“Death upon the lips. Sound upon the air. Char upon the skin.”

—From “The Last Desolation” by Ambrian, line 335.

Kaladin stumbled into the light, shading his eyes against the burning sun, his bare feet feeling the transition from cold indoor stone to sun-warmed stone outside. The air was lightly humid, not muggy as it had been in previous weeks.

He rested his hand on the wooden doorframe, his legs quivering rebelliously, his arms feeling as if he’d carried a bridge for three days straight. He breathed deeply. His side should have blazed with pain, but he felt only a residual soreness. Some of his deeper cuts were still scabbed over, but the smaller ones had vanished completely. His head was surprisingly clear. He didn’t even have a headache.

He rounded the side of the barrack, feeling stronger with each step, though he kept his hand on the wall. Lopen followed behind; the Herdazian had been watching over Kaladin when he awoke.

I should be dead, Kaladin thought. What is going on?

On the other side of the barrack he was surprised to find the men carrying their bridge in daily practice. Rock ran at the front center, giving the marching beat as Kaladin had once done. They reached the other side of the lumberyard and turned around, charging back. Only when they were almost past the barrack did one of the men in front—Moash—notice Kaladin. He froze, nearly causing the entire bridge crew to trip.

“What is wrong with you?” Torfin yelled from behind, head enveloped by the wood of the bridge.

Moash didn’t listen. He ducked out from under the bridge, looking at Kaladin with wide eyes. Rock gave a hasty shout for the men to put down the bridge. More saw him, adopting the same reverent expressions as Moash. Hobber and Peet, their wounds sufficiently healed, had started practicing with the others. That was good. They’d be drawing pay again.

The men walked up to Kaladin, silent in their leather vests. They kept their distance, hesitant, as if he were fragile. Or holy. Kaladin was bare-chested, his nearly healed wounds exposed, and wore only his knee-length bridgeman’s trousers.

“You really need to practice what to do if one of you trips or stumbles, men,” Kaladin said. “When Moash stopped abruptly, you all about fell over. That could be a disaster on the field.”

They stared at him, incredulous, and he couldn’t help but smile. In a moment, they crowded around him, laughing and thumping him on the back. It wasn’t an entirely appropriate welcome for a sick man, particularly when Rock did it, but Kaladin did appreciate their enthusiasm.

Only Teft didn’t join in. The aging bridgeman stood at the side, arms folded. He seemed concerned. “Teft?” Kaladin asked. “You all right?”

Teft snorted, but showed a hint of a grin. “I just figure those lads don’t bathe often enough for me to want to get close enough for a hug. No offense.”

Kaladin laughed. “I understand.” His last “bath” had been the highstorm.

The highstorm.

The other bridgemen continued to laugh, asking how he felt, proclaiming that Rock would have to fix something extra special for their nightly fireside meal. Kaladin smiled and nodded, assuring them he felt well, but he was remembering the storm.

He recalled it distinctly. Holding to the ring atop the building, his head down and eyes closed against the pelting torrent. He remembered Syl, standing protectively before him, as if she could turn back the storm itself. He couldn’t see her about now. Where was she?

He also remembered the face. The Stormfather himself? Surely not. A delusion. Yes…yes, he’d certainly been delusional. Memories of deathspren were blended with relived parts of his life—and both mixed with strange, sudden shocks of strength—icy cold, but refreshing. It had been like the cold air of a crisp morning after a long night in a stuffy room, or like rubbing the sap of gulket leaves on sore muscles, making them feel warm and cold at the same time.

He could remember those moments so clearly. What had caused them? The fever?

“How long?” he said, checking over the bridgemen, counting them. Thirty-three, counting Lopen and the silent Dabbid. Almost all were accounted for. Impossible. If his ribs were healed, then he must have been unconscious for three weeks, at least. How many bridge runs?

“Ten days,” Moash said.

“Impossible,” Kaladin said. “My wounds—”

“Is why we’re so surprised to see you up and walking!” Rock said, laughing. “You must have bones like granite. Is my name you should be having!”

Kaladin leaned back against the wall. Nobody corrected Moash. An entire crew of men couldn’t lose track of the weeks like that. “Idolir and Treff?” he asked.

“We lost them,” Moash said, growing solemn. “We did two bridge runs while you were unconscious. Nobody badly wounded, but two dead. We…we didn’t know how to help them.”

That made the men grow subdued. But death was the way of bridgemen, and they couldn’t afford to dwell for long on the lost. Kaladin did decide, however, that he’d need to train a few of the others in healing.

But how was he up and walking? Had he been less injured than he’d assumed? Hesitantly, he prodded at his side, feeling for broken ribs. Just a little sore. Other than the weakness, he felt as healthy as he ever had. Perhaps he should have paid a little more attention to his mother’s religious teachings.

As the men turned back to talking and celebrating, he noticed the looks they gave him. Respectful, reverent. They remembered what he’d said before the highstorm. Looking back, Kaladin realized he’d been a little delirious. It now seemed an incredibly arrogant proclamation, not to mention that it smelled of prophecy. If the ardents discovered that…

Well, he couldn’t undo what he’d done. He’d just have to continue. You were already balancing over a chasm, Kaladin thought to himself. Did you have to scale an even higher cliffside?

A sudden, mournful horn call sounded across the camp. The bridgemen fell silent. The horn sounded twice more.

“Figures,” Natam said.

“We’re on duty?” Kaladin asked.

“Yeah,” Moash said.

“Line up!” Rock snapped. “You know what to do! Let’s show Captain Kaladin that we haven’t forgotten how to do this.”

“‘Captain’ Kaladin?” Kaladin asked as the men lined up.

“Sure, gancho,” Lopen said from beside him, speaking with that quick accent that seemed so at odds with his nonchalant attitude. “They tried to make Rock bridgeleader, sure, but we just started calling you ‘captain’ and him ‘squadleader.’ Made Gaz angry.” Lopen grinned.

Kaladin nodded. The other men were so joyous, but he was finding it difficult to share their mood.

As they formed up around their bridge, he began to realize the source of his melancholy. His men were right back where they’d started. Or worse. He was weakened and injured, and had offended the highprince himself. Sadeas would not be pleased when he learned that Kaladin had survived his fever.

The bridgemen were still destined to be cut down one by one. The side carry had been a failure. He hadn’t saved his men, he’d just given them a short stay of execution.

Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive….

He suspected why that was. Gritting his teeth, he let go of the barrack wall and crossed to where the bridgemen stood in line, leaders of the sub-squads doing a quick check of their vests and sandals.

Rock eyed Kaladin. “And what is this thing you believe you are doing?”

“I’m joining you,” Kaladin said.

“And what would you tell one of the men if they had just gotten up from a week with the fevers?”

Kaladin hesitated. I’m not like the other men, he thought, then regretted it. He couldn’t start believing himself invincible. To run now with the crew, as weak as he was, would be sheer idiocy. “You’re right.”

“You can help me and the moolie carry water, gancho,” Lopen said. “We’re a team now. Go on every run.”

Kaladin nodded. “All right.”

Rock eyed him.

“If I’m feeling too weak at the end of the permanent bridges, I’ll go back. I promise.”

Rock nodded reluctantly. The men marched under the bridge to the staging area, and Kaladin joined Lopen and Dabbid, filling waterskins.

Kaladin stood at the edge of the precipice, hands clasped behind his back, sandaled toes at the very edge of the cliff. The chasm stared up at him, but he did not meet its gaze. He was focused on the battle being waged on the next plateau.

This approach had been an easy one; they’d arrived at the same time as the Parshendi. Instead of bothering to kill bridgemen, the Parshendi had taken a defensive position in the center of the plateau, around the chrysalis. Now Sadeas’s men fought them.

Kaladin’s brow was slick with sweat from the day’s heat, and he still felt a lingering exhaustion from his sickness. Yet it wasn’t nearly as bad as it should have been. The surgeon’s son was baffled.

For the moment, the soldier overruled the surgeon. He was transfixed by the battle. Alethi spearmen in leathers and breastplates pressed a curved line against the Parshendi warriors. Most Parshendi used battle-axes or hammers, though a few wielded swords or clubs. They all had that red-orange armor growing from their skin, and they fought in pairs, singing all the while.

It was the worst kind of battle, the kind that was close. Often, you’d lose far fewer men in a skirmish where your enemies quickly gained the upper hand. When that happened, your commander would order the retreat to cut his losses. But close battles…they were brutal, blood-soaked things. Watching the fighting—the bodies dropped to the rocks, the weapons flashing, the men pushed off the plateau—reminded him of his first fights as a spearman. His commander had been shocked at how easily Kaladin dealt with seeing blood. Kaladin’s father would have been shocked at how easily Kaladin spilled it.

There was a big difference between his battles in Alethkar and the fights on the Shattered Plains. There, he’d been surrounded by the worst—or at least worst-trained—soldiers in Alethkar. Men who didn’t hold their lines. And yet, for all their disorder, those fights had made sense to him. These here on the Shattered Plains still did not.

That had been his miscalculation. He’d changed battlefield tactics before understanding them. He would not make that mistake again.

Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, joined by Sigzil. The thick-limbed Horneater made for quite a contrast to the short, quiet Azish man. Sigzil’s skin was a deep brown—not true black, like some parshmen’s. He tended to keep to himself.

“Is bad battle,” Rock said, folding his arms. “The soldiers will not be happy, whether or not they win.”

Kaladin nodded absently, listening to the yells, screams, and curses. “Why do they fight, Rock?”

“For money,” Rock said. “And for vengeance. You should know this thing. Is it not your king who Parshendi killed?”

“Oh, I understand why we fight,” Kaladin said. “But the Parshendi. Why do they fight?”

Rock grinned. “Is because they don’t very much like the idea of being beheaded for killing your king, I should think! Very unaccommodating of them.”

Kaladin smiled, though he found mirth unnatural while watching men die. He had been trained too long by his father for any death to leave him unmoved. “Perhaps. But, then, why do they fight for the gemhearts? Their numbers are dwindling because of skirmishes like these.”

“You know this thing?” Rock asked.

“They raid less frequently than they used to,” Kaladin said. “People talk about it in camp. And they don’t strike as close to the Alethi side as they once did.”

Rock nodded thoughtfully. “It seems logical. Ha! Perhaps we will soon win this fight and be going home.”

“No,” Sigzil said softly. He had a very formal way of speaking, with barely a hint of an accent. What language did the Azish speak, anyway? Their kingdom was so distant that Kaladin had only ever met one other. “I doubt that. And I can tell you why they fight, Kaladin.”

“Really?”

“They must have Soulcasters. They need the gemstones for the same reason we do. To make food.”

“It sounds reasonable,” Kaladin said, hands still clasped behind his back, feet in a wide stance. Parade rest still felt natural to him. “Just conjecture, but a reasonable one. Let me ask you something else, then. Why can’t bridgemen have shields?”

“Because this thing makes us too slow,” Rock said.

“No,” Sigzil said. “They could send bridgemen with shields out in front of the bridges, running in front of us. It wouldn’t slow anyone down. Yes, you would have to field more bridgemen—but you’d save enough lives with those shields to make up for the larger roster.”

Kaladin nodded. “Sadeas fields more of us than he needs already. In most cases, more bridges land than he needs.”

“But why?” Sigzil asked.

“Because we make good targets,” Kaladin said softly, understanding. “We’re put out in front to draw Parshendi attention.”

“Of course we are,” Rock said, shrugging. “Armies always do these things. The poorest and the least trained go first.”

“I know,” Kaladin said, “but usually, they’re at least given some measure of protection. Don’t you see? We’re not just an expendable initial wave. We’re bait. We’re exposed, so the Parshendi can’t help but fire at us. It allows the regular soldiers to approach without being hurt. The Parshendi archers are aiming at the bridgemen.”

Rock frowned.

“Shields would make us less tempting,” Kaladin said. “That’s why he forbids them.”

“Perhaps,” Sigzil said from the side, thoughtful. “But it seems foolish to waste troops.”

“Actually, it isn’t foolish,” Kaladin said. “If you have to repeatedly attack fortified positions, you can’t afford to lose your trained troops. Don’t you see? Sadeas has only a limited number of trained men. But untrained ones are easy to find. Each arrow that strikes down a bridgeman is one that doesn’t hit a soldier you’ve spent a great deal of money outfitting and training. That’s why it’s better for Sadeas to field a large number of bridgemen, rather than a smaller—but protected—number.”

He should have seen it earlier. He had been distracted by how important bridgemen were to the battles. If the bridges didn’t arrive at the chasms, then the army couldn’t cross. But each bridge crew was kept well stocked with bodies, and twice as many bridge crews were sent on an assault as were needed.

Seeing a bridge fall must give the Parshendi a great sense of satisfaction, and they usually got to drop two or three bridges on every bad chasm run. Sometimes more. So long as bridgemen were dying, and the Parshendi didn’t spend their time firing on soldiers, Sadeas had reason to keep the bridgemen vulnerable. The Parshendi should have seen through it, but it was very hard to turn your arrow away from the unarmored man carrying the siege equipment. The Parshendi were said to be unsophisticated fighters. Indeed, watching the battle on the other plateau—studying it, focusing—he saw that was true.

Where the Alethi maintained a straight, disciplined line—each man protecting his partners—the Parshendi attacked in independent pairs. The Alethi had superior technique and tactics. True, each of the Parshendi was superior in strength, and their skill with those axes was remarkable. But Sadeas’s Alethi troops were well trained in modern formations. Once they got a foothold—and if they could prolong the battle—their discipline often saw them to victory.

The Parshendi haven’t fought in large-scale battles before this war, Kaladin decided. They’re used to smaller skirmishes, perhaps against other villages or clans.

Several of the other bridgemen joined Kaladin, Rock, and Sigzil. Before long, the majority of them were standing there, some imitating Kaladin’s stance. It took another hour before the battle was won. Sadeas proved victorious, but Rock was right. The soldiers were grim; they’d lost many friends this day.

It was a tired, battered group of spearmen that Kaladin and the others led back to camp.

A few hours later, Kaladin sat on a chunk of wood beside Bridge Four’s nightly fire. Syl sat on his knee, having taken the form of a small, translucent blue and white flame. She’d come to him during the march back, spinning around gleefully to see him up and walking, but had given no explanation for her absence.

The real fire crackled and popped, Rock’s large pot bubbling on top of it, some flamespren dancing on the logs. Every couple of seconds, someone asked Rock if the stew was done yet, often banging on his bowl with a good-natured smack of the spoon. Rock said nothing, stirring. They all knew that nobody ate until he declared the stew finished; he was very particular about not serving “inferior” food.

The air smelled of boiling dumplings. The men were laughing. Their bridgeleader had survived execution and today’s bridge run hadn’t cost a single casualty. Spirits were high.

Except for Kaladin’s.

He understood now. He understood just how futile their struggle was. He understood why Sadeas hadn’t bothered to acknowledge Kaladin’s survival. He was already a bridgeman, and being a bridgeman was a death sentence.

Kaladin had hoped to show Sadeas that his bridge crew could be efficient and useful. He’d hoped to prove that they deserved protection—shields, armor, training. Kaladin thought that if they acted like soldiers, maybe they would be seen as soldiers.

None of that would work. A bridgeman who survived was, by definition, a bridgeman who had failed.

His men laughed and enjoyed the fire. They trusted him. He’d done the impossible, surviving a highstorm, wounded, tied to a wall. Surely he would perform another miracle, this time for them. They were good men, but they thought like foot soldiers. The officers and the lighteyes would worry about the long term. The men were fed and happy, and that was enough for now.

Not for Kaladin.

He found himself face-to-face with the man he’d left behind. The one he’d abandoned that night he’d decided not to throw himself into the chasm. A man with haunted eyes, a man who had given up on caring or hoping. A walking corpse.

I’m going to fail them, he thought.

He couldn’t let them continue running bridges, dying off one by one. But he also couldn’t think of an alternative. And so their laughter tore at him.

One of the men—Maps—stood, holding up his arms, quieting the others. It was the time between moons, and so he was lit mostly by the firelight; there was a spray of stars in the sky above. Several of those moved about, the tiny pinpricks of light chasing after one another, zipping around like distant, glowing insects. Starspren. They were rare.

Maps was a flat-faced fellow, his beard bushy, his eyebrows thick. Everyone called him Maps because of the birthmark on his chest that he swore was an exact map of Alethkar, though Kaladin hadn’t been able to see the resemblance.

Maps cleared his throat. “It’s a good night, a special night, and all. We’ve got our bridgeleader back.”

Several of the men clapped. Kaladin tried not to show how sick he felt inside.

“We’ve got good food coming,” Maps said. He eyed Rock. “It is coming, ain’t it, Rock?”

“Is coming,” Rock said, stirring.

“You’re sure about that? We could go on another bridge run. Give you a little extra time, you know, five or six more hours….”

Rock gave him a fierce look. The men laughed, several banging their bowls with their spoons. Maps chuckled, then he reached to the ground behind the stone he was using for a seat. He pulled out a paper-wrapped package and tossed it to Rock.

Surprised, the tall Horneater barely caught it, nearly dropping it into the stew.

“From all of us,” Maps said, a little awkwardly, “for making us stew each night. Don’t think we haven’t noticed how hard you work on it. We relax while you cook. And you always serve everyone else first. So we bought you something to thank you.” He wiped his nose on his arm, spoiling the moment slightly, and sat back down. Several of the other bridgemen thumped him on the back, complimenting his speech.

Rock unwrapped the package and stared into it for a long while. Kaladin leaned forward, trying to get a look at the contents. Rock reached in and held the item up. It was a straight razor of gleaming silvery steel; there was a length of wood covering the sharp side. Rock pulled this off, inspecting the blade. “You airsick fools,” he said softly. “Is beautiful.”

“There’s a piece of polished steel too,” said Peet. “For a mirror. And some beard soap and a leather strop for sharpening.”

Amazingly, Rock grew teary-eyed. He turned away from the pot, bearing his gifts. “Stew is ready,” he said. Then he ran into the barrack building.

The men sat quietly. “Stormfather,” youthful Dunny finally said, “you think we did the right thing? I mean, the way he complains and all…”

“I think it was perfect,” Teft said. “Just give the big lout some time to recover.”

“Sorry we didn’t get you nothin’, sir,” Maps said to Kaladin. “We didn’t know you’d be awake and all.”

“It’s all right,” Kaladin said.

“Well,” Skar said. “Is someone going to serve that stew, or will we all just sit here hungry until it burns?”

Dunny jumped up, grabbing the ladle. The men gathered around the pot, jostling one another as Dunny served. Without Rock there to snap at them and keep them in line, it was something of a melee. Only Sigzil did not join in. The quiet, dark-skinned man sat to the side, eyes reflecting the flames.

Kaladin rose. He was worried—terrified, really—that he might become that wretch again. The one who had given up on caring because he saw no alternative. So he sought conversation, walking over toward Sigzil. His motion disturbed Syl, who sniffed and buzzed up onto his shoulder. She still held the form of a flickering flame; having that on his shoulder was even more distracting. He didn’t say anything; if she knew it bothered him, she’d be likely to do it more. She was still a windspren, after all.

Kaladin sat down next to Sigzil. “Not hungry?”

“They are more eager than I,” Sigzil said. “If previous evenings are a reliable guide, there will still be enough for me once they have filled their bowls.”

Kaladin nodded. “I appreciated your analysis out on the plateau today.”

“I am good at that, sometimes.”

“You’re educated. You speak like it and you act like it.”

Sigzil hesitated. “Yes,” he finally said. “Among my people, it is not a sin for a male to be keen of mind.”

“It isn’t a sin for Alethi either.”

“My experience is that you care only about wars and the art of killing.”

“And what have you seen of us besides our army?”

“Not much,” Sigzil admitted.

“So, a man of education,” Kaladin said thoughtfully. “In a bridge crew.”

“My education was never completed.”

“Neither was mine.”

Sigzil looked at him, curious.

“I apprenticed as a surgeon,” Kaladin said.

Sigzil nodded, thick dark hair falling around his shoulders. He’d been one of the only bridgemen who bothered shaving. Now that Rock had a razor, maybe that would change. “A surgeon,” he said. “I cannot say that is surprising, considering how you handled the wounded. The men say that you’re secretly a lighteyes of very high rank.”

“What? But my eyes are dark brown!”

“Pardon me,” Sigzil said. “I didn’t speak the right word—you don’t have the right word in your language. To you, a lighteyes is the same as a leader. In other kingdoms, though, other things make a man a…curse this Alethi language. A man of high birth. A brightlord, only without the eyes. Anyway, the men think you must have been raised outside of Alethkar. As a leader.”

Sigzil looked back at the others. They were beginning to sit back down, attacking their stew with vigor. “It’s the way you lead so naturally, the way you make others want to listen to you. These are things they associate with lighteyes. And so they have invented a past for you. You will have a difficult time disabusing them of it now.” Sigzil eyed him. “Assuming it is a fabrication. I was there in the chasm the day you used that spear.”

“A spear,” Kaladin said. “A darkeyed soldier’s weapon, not a lighteyes’s sword.”

“To many bridgemen, the difference is minimal. All are so far above us.”

“So what is your story?”

Sigzil smirked. “I wondered if you were going to ask. The others mentioned that you have pried into their origins.”

“I like to know the men I lead.”

“And if some of us are murderers?” Sigzil asked quietly.

“Then I’m in good company,” Kaladin said. “If it was a lighteyes you killed, then I might buy you a drink.”

“Not a lighteyes,” Sigzil said. “And he is not dead.”

“Then you’re not a murderer,” Kaladin said.

“Not for want of trying.” Sigzil’s eyes grew distant. “I thought for certain I had succeeded. It was not the wisest choice I made. My master…” He trailed off.

“Is he the one you tried to kill?”

“No.”

Kaladin waited, but no more information was forthcoming. A scholar, he thought. Or at least a man of learning. There has to be a way to use this.

Find a way out of this death trap, Kaladin. Use what you have. There has to be a way.

“You were right about the bridgemen,” Sigzil said. “We are sent to die. It is the only reasonable explanation. There is a place in the world. Marabethia. Have you heard of it?”

“No,” Kaladin said.

“It is beside the sea, to the north, in the Selay lands. The people are known for their great fondness for debate. At each intersection in the city they have small pedestals on which a man can stand and proclaim his arguments. It is said that everyone in Marabethia carries a pouch with an overripe fruit just in case they pass a proclaimer with whom they disagree.”

Kaladin frowned. He hadn’t heard so many words from Sigzil in all the time they’d been bridgemen together.

“What you said earlier, on the plateau,” Sigzil continued, eyes forward, “it made me think of the Marabethians. You see, they have a curious way of treating condemned criminals. They dangle them over the seaside cliff near the city, down near the water at high tide, with a cut sliced in each cheek. There is a particular species of greatshell in the depths there. The creatures are known for their succulent flavor, and of course they have gemhearts. Not nearly as large as the ones in these chasmfiends, but still nice. So the criminals, they become bait. A criminal may demand execution instead, but they say if you hang there for a week and are not eaten, then you can go free.”

“And does that often happen?” Kaladin asked.

Sigzil shook his head. “Never. But the prisoners almost always take the chance. The Marabethians have a saying for someone who refuses to see the truth of a situation. ‘You have eyes of red and blue,’ they say. Red for the blood dripping. Blue for the water. It is said that these two things are all the prisoners see. Usually they are attacked within one day. And yet, most still wish to take that chance. They prefer the false hope.”

Eyes of red and blue, Kaladin thought, imagining the morbid picture.

“You do a good work,” Sigzil said, rising, picking up his bowl. “At first, I hated you for lying to the men. But I have come to see that a false hope makes them happy. What you do is like giving medicine to a sick man to ease his pain until he dies. Now these men can spend their last days in laughter. You are a healer indeed, Kaladin Stormblessed.”

Kaladin wanted to object, to say that it wasn’t a false hope, but he couldn’t. Not with his heart in his stomach. Not with what he knew.

A moment later, Rock burst from the barrack. “I feel like a true alil’tiki’i again!” he proclaimed, holding aloft his razor. “My friends, you cannot know what you have done! Someday, I will take you to the Peaks and show you the hospitality of kings!”

Despite all of his complaining, he hadn’t shaved his beard off completely. He had left long, red-blond sideburns, which curved down to his chin. The tip of the chin itself was shaved clean, as were his lips. On the tall, oval-faced man, the look was quite distinctive. “Ha!” Rock said, striding up to the fire. He grabbed the nearest men there and hugged them both to him, causing Bisig to nearly spill his stew. “I will make you all family for this. A peak dweller’s humaka’aban is his pride! I feel like a true man again. Here. This razor belongs not to me, but to us all. Any who wishes to use it must do so. Is my honor to share with you!”

The men laughed, and a few took him up on the offer. Kaladin wasn’t one of them. It just…didn’t seem to matter to him. He accepted the bowl of stew Dunny brought him, but didn’t eat. Sigzil chose not to sit back down beside him, retreating to the other side of the campfire.

Eyes of red and blue, Kaladin thought. I don’t know if that fits us. For him to have eyes of red and blue, Kaladin would have to believe that there was at least a small chance the bridge crew could survive. This night, Kaladin had trouble convincing himself.

He’d never been an optimist. He saw the world as it was, or he tried to. That was a problem, though, when the truth he saw was so terrible.

Oh, Stormfather, he thought, feeling the crushing weight of despair as he stared down at his bowl. I’m falling back to the wretch I was. I’m losing my grip on this, on myself.

He couldn’t carry the hopes of all the bridgemen.

He just wasn’t strong enough.