Zorin smiles. "If all you care about is the Angel, why create the Dark Templars?"
"For my parents."
"Were they secret rebels too?"
"No—"
"Then why?"
"Because I've seen injustice, and I will end it."
"Because you know what is right?"
"No." I soften my voice. "But I believe more than one person should decide."
He nods. "Remember those words. When you find your Angel."
"You think the Angel should live?"
"I just wonder whether you'll give it a trial or play judge and jury."
I know he intends to challenge me, to broaden my way of thinking, but it's still irritating. "Whose side are you on?"
"Yours," he says, his smile fading. "Always yours." He leans closer to me and speaks more quietly.
"I traveled with a Prince, once. His father, the King, disowned him when he was a boy. 'No weakling is a son of mine,' he said. So the Prince vowed to grow strong and one day return and destroy his father.
"For years he traveled, collecting mercenaries, bandits, thieves, until he was no longer a boy. 'I'm not ready,' he said. 'I need a castle of my own,' he said. He did not pillage or burn. He marched his army to the castle of a warlord, one known for terrorizing the countryside, and forced him to surrender before his might. As the Prince took his new throne, his right-hand man informed him that his father, the King, has passed away in his sleep. The Prince felt rage, for he had failed at his revenge. And then he felt hollow, for he realized it didn't matter. And he felt happy, for he realized he had stopped a warlord and turned criminals into an army. For him that was enough."
I frown. "So my vengeance will feel hollow."
"Vengeance is powerful, but it is not justice."
"It can be both."
He shakes his head. "It cannot."
"Why?"
"Motivation."
I remember the Angel bashing in my father's skull. "I have enough."
"But what kind? Good men steal, bad men steal. Good men kill, bad men kill. What is the difference between good and bad, right and wrong, if not motivation?"
"So I should forget the Angel? I cannot."
I expect him to chuckle at my resistance, as he often does. Instead, he stares at the horizon. "If the Prince had forgotten his father, would he have accomplished as much as he had?"
"No. He would have grown complacent in an easy life."
"And instead he became a great man. What would he have become if he had killed his father?"
I don't know. I have never killed with my own hands—and never outside of self-defense. "You worry about who I will become," I say.
He doesn't answer for a while. When he does, his eyes are full of sorrow. "I've made mistakes, Scarlett. I pray you are not one of them."
***
Zorin and I watch the sun rise, and he offers to show me the progress on our base. He escorts me inside the catacombs under the Cathedral. Blue lanterns light the gray walls of the spacious tunnels. We enter a circular clearing where a man and woman spar with swords. The woman throws sand at the man, blinding him, and then lands a strike to his ribs. "I've been training some of the Dark Templars," says Zorin. "Some show more promise than you."
I nudge his arm and he winks at me, his mouth turning up in a small grin.
We continue on through a tunnel and enter a different clearing. Here the roof has been torn open, allowing sunlight to pour down. The Night Raven, covered in dirt, sits in the center. Zorin points at the opening above. "Eventually, we'll install a door you can control remotely."
Trix slides out from under the aircraft, wiping dust from her hands. She studies a bolt in her palm, then throws it aside. "Stupid piece of metal."
"What are you doing?" I ask. I hope it's not tearing apart my billion dollar aircraft.
"Upgrading." Trix pets the Night Raven like it's a puppy, putting me at ease. "Some of these parts are old. Sure, they still work well, but not top-of-the-line anymore. You know?"
"The Night Raven is new."
"New official military aircraft, yes. But they're making better prototypes now. See what I'm saying?"
I nod. "How do you know so much about planes?"
"Planes. Tanks. Cars. You name it, my mom taught me how to fix it." She walks over to a workstation and grabs a wrench. "You know, if it wasn't for the war, I could be sitting somewhere with a wrench in one hand and a beer in the other." TR walks in and tosses her a beer. "Well," says Trix, smiling. "It's sunnier where I imagine."
The war stopped her from doing what she loved. I'd been lucky, my daily life nearly unchanged. I wonder if my Templar parents made sure of that. "Were you conscripted?" I ask.
"Nah." Trix opens the beer and takes a sip. "But TR and I couldn't sit around and let others do all the fighting."
TR nods. He looks more relaxed since last night, but when his eyes meet Zorin's, both men grit their jaws. Before things can escalate again, I tell Trix good work and, with a slight push of my wings, I jump out of the open ceiling, landing on a patch of grass to the side of the Cathedral. Zorin lands at my side.
"You will cooperate with him," I say, walking back to the Cathedral.
"He killed Nephilim."