“You’re bleeding,” Jerico said.

“Most of the blood isn’t mine.”

“No, your neck.”

Darius pulled off his glove and then touched the wound at his collarbone. His fingers came back red.

“Not too deep,” he said. “I’ll live.”

An awkward silence fell between them. Jerico felt he should be the teacher, Darius his student, even though Darius was actually older. He knew more of the world, understood better the politics of the North. But he’d erred, badly.

“Darius…” he started to say.

“Save it. I know. I made a mistake.”

“A mistake? You cut a man in two.”

Darius glared.

“I was hurt, and frightened. A second more, and they would have buried me. What would you have done then? Watched me die? Or risked dying yourself when you tried to save me? There was no reasoning with them, and you know it.”

“They might have listened until you cut off a man’s hand!” His voice was rising, and much as he knew he shouldn’t, he continued anyway. “We’re beacons, examples for others to follow. We’re not executioners!”

“Bullshit!” Darius was in his face now, overcome with exhaustion and frustration. “I saw how many wolf-men you killed, far more than I ever did. I saw you slaughter Sebastian’s men. You’re just as good at killing as I am, if not better. I killed one man, one man, protecting my life. You think I’m happy about it? Think I enjoyed it? Gods damn it, if this world were just, they’d have killed me in my sleep without giving me the choice. You weren’t there. You didn’t see it.”

He fell silent. Jerico took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He couldn’t judge Darius harshly, not without knowing everything he’d gone through. This was a man turned from Karak to Ashhur. A dark paladin would have had no qualms about slaughtering an entire village to protect himself. That he felt guilt at all was a poignant sign.