Kaladin stepped forward, dazed, raising his hand toward the hilt of the Blade. He hesitated just an inch away from it. Everything felt wrong. If he took that Blade, he’d become one of them. His eyes would even change, if the stories were right. Though the Blade glistened in the light, clean of the murders it had performed, for a moment it seemed red to him. Stained with Dallet’s blood. Toorim’s blood. The blood of the men who had been alive just moments before.
