Stormlight ran out.

Then, reverently, he folded the list. He was surprised that his hands were so steady. He should be trembling.

For soon the world itself would shake.