His eyes were dry, and asides from the dull ache in his muscles, his body was fine. But the pain in Adrian's chest, as he knelt beside Farah, hadn't diminished.

The tall man in the hat had left already, taking Elliot and a few others to go and turn the pipes back on. Varnell was supervising the custody of the officers who had accompanied the former Secretary to the Lord Captain, Cavilla.

Adrian had observed all of this with a hollow detachment as if it were happening on the other side of a window. It was hard, with his friends dying so recently, to care about small things like the custody of a traitor.

Adrian wasn't alone in his broken pain. A few others, Caitlin included, knelt nearby. They didn't quite rest in a circle around Farah's fallen form, but all of them faced her.

But it was the memory of his friend, still lucid in the back of Adrian's mind, that made Adrian push himself to his feet.

He looked ahead, to see Varnell detaching herself from a short conversation with a pair of sergeants who only a few moments ago were attempting to kill her. It was odd to see the pair salute reverently, before they began to shout something to their soldiers about gathering shovels.

"Sergeant?" Adrian asked.

The old soldier turned around, and in a gesture of immense kindess, gave him her full attention. "Keates?" Varnell asked.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I-," Adrian began to say.

"Are you about to tell me you were derelict in your duty?" Varnell asked quietly.

"Yes, ma'am," Adrian admitted. "I was negligent at a critical moment in the battle. If the crafter hadn't intervened when she had, I would have been out of the fight."

Varnell nodded. "Do you blame Caitlin, for not being ready when Cavilla's crafter ally advanced on us?"

"No," Adrian said immediately. "Killing was hard on all of us, and none of us signed up to gun down other people."

"I'm glad you see it that way, Keates. As far as I'm concerned, she was wounded in action. Just as you were. For the moment, I'd like to speak to everyone. Help gather up the troops," Varnell said.

Adrian saluted and turned away, waving first to Elliot, who was already gathering some of his classmates and distributing water to those who needed it.

There were only a dozen people wounded; small but severe burns from glancing hits from enemy fire. The cruel truth of the City's weapons was the ruthless efficiency of a Salamander. The wounds the guns inflicted were meant to burn holes through the lungs with even a glancing shot, and even a near miss could leave mortal wounds.

The company was diminshed, Adrian realized. There were a lot of absent faces now arrayed in the dirty and damaged company that gathered.

Elliot rested a hand on Adrian's shoulder and gave a gentle nod. To Adrian's eyes, Elliot Trask looked a century older, his expression and gait had a gravity to them that Adrian hadn't seen just an hour ago.

"Soldiers! Gather around!" Varnell called out.

Wordlessly, they gathered around the broken ammo cart that Varnell was standing on.

The old woman was dirty and scarred, her uniform ripped and damaged from shrapnel and sword strikes. A trickle of blood dripped from the smallest finger on her left hand, likely from the stained cut further up her arm.

But there was no hint of weariness in her face or her stance. She stood, one leg resting on the side of the cart as if she were posing for the statue the City was going to make of her.

"Soldiers! I know it's the last and least of your concerns, but your time as recruits ended an hour and a half ago. When we bury our companions, and we will bury them instead of dropping them in a crematorium, we will see them off with the honour accorded soldiers who died answering the grim demand of our home."

"And when you tell this story to others, do so with pride. Because if you do otherwise, you will insult what they fought for. You will insult yourselves."

"Do you understand? You did your duty. You were the wall! I could not be prouder of you. I could not be more grateful to all of you. And it is with the fiercest pride that I say that even if you resign today, as you are allowed under the circumstances, I expect to see you when the Sixth starts," Varnell finished.

"Aye, ma'am!" Adrian cried out.

"Aye, ma'am!" Adrian heard the chorus from a dozen different voices, Trask and Caitlin easily discernible in the shout.

"Aye, ma'am!" The entire company bellowed.

Varnell smiled at them one more time before she stepped off the cart and hopped down.

"There are stretchers nearby. Gather up our fallen. Fourteenth company will have dug graves before they march to the next wall."

They moved with the alacrity and determination that Sergeant Varnell had demanded of them in every task, no matter how trivial. Adrian went to Farah's fallen form first, and with help, slid a stretcher beneath her and lifted her to the cart.

"I'll set the reservoir and get the engine going," Caitlin said quietly. He face was pointed away from him and tilted towards the ground as she spoke.

Even as Adrian stared after her, Caitlin refused to meet his gaze.

Adrian cursed quietly to himself and turned away to help lift someone else onto the cart.

After they laid twenty-one bodies on the cart, Caitlin started the engine, and lead a train of mute figures following in her wake. No one spoke, as Adrian's made their way the eight hundred yards to the junction point.

There were no other soldiers waiting on the grounds in front of the wall. Other soldiers, unfamiliar ones, were busy up above on the Causeway, leading other soldiers bound in restraints along a march to the next wall.

The only three figures still in the grounds, waiting for their arrival, were the red-haired Crafter, her shadow, and Gerald.

Gerald, who had studied the Gloam in quiet hours after training. Who had somehow known the walls went dark before anyone else. Who had confidently handled Marigold despite her power.

Adrian's hand was squeezing the handle of his sword. His breathing went hard, he could feel the blood pounding in his wrists and neck, and he snarled.

Gerald stepped away from the crafter and marched towards them, his expression pained and his gaze fixed on the cart.

Varnell approached Gerald first and clapped him on the shoulder. They shared a few words, none of which Adrian could overhear before Varnell stepped away and let Gerald approach.

Just as Gerald drew close, Adrian ripped his sword out of its scabbard and pointed it at Gerald's heart.

And once again, Adrian's mind launched itself into a hundred different possibilities. A hundred opening moves, and then his death.

"You can craft," Adrian said, his voice so raspy he didn't recognize it at first.

Gerald didn't step backwards, even as the sword point came to rest on his chest and cut a small hole in his uniform. "I can."

"Reject," Adrian said, his rage making it difficult to hold his sword steady.

"Apprentice," Gerald responded, flinching a little. Adrian only realized a moment after that Gerald's retort had pushed his chest a little into Adrian's sword.

"You're no different!" Adrian screamed. "You're no different from the man that murdered Farah! You do as you please, and couldn't give a speck of ash who you hurt! Just like him!"

Adrian pointed towards the dead Crafter still left in the distance, and said, "just like him..."

"Keates," Gerald said, his voice still quiet and calm, even with a sword pressed in his chest. Something in the back of Adrian's mind stung as Gerald spoke, and a small, gentle presence in his head seemed to rest against his sword hand.

It felt like his sister's hand resting against his.

A drop of blood fell from the edge of his sword.

"Keates, I'm sorry," Gerald said.

Adrian's sword slipped from his trembling hand and collapsed on the soil. He stumbled backwards, fell to his knees, and screamed his rage out until his lungs demanded that he breathe.

When he caught his breath, and tears finally started streaming down his face, he felt someone kneel in the soil beside him, wrap a pair of arms around him, and hug him close.

Out of the corner of his eye, Adrian could see Caitlin bury her head in his shoulder and weep.

His friends, his battle family, gathered around him. Some wept openly, others cried in near silence, but they formed a tight circle around him, and grieved as they could.

All except Gerald, who stood outside that circle and was offered no place inside.