"I don't see why we should give the army a single copper until we've made sure they have some discipline and some decency," one of the Pharasmins is saying. "Maybe the Army Committee thinks that since we're not ruled by Hell anymore, that's good enough. Well, let me tell you this: the armies of Rahadoum weren't ruled by Hell either. And when they'd taken Corentyn and they marched to our village, that didn't stop them stealing the harvest like they didn't care if we starved. It didn't stop them treating our daughters like whores. It certainly didn't stop them trying to kill my twelve-year-old son for a few unwise words, and thank the Creator I was able to save him."

That's — it's not that she didn't know soldiers could be terrible, but — you'd really think anyone could figure out it's wrong to murder an innocent twelve-year-old, even Asmodeans know that much — a twelve year old's a child, even if he'd started defending Asmodeus or something you shouldn't kill a little kid over it, she would never—

Stygio was twelve. Stygio was twelve, and he was the son of an awful Asmodean nobleman, growing up just like his awful Asmodean brothers, and maybe in three years he'd have been just like Guifré but, but you can't murder someone just because they might grow up to be awful—

A twelve year old is a child, thirteen it's a little complicated but — when Raimon told her about Queralt—

—this all feels very complicated but it's not, not really—

If you set fire to someone's house sometimes there's someone else living there who doesn't get out — only it's not even that, it's not like she was aiming for his father and accidentally got him killed, she told her fellows to kill him and they listened and it might not have been her hand on the sword that ran him through but that's not even slightly an excuse—

—he was twelve years old—

Carefully, without letting any of this show on her face, she gets up from her seat and slips out of the room. She can't do this, not here — the committee rooms should be unlocked, she thinks—

She closes the door behind her and slides down to the ground, leaning her back against the door with a thud. It feels like there's a heavy shadow pressing down against her chest, blanketing her in feelings she can't name until it's practically enough to choke her.

She's killed a child. A twelve-year-old. She's killed a twelve-year-old, and no matter what she does for the rest of her life she will never not have killed a twelve-year-old. 

There's Evil things you can make up for but that's not one of them.

And people kept warning her she was going to get innocent people hurt by mistake, and she thought they were wrong — and honestly, they probably were wrong, she didn't get him hurt by mistake — it would have been so easy to just say except Stygio—

She should—

The thought skitters away, but not quite fast enough that she can't catch it. She should turn herself in. Like the man Laia was talking about, the one from the riots. Really what she ought to do is find someone with a reason to avenge him, but she doesn't have any idea how to track down Stygio's surviving relatives, the ones who'd married into other families where she couldn't touch them, and she does know how to find someone from the Watch.

It wouldn't be perfect, but at least she'd be dead and in the Abyss like she deserves.

Only she — isn't. She could and she should and she isn't. Because — because she doesn't want to die, and apparently she's just — letting that be more important than justice.

She wants to talk to Valia or Alicia or Raimon or Feliu or someone, only — either they'd tell her she should die for it or they'd tell her she shouldn't, and she's not sure which would be worse.

She wants to not have killed a twelve-year-old. That's not something she can have.

Nothing is alright, and nothing is going to be alright as long as what she did goes unavenged, and — and—

She stays in the committee room for a long, long time.