Something kicked his foot.
Cinder's eyes opened. The purple sky was pale now, almost gray. The moons were gone. The street was empty except for the rats and the garbage.
He was still sitting against the wall. His back hurt. His legs were numb. His hands were still shaking.
Another kick.
"You dead?"
Cinder looked up. A man stood over him. Old. Bent back. Gray hair stuck to his scalp. His face was a map of wrinkles and old scars. He wore a faded coat that had once been black, now gray with dust and age.
Cinder didn't answer.
The old man crouched. His knees cracked. He looked at Cinder's face, then at his hands, then at the blood on his shirt.
"That your blood?" The old man's voice was rough. Like gravel.
"No."
The old man tilted his head. His eyes were sharp. Too sharp for a man his age.
"Whose is it?"
"Doesn't matter."
The old man studied him for a long moment. Then he snorted. He stood, held out a hand.
"Get up. Can't sit here. The city watch'll be out soon. They see you looking like that, you're dead."
Cinder stared at the offered hand. His arm felt heavy. His whole body felt heavy.
'Get up. Move. Can't stay here.'
He took the hand. The old man pulled. Cinder's legs almost gave out again, but he caught himself on the wall. The world tilted, steadied.
"Where'd you come from?" the old man asked.
"Nowhere."
"Mm." The old man started walking. Slow. Limping. "Follow me."
Cinder watched him for a second. Then he followed.
They walked through streets that got narrower, darker, older. Buildings leaned over them, blocking the light. The cobblestones were slick with something that wasn't water. The smell was worse here. Rot. Sewage. Old smoke.
The old man didn't look back. He just walked, his limp getting worse with every step.
They stopped at a door. Wood. Cracked. The old man pushed it open, ducked inside.
Cinder followed.
The room was small. A single window with a torn curtain. A table. Two chairs. A cot in the corner with a threadbare blanket. A fireplace with no fire. The walls were damp. Mold crept up from the floor.
The old man sat in one of the chairs. He let out a long breath, like it cost him something.
"Sit," he said.
Cinder sat. The chair creaked.
The old man looked at him. His eyes moved over Cinder's face, his neck, his hands. He didn't blink.
"You got the mark," the old man said.
Cinder's hand went to his chest. "What mark?"
"On your neck. Behind your ear." The old man pointed. "System mark. All Judges have it. Starts small. Grows as you rank up."
Cinder touched the spot. His fingers found something. Raised skin. Rough. Like a burn scar.
'I didn't have that before.'
"How do you know about Judges?" Cinder asked.
The old man was quiet for a long moment. Then he pulled down the collar of his coat.
A mark. Same spot. Faded. Almost gone, but still there. A scar that looked like a brand.
"I was one," the old man said. "Forty years ago."
Cinder stared at the mark. Then at the old man's face. His hands. The way they shook.
"What happened?"
The old man let out a dry laugh. "What happens to all of them. The burden got too heavy. I started seeing things. Hearing things. Couldn't tell the guilty from the innocent anymore." He pulled his collar back up. "I gave it up. Lost the power. Lost everything."
"How do you give it up?"
"You don't. It gives you up. When you're too broken to be useful." The old man leaned back in his chair. His eyes were half-closed. "But you're new. Fresh. The system doesn't give up on new ones. Not until it's sucked everything out of you."
Cinder sat in silence. His hands were still shaking. His head still pounded.
'This is my future. Broken. Sitting in a damp room. Waiting to die.'
"What's your name?" the old man asked.
"Cinder."
"Cinder." The old man tested the word. "I'm Theros."
Cinder nodded. He didn't have anything to say.
Theros looked at him for a long moment. Then he stood. He moved to the fireplace, started stacking wood from a pile by the wall. His hands were steady now. More steady than they'd been before.
"You judged someone tonight," Theros said. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah."
"How many?"
"847."
Theros's hand paused on the kindling. He looked over his shoulder. "847 cycles. First night."
"Yeah."
Theros turned back to the fire. He struck a flint. Sparks flew. The kindling caught.
"You're still standing," Theros said. "That's something. Most first-timers pass out after a hundred. Some die."
'I passed out. After six hundred. Does that count?'
"You feel it now?" Theros asked. "The weight. The echoes."
Cinder thought about the woman in the cell. The rope on her wrists. The terror in her chest.
"Yeah."
"It doesn't go away." Theros stood. The fire was growing now, casting flickering shadows on the walls. "Every person you judge adds to it. Every scream. Every death. It all stays."
Cinder watched the fire. Orange light danced on the damp walls.
'What have I done?'
"Why?" Theros's voice was quiet now. "Why did you accept the system? Most people run. They hide. They die before they touch it."
Cinder thought about the alley. The councilman. The cigar on his chest. The way the man had walked away like nothing happened.
"I was dying," Cinder said. "It was that or nothing."
Theros looked at him. His eyes were old. Tired. But there was something else there too. Something that might have been recognition.
"That's a reason," Theros said. "Not a good one. But a reason."
He moved to the cot. He pulled the blanket off, tossed it to Cinder.
"Sleep. You'll need it. The system's going to wake you in a few hours with another target. It doesn't stop."
Cinder caught the blanket. It smelled like mold and old sweat. He didn't care.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked.
Theros sat on the edge of the cot. He stared at the fire.
"Because I was you. Forty years ago. Fresh. Angry. Thinking I could make things right." He shook his head. "I couldn't. You won't either. But maybe… maybe you can do something I couldn't."
"What's that?"
Theros didn't answer. He lay down on the cot, his back to Cinder.
"Sleep," he said again.
Cinder sat in the chair, the blanket in his lap. The fire crackled. The shadows moved on the walls.
He looked at his hands. They were still shaking. The cracked skin on his knuckles was scabbing over. He could still feel the woman's fear in his chest. The rope. The dark.
'847 cycles. Eight percent of that is…'
He closed his eyes.
---
The dreams came.
He was in the cell again. But this time he was himself. His own hands. His own body. The rope was around his wrists, cutting into his skin. The door opened. Light.
Valtris stepped through. But it wasn't Valtris. It was the councilman. The fat face. The expensive coat. He was smiling.
"Should've stayed out of it," the councilman said.
His hand closed around Cinder's throat.
---
Cinder woke gasping.
The fire was low. The room was dark. His heart was hammering. Sweat soaked his shirt.
He looked around. Theros was still on the cot. Still breathing. Still asleep.
'Just a dream. Just a fucking dream.'
He leaned back in the chair. His throat was raw. His hands were shaking again.
A voice spoke in his skull. Not the system. Something else. Something that sounded like the councilman.
[He's lying. The old man. He knows more than he's telling.]
Cinder's eyes went to Theros. The old man hadn't moved.
'What are you hiding?'
The fire crackled. The shadows danced.
Cinder closed his eyes. But he didn't sleep.
---
When the purple light of morning filtered through the torn curtain, Theros woke. He sat up slowly, his joints popping. He looked at Cinder, still in the chair, still awake.
"Didn't sleep," Theros said.
"Couldn't."
Theros nodded. He stood, stretched his back. He moved to the fire, stirred the embers, added more wood.
"There's a man," Theros said without turning around. "Name's Goran Valtris. Heard he had a bad night. Can't talk anymore. Can't move. Just stares at the ceiling."
Cinder's jaw tightened.
"They'll find him," Theros continued. "The city watch. The nobles. They'll see what happened to him. They'll start looking for whoever did it."
"Let them."
Theros turned. His face was serious. "You don't understand. They know about Judges. They hunt them. The Empire doesn't like people who take justice into their own hands. Especially people with power."
He walked to the window, looked out through the torn curtain.
"There's an order. The Ordo Judicis. They're Judges who work for the Empire. They hunt rogue Judges. The ones who don't follow the rules." He looked back at Cinder. "They'll come. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But they'll come."
Cinder stood. His legs were unsteady, but they held.
"Then I'll deal with them when they do."
Theros let out a laugh. Dry. Hollow.
"You sound like me. Forty years ago." He shook his head. "You'll learn. Or you'll die. Maybe both."
He moved to the table, picked up a crust of bread from a plate. He broke it in half, held out one piece to Cinder.
"Eat. You'll need your strength."
Cinder took the bread. It was hard. Stale. He ate it anyway. His stomach growled.
Theros ate his half slowly, chewing each bite like it cost him something.
When they were done, Theros sat back in his chair. He looked at Cinder with those sharp, tired eyes.
"What are you going to do?" Theros asked. "When the next target comes up. When the system tells you to judge again. What are you going to do?"
Cinder thought about it. About Valtris. About the 847 cycles. About the woman's fear still sitting in his chest.
'I did what I had to. What the system told me to do.'
But that wasn't true. The system gave him a choice. Execute. Torture. Spare. He chose torture.
'Because I wanted to.'
"I'll do what I have to," Cinder said.
Theros stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"That's what I thought you'd say."
He stood, moved to the door. He paused with his hand on the latch.
"There's a soldier," Theros said. "Name's Vex. He's young. Dumb. Got a sin count of 3. Three." He emphasized the number. "He's going to be at the east gate tonight. The system's going to tell you to judge him. It's going to show you his sins. Three small things. A stolen loaf of bread. A punch thrown in a bar fight. A lie to an officer."
He looked back at Cinder.
"What are you going to do then?"
Cinder didn't answer.
Theros opened the door. The purple light spilled in.
"Think about it," he said. "Before the system makes you choose."
He walked out. The door closed behind him.
Cinder stood alone in the small, damp room. The fire crackled. His hands were still shaking.
[NEW TARGET IDENTIFIED.]
[NAME: VEX KALLISTO]
[SIN COUNT: 3]
[CRIMES: THEFT (1), ASSAULT (1), PERJURY (1)]
[LOCATION: EAST GATE. 22:00 HOURS.]
[YOUR MISSION: EXECUTE JUDGEMENT.]
Cinder read the words. Three sins. A loaf of bread. A punch. A lie.
'Theros knew. He knew this was coming.'
He sat back down in the chair. His hands were steady now. He looked at them.
'What am I going to do?'
The fire popped. A log shifted, sending sparks up the chimney.
Cinder stared into the flames.
'Three sins. Three.'
He didn't move. He didn't sleep. He just sat there, watching the fire burn down to ash, waiting for the purple sky to darken again.