For two thousand years, Syral Terrion had never killed a man he could not name. Now he stood in his workshop and stared at a list of crimes with no name at the top. The killer had drowned a village's children in a well. He had burned a shrine full of the sick. Syral had followed the trail for a year. He knew every wound the man had left. He did not know the man's face. Syral was the White Ghost, the Angel of Retribution. He had sworn to an angel that death would fall only on the guilty, and only when he was certain. That oath was the cage around the monster inside him. If he hunted the wrong man, he would become the very thing he punished. So he waited, and the waiting felt like rot. Cristin found him bent over the table. His wife stood a full foot shorter, dark-skinned, her curly hair loose. She was a priestess of the god of life and death, and she loved him. She also feared what he might do. She set a bowl of stew beside his hand. "You haven't eaten," she said. "You've read that list forty times. It hasn't grown a face." "He took the children in the well," Syral said. "I owe them a name." "You owe them the right name." She touched his arm. "Not any name. The severance protocol, the vengeance, all of it means nothing if you strike blind. Then you're just a killer with a good excuse." Her words landed hard because they were true. Syral looked at the sword leaning by the wall. Its blood-red blade held a small black orb, ringed by a slow band of light. The blade could shape spells no single wizard could hold. He had used it to smash armies. He had never used it to see. He drew the sword and set the crime list flat on the table. Then he pressed the black orb against the ash he had scraped from the burned shrine. He poured his will through the blade and asked it one question. Not where the killer stood. Who he was. The orb drank the ash. The ring of light spun faster. A face bloomed above the blade. A young man. Soft hands. A silver ring on his thumb. And a name rose with it, whispered from the ash the dead had touched last. Syral wrote the name down. His hand did not shake. Cristin read it over his shoulder and went still. "You know him," she said. Syral did. The name belong to someone he once thought was gone forever. A brother with a terrible past but had every right to the throne he held. "He hides behind his status," Syral said. He sheathed the sword. "Now I have his face and his name. The oath is satisfied." Cristin gripped his sleeve. "And if the people protect him?" Syral did not answer. He had already decided what had to be done.