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Chapter Text

The summer heat clung to Kholinar Heights like a stubborn ghost, shimmer-hazy and restless. The kind of heat that made tempers short and engines loud. Kaladin Stormblessed leaned against his bike outside the rundown diner at the edge of town, a worn leather jacket over a white T-shirt, hair slicked back with more care than he’d ever admit. His boys—Moash, Drehy, Skar—smoked lazily nearby, watching the cars roll by like predators waiting on slow prey.

Kaladin wasn’t the kind of greaser who trashed mailboxes or picked fights for fun. He was the kind who carried the weight of the world in his jawline. Everyone whispered about how his little brother Tien had died in a factory accident last fall, how the city council—led by Mayor Dalinar Kholin—had promised safety reforms that never came.

Kaladin hadn’t forgotten.

He definitely hadn’t forgiven.

So when the mayor’s eldest son cruised by in his butter-yellow convertible, polished to perfection, Kaladin’s teeth clenched so hard they squeaked.

Adolin Kholin waved like he was greeting fans at a parade.

Golden boy. Letterman jacket. All charm and perfect hair and perfect teeth. Rumor was he’d never lost a scrap of anything in his life—football game, debate team championship, maybe even an argument with God.

Moash muttered, “Look at him. Thinks he owns the damn town.”

Kaladin didn’t answer. His hands were already fists.

The convertible slowed. Adolin leaned over the passenger seat with a grin that, to his credit, wasn’t mocking—just stupidly friendly.

“Kaladin! Hey—nice bike!” he called, shouting over the engine.

Kaladin glared. “What do you want, Kholin?”

Adolin’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Nothin’. Just being polite.”

“Well don’t.”

It would have ended there, if not for Shallan Davar stepping out of the diner with a sketchbook in hand and a beret that looked like she’d stolen it off a French poet. Her hair was tied up in a messy twist, red curls escaping everywhere. She took one look at the tension and practically glowed with delight—nothing inspired her like impending emotional disaster.

“Oh, this looks interesting,” she grinned. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Adolin flushed. Kaladin scowled harder.

Kaladin swung onto his bike. “I’m leaving.”

“Kaladin, wait—” Adolin began, for reasons he probably didn’t understand himself.

Kaladin revved the engine like a roar. “Stay out of my way, Kholin.”

He tore off down the road, tires squealing.

Adolin stared after him, something tight in his chest.

Adolin wasn’t used to being disliked. People adored him. Teachers. Girls. Boys. Old ladies with cats. But Kaladin Stormblessed looked at him like he was the reason the world broke.

And maybe—for Kaladin—he kind of was.

Adolin found himself asking questions he wasn’t supposed to ask. Why was safety still garbage at the factories? Why were kids working double shifts? Why had Tien Stormblessed died at sixteen?

Every answer he dug up made him feel a little sicker.

He wanted to fix it. He wanted to help. He wanted—

Hell, he didn’t know what he wanted.

The end of the school year still held that brittle tension that always hung over Kholinar Heights High. The halls smelled of floor polish, cigarette smoke, and the inevitability of bad decisions.

Kaladin hated every second of it.

He walked in with his jacket over his shoulder, boots loud on the tile. People parted around him instinctively—whether because he was a greaser or because his glare could peel paint, he didn’t know. Didn’t care.

He was halfway to his locker when a familiar voice rang out, too cheerful for the hour:

“Stormblessed!”

Kaladin closed his eyes. Counted to three. Considered turning around and walking straight out the front doors.

Instead he turned towards the boy running at him.

Adolin Kholin jogged toward him, golden-boy confidence shining like it had never been punched in the face. Which, Kaladin thought grimly, was a pity.

Adolin stopped in front of him, breathing lightly, the picture of health, wealth, and everything Kaladin had been born without.

“Morning,” Adolin said. Like they were friends.

“What do you want, Kholin?”

Adolin frowned slightly but didn’t back down. “I wanted to ask if you— uh— had plans for after graduation.”

Kaladin stared at him. “You don’t talk to me for months and now you care about my future?”

“It’s just… I guess I was curious if you planned to stay on at the factory?” Adolin stated. “I’m going to take a gap year to do an internship at the city hall, and if you had ideas about the factory, about making it better, I thought you could share them with me?”  

Kaladin slammed his locker shut. “I don’t want to talk to you about the factory. Don’t pretend we’re buddies.”

“We’re not enemies either, right?” Adolin said, stubborn optimism brightening his voice. “We’re just—”

“Don’t say ‘complicated.’”

Adolin snapped his fingers. “That was exactly what I was going to say.”

Kaladin stalked away before he could respond.

Shallan was already perched in her usual corner in the art room, sketchbook open, coffee in hand. She wore sunglasses indoors because it made her feel dramatic. Renarin sat beside her, attempting to fix a broken slide projector with a level of concentration usually reserved for bomb defusal.

“How long until Kaladin punches my brother?” Renarin asked quietly.

Shallan tapped her pencil against her chin. “Week and a half.”

“You sound confident.”

“They have the emotional maturity of two cats fighting over the same sunny spot.”

Renarin paused. “…so you’re saying Kaladin will win?”

“Obviously.”

Renarin sighed, resigned. “Adolin’s going to get hurt.”

Shallan brightened. “Yes! Isn’t it exciting?”

“Shallan.”

“What? Pain builds character.”

“Or concussions.”

“Sometimes both!”

Renarin buried his face in his hands.

The gym coach—universally hated, universally feared—blew his whistle like he was punishing the air for existing.

“Pair up!” he barked.

Kaladin groaned. He always had trouble pairing up. Most of the greasers cut class. Drehy was sick. Moash was suspended, possibly through the rest of the school year. And Skar had switched into weight training to avoid the coach altogether.

Kaladin was alone.

And Adolin saw it.

He jogged over immediately, beaming like a golden retriever who’d just found a new stick.

“Looks like it’s you and me,” Adolin said.

“No,” Kaladin said simply.

Adolin blinked. “We literally don’t have a choice. There’s no one else.”

Kaladin didn’t answer. He just stared at the ground, jaw tight.

It clicked.

Adolin softened. “You don’t want to hurt me.”

Kaladin shot him a vicious glare. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You punched a locker so hard you bent the metal last year,” Adolin said. “I’m not blind.”

Kaladin said nothing.

Adolin angled his body slightly, tone gentler. “We’ll go easy. Okay?”

Kaladin still didn’t respond, but he didn’t walk away.

That was enough for the coach.

“Training bout!” the coach roared. “Let’s see some grit!”

Adolin jolted. “Wait, training? Like—”

Kaladin’s fist collided with Adolin’s shoulder—a controlled hit, but hard.

Adolin stumbled back with a yelp. “Storms, Kaladin! I thought we were—“

“You talk too much.”

“You hit too hard!”

They circled each other. The rest of the class gathered like hungry birds.

Adolin swung—and Kaladin dodged easily.

Kaladin swept Adolin’s leg—and Adolin stumbled, but stayed up.

Adolin jabbed—Kaladin blocked.

It wasn’t anger, exactly. It wasn’t hate. It was something sharper. Older. Like they were fighting ghosts neither could name.

By the end, both were panting. Bruised. Frustrated. Stubborn.

And the coach looked delighted, the bastard.

“Again tomorrow!” he barked. “Maybe we’ll see a real fight next time!”

Kaladin shot Adolin a look. “I’m not fighting you.”

“You just did.”

“That wasn’t a fight.”

Adolin shook out his arm. “Felt like one.”

Kaladin walked away.

Adolin watched him go, rubbing the swelling bruise forming on his shoulder.

Enemies, yes.

But gravity was gravity.

Even when you didn’t want it.

Election season hit Kholinar Heights like a storm nobody asked for.

Every street got plastered with red-white-and-blue DALINAR KHOLIN FOR MAYOR posters. Storefronts set out little campaign signs whether they supported him or not—because refusing made things… complicated. The Kholins weren’t corrupt, not technically, but they had a way of making people feel guilty for disagreeing with them.

Adolin spent every afternoon handing out flyers, smiling until his cheeks hurt. He didn’t exactly love politics, but he loved his dad, and supporting the family meant showing up.

Kaladin hated every second of it.

He couldn’t walk five feet without seeing Dalinar’s face staring down at him from a lamp post. At school, teachers praised the mayor’s “commitment to the community.” At the diner, old men argued about taxes. Even at home, Lirin and Hesina were anxious—campaign season meant factory inspections, and inspections might mean temporary layoffs.

Tien would’ve had to miss work for that. He’d be so proud to help support the family. His smile on his first day of work had been enough to power the Sun. His smile had warmed Kaladin from the inside out.

Kaladin felt that in his bones like a bruise that never healed.

So when he walked into school on a Thursday morning and saw Adolin and a group of preppy kids stapling campaign posters to the bulletin board, something inside him snapped just a little.

Adolin noticed him instantly.

“Kaladin!” he said, bright, unthinking. “Hey, what do you think? We’re adding posters to every main hallway—Dad’s pushing hard this year.”

Kaladin stared at the poster:
DALINAR KHOLIN — HONESTY. INTEGRITY. COMMUNITY.

He could think of a dozen factory workers who’d disagree.

“You really want my opinion?” Kaladin asked.

Adolin hesitated. “…Yes?”

“It looks like propaganda.”

The hallway went silent.

One of Adolin’s friends laughed awkwardly. “Well, you know how greasers are—”

Kaladin turned his stare on the kid. “Finish that sentence.”

Adolin stepped between them fast, hands up. “Okay, let’s all calm down—”

Kaladin’s voice cut sharp as a knife. “Your dad never fixed a damn thing at the factory.”

Adolin stiffened. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair people died there.”

Adolin’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know what my family does behind the scenes.”

“I know what they don’t do.”

Students were stopping to watch. Whispers. Tension thick enough to choke on.

Adolin forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Can we talk somewhere else? Maybe away from—”

“No,” Kaladin said. “I’m done talking.”

He walked away, shoulders rigid.

Adolin stared after him, cheeks burning—not from anger, but from something uglier.

Shame.

That night, Adolin sat at the dinner table staring at his mashed potatoes like they held answers.

Dalinar noticed. Of course he did. Dalinar noticed everything.

“You look troubled, son.”

Adolin swallowed. “Some people think… we’re not doing enough.”

Dalinar’s expression softened. “The Stormblessed boy?”

Adolin froze. “You know?”

“I hear things,” Dalinar said simply. “He lost his brother in the factory. I don’t blame him for having a chip on his shoulder.”

Adolin leaned forward, tension snapping loose. “Then why don’t we fix it? Really fix it? Not just campaign promises?”

Dalinar’s face tightened. “It isn’t that simple.”

“It could be.”

“Adolin—”

“Dad, he’s right! People are getting hurt. What if there’s another serious accident? The safety rails are still broken. The night shifts are understaffed. And every time someone complains, the managers say they’ll ‘put in a request’ that never gets approved.”

Dalinar sighed deeply. “You don’t understand how politics works.”

“Then explain it to me!”

There was a long pause.

Dalinar didn’t answer.

Adolin’s stomach twisted.

Two days later, Kaladin and Moash sat in their usual booth at the diner, boots up on the seats, arms crossed. At a booth across from them, Shallan sat cross legged, sketching people without their permission. Renarin sat beside her correcting homework, though no one had asked him to correct it.

The doorbell jingled.

Adolin walked in with a stack of campaign materials, looking tired in a way Kaladin had never seen before.

Moash nudged Kaladin. “Here comes blondie.”

“Not my problem.”

But Adolin walked straight toward them anyway.

He stopped at Kaladin’s table, swallowing hard. “Can we talk?” he asked quietly.

Kaladin didn’t look at him. “We already did.”

Adolin shifted. “Look, I know you hate all of this—”

“I hate what he stands for, what he hasn’t done.”

“My father—”

“Your father,” Kaladin said, eyes cold, “may as well have cost my brother his life. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“He doesn’t own the factory,” Adolin pointed out.

“No, but he promised to enforce regulations to fix it,” Kaladin snapped. 

Adolin flinched like he’d been struck.

The whole diner went still.

After a long beat, Adolin whispered, “I do understand.”

Kaladin snorted. “Right.”

“Look, it’s true that I may not understand what it’s like to lose someone in quite that way.” Adolin’s voice wavered—not weakly, but honestly. “But you’re wrong if you think I don’t care. Or that I’ve never lost anyone.”

Kaladin finally looked at him.

Really looked.

For a second, something softened. Everyone in town knew that Adolin’s mother had died years ago. For the first time, Kaladin thought he saw some of that pain bubble into Adolin’s eyes. 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke; but then Kaladin stood up, grabbed his jacket, and walked past Adolin without another word.

Shallan sighed dramatically. “That went well.”

Renarin elbowed her. “Shallan.”

Adolin stayed frozen beside the table, staring at nothing.

He didn’t cry.

But he suddenly looked very young, very human, and very alone.

Kaladin sat on his roof, watching storm clouds roll in. He wanted to be angry. He was angry. But something about Adolin’s voice in the diner unsettled him.

Caring didn’t fix anything.

Caring didn’t bring Tien back.

But it… mattered. More than he wanted it to.

Adolin, meanwhile, sat on his bedroom floor surrounded by campaign posters. He picked one up, stared at his father’s strong, confident smile.

He felt sick.

He had never doubted his father before.

He didn’t know how to start now.

And outside, campaign season rolled on, relentless as the thunder.

Chapter Text

The first vandalized poster appeared on a Monday morning.

Kaladin saw it on his way to school: Dalinar’s campaign poster, slashed across the face with dripping black spray paint. Someone had scrawled LYING SUIT over his eyes. Below that, in jagged letters:

GREASERS DON’T BOW

Kaladin stopped dead.

His stomach dropped. Hard.

Because whoever did this wanted it to look like his people.

Moash whistled low. “Damn, Kal. Didn’t know you felt that bold.”

“I didn’t do that,” Kaladin snapped.

Moash shrugged. “Looks like our style.”

“It’s not.” Kaladin stared at the words, jaw set. “It’s too… obvious.”

Skar squinted at the paint dripping down the concrete. “Whoever did this wants the cops lookin’ at us.”

Drehy nodded. “Sadeas’s buddies on the police force will lap this up.”

Kaladin clenched his fists. “Damn it.”

Students passing by stared openly—some scared, some impressed, some whispering.

It was only the beginning.

By lunch, three more posters had been vandalized around town.

By the next morning, twenty.

And every single one had the same spray-painted signature:

GREASERS DON’T BOW

Adolin spent the next two days in damage-control hell.

He went door-to-door with his father’s campaign volunteers, collecting ruined posters and replacing them. Every time he pulled down a piece of dripping vandalism, he felt his frustration grow like a pressure valve ready to blow.

The whispers followed him everywhere:

“Those greaser boys are getting bold.”
“Stormblessed must be behind it.”
“Kaladin, right? The one whose brother died? I heard he’s been planning something.”
“Dangerous family, that one.”

By Wednesday afternoon, Adolin’s nerves were frayed raw.

He turned a corner behind the gym and nearly tripped over another defaced poster.

Dalinar’s printed smile had been covered with a crude cartoonish mustache.

Underneath someone had written:

STORMBLESSED SENDS HIS REGARDS

Adolin ripped it off the wall so hard the paper tore in half. His face burned hot with anger—

—not at Kaladin.
Not entirely.
But at the whole situation. The lies. The assumptions. The way everyone was so damn eager to point fingers.

Renarin found him five minutes later, still shaking.

“You okay?” Renarin asked gently.

“No,” Adolin said. “I’m really not.”

Renarin hesitated. “…You want to talk to him?”

Adolin looked at him sharply. “Why would I do that?”

“Because he didn’t do this.”

Adolin rubbed his face. “I want to believe that.”

“Then believe it.”

“It’s not that simple!”

Renarin gave him a long—very Renarin—look. Quiet. Serious. Cutting through Adolin’s excuses like a scalpel.

“Sometimes it is,” he said.

“His name is on the poster!” Adolin cried.

“Why would he do that to himself? He knows trouble will come to whoever did this to dad. He wouldn’t put his own name on it.” Renarin argued softly. “That just makes me think it’s less likely to be him.”

Adolin didn’t reply. 

It happened after school.

Kaladin was walking toward the bike racks when a police cruiser rolled up, lights flashing. Kids nearby stopped to stare as Officer Torol Sadeas stepped out—tall, smug, and with a badge he loved a little too much.

“Kaladin Stormblessed,” Sadeas called. “We need to have a chat.”

Kaladin froze, expression darkening. “I haven’t done anything.”

Sadeas smiled a politician’s smile. “Funny—you sound guilty already.”

Moash stepped forward. “He didn’t do any of that vandalism crap.”

Sadeas ignored him.

He pulled a folded sheet from his pocket—a photograph. He held it up.

It was a picture of a vandalized poster. Fresh paint—still dripping.

Next to it?

The red smudge of a familiar leather jacket sleeve that had smeared paint in the shape of the buckles on a greaser’s leather coat. As if someone had gotten paint on their sleeve before leaning against the poster.

Kaladin’s jacket.

Or at least… something that looked like it.

Kaladin’s heart pounded, lifting his right arm. “That’s not from me. Look, no paint.” 

“Sure looks like your sleeve,” Sadeas said lazily, eyes flickering to the buckles on Kaladin’s jacket. “And eyewitnesses claim they saw a greaser running from the scene.”

Moash swore loudly. “That’s a setup!”

Sadeas sighed. “You kids always say that.”

Kaladin stepped forward, fists clenched. “I didn’t do this. I don’t need to sabotage his campaign because I’m not playing his stupid games.”

“Oh, you’re playing,” Sadeas said, smirking. “Big time.”

Kaladin felt something hot crawl up his throat. Anger. Humiliation. Fear.

Kids were watching. Whispering.

The crowd parted suddenly as Adolin pushed through, cheeks flushed, eyes sharp with determination.

“Sadeas,” he snapped, “that’s enough.”

Sadeas raised an eyebrow. “You here to defend your father’s saboteur?”

“Kaladin didn’t do this.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Adolin said, voice hot. “He’s a lot of things, but he’s not a coward who hides behind signatures and spray paint.”

Kaladin stiffened.

That wasn’t a compliment.

Or maybe it was.

Sadeas smiled thinly. “So, we’re taking character witnesses from the mayor’s son now?”

Adolin stepped between Sadeas and Kaladin. “If you’re going to accuse someone, you’d better have something real. That photograph isn’t enough.”

“Careful, boy,” Sadeas said. “Your father doesn’t control me.”

“No,” Adolin said sharply, “but the truth does.”

A tense silence hung in the air.

Finally, Sadeas clicked his tongue. “Fine. We’ll be watching you, Stormblessed.”

He climbed into his cruiser and drove off.

The moment the car disappeared around the corner, a wave of whispers broke out.

Adolin exhaled shakily, turning toward Kaladin.

And Kaladin—

—looked like he was carved entirely out of shock and stubborn pride.

“Why did you do that?” Kaladin demanded. “You don’t even like me.”

“I don’t have to like you to know when something’s wrong,” Adolin snapped.

Kaladin opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I didn’t spray those posters,” he said quietly.

Adolin nodded once. Firm. Certain. “I know.”

Kaladin’s jaw tightened.

He looked away.

Adolin did too.

They stood there, not speaking, not looking at each other, bound together by a problem neither wanted and a truth neither could ignore.

Enemies.

But now enemies tangled in the same mess.

Sadeas wasted no time.

By the next morning, a black sedan pulled into the Kholin driveway before sunrise, tires crunching the gravel with too much purpose. Dalinar Kholin stepped out onto the porch in his robe, half a mug of coffee in one hand, sternness in the other.

Torol Sadeas approached him with a self-satisfied smile. Next door, the neighbor’s dog barked as he approached.

“Dalinar,” he greeted, “you need to hear about what your son’s gotten himself tangled in.”

Adolin had barely buttoned his shirt for school when he heard the door to his father’s study slam open.

“Adolin!” Dalinar’s voice thundered.

Renarin, quietly eating cereal, winced. “He sounds… unhappy.”

“That’s normal,” Adolin muttered, straightening his collar. “We’ll be fine.”

He slipped down the hall and had hardly stepped into the office before his father was speaking.

“You defended Kaladin Stormblessed yesterday.”

Adolin froze in the doorway.

Dalinar stood behind his desk, hands planted firmly on the polished wood like he needed to hold himself down. Sadeas lingered in the corner, smirking like a man who’d just thrown a lit match into dry brush.

Adolin stiffened. “I told the truth.”

“The truth,” Sadeas cut in smoothly, “is that the greasers vandalized over thirty posters. If your son sides with them publicly, it undermines the entire campaign.”

Adolin glared. “I didn’t side with anyone. I just said Kaladin didn’t do it.”

Dalinar’s tone dropped into dangerous calm. “Adolin. Sit.”

Adolin stayed standing. “If I sit, it’ll feel like I did something wrong.”

Dalinar’s jaw worked slowly, the way it did when he was choosing his words very carefully.

“Torol tells me you publicly contradicted a police investigation.”

“Sadeas isn’t investigating—he’s harassing,” Adolin argued.

Sadeas put on a wounded face. “I’m just doing my job, son.”

Dalinar cut them both off with a raised hand. “Whether Stormblessed is guilty or not isn’t the point.”

Adolin blinked. “…isn’t it?”

“The point,” Dalinar continued, “is optics. A mayor’s family cannot appear sympathetic to the group accused of sabotage.”

Adolin felt something cold settle in his chest.

“So what are you saying?”

Dalinar stepped out from behind the desk. His voice softened—not gentle, but controlled. Like a man negotiating a hostage situation with himself.

“I need you to stay away from Kaladin Stormblessed.”

Adolin forgot how to breathe.

“What? Why?”

“Because people are watching,” Dalinar said. “And they are looking for weaknesses. If the press catches wind that my son is defending a greaser accused of vandalizing my campaign—”

“Dad, he didn’t do it.”

“That does not matter,” Dalinar said sharply. “Perception matters.”

Adolin stared at him, throat tight. “You’re asking me to ignore a lie.”

“I’m asking you,” Dalinar said, “to protect this family. And this city.”

Sadeas added quietly, “Stormblessed is trouble, Adolin. He always has been.”

Adolin snapped. “You don’t know him!”

The room went utterly still.

Dalinar’s voice dropped to a cold command. “He is not your concern.”

Adolin felt his jaw clench, emotions knotted tight—anger, confusion, betrayal. But he also knew something else:

Whatever he said next mattered.

A lot.

So he swallowed everything he wanted to yell and simply asked:

“Is that an order?”

Dalinar hesitated. Then nodded once.

“Yes.”

Adolin looked at his father for a long, painful second.

Then he turned and walked out.

Sadeas smiled smugly at Dalinar.

Dalinar did not smile back.

Kaladin didn’t look up when Adolin entered the hallway. The greasers had formed a semicircle around him, shoulders guarded, eyes sharp. Rumors were already flying—Kaladin vandalizing posters, Kaladin getting arrested any day, Kaladin being a violent influence.

Kaladin stood between his friends like a pillar made of old anger.

Adolin walked past him without a word.

Kaladin glanced up, surprised—Adolin always tried to say something, annoyingly—but Adolin didn’t look his way. Didn’t acknowledge him at all.

He walked by like Kaladin was just any other face in the hallway.

And it felt—

Wrong.

Kaladin frowned. Watched him go.

Moash nudged him. “Golden boy finally figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” Kaladin asked sharply.

“That he’s too good to stand near us.”

Kaladin didn’t respond.

But his chest felt tight in a way he hated, in a way he didn’t understand.

Adolin didn’t look back.

Not once.

Adolin sat in the passenger seat beside Renarin, who was driving home from school in their father’s old sedan. Renarin gripped the steering wheel carefully, checking mirrors three times before turning.

Renarin finally spoke.

“You didn’t talk to Kaladin today.”

“No,” Adolin said curtly.

“Did something happen?”

Adolin stared out the window. “Dad told me to stay away from him.”

Renarin’s brows knit. “Because of the vandalism?”

“Because of ‘optics.’” Adolin’s voice soured. “Because it looks bad if I defend someone unpopular.”

Renarin thought for a long moment, then said quietly:

“Are you going to listen?”

Adolin didn’t answer.

Instead, he watched the town pass by—the boarded-up factories, the peeling houses, the campaign posters waving like flags of a war he didn’t believe in anymore.

He didn’t know what he was going to do.

Not yet.

But he knew one thing:

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

Saturday in Kholinar Heights meant families crowding the town park for the annual “Community Picnic,” a tradition Dalinar promoted as proof of unity and wholesome values. There were checkered tablecloths, paper lanterns, booths selling homemade pies, and a makeshift stage decorated with red-white-and-blue bunting.

Kaladin hated it.

He wasn’t planning on showing up at all—greasers weren’t exactly invited—but his mom volunteered at the medical tent every year. Hesina insisted he come help since they were short-staffed.

So Kaladin walked across the grass, jaw tight, helping stack medical supplies while children ran past with balloons and cotton candy.

It felt wrong. Too cheerful. Too fake.

Especially with Dalinar Kholin’s re-election posters nailed to every tree.

Adolin tugged at the collar of his neatly pressed shirt. He’d been given a stack of cue cards that he now stared at like they were written in another language.

His father approached, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Remember,” Dalinar said, voice low, “speak clearly, keep your back straight, and stay calm. Sadeas says this is an important message.”

Adolin swallowed. “Dad… are you sure I need to say this?”

Dalinar’s gaze softened just an inch. “You are my son. People need to know where we stand.”

“And where do we stand?” Adolin asked, more quietly.

Dalinar hesitated.

Sadeas stepped in before he could answer. “With order. With accountability. Vandalism cannot be tolerated, and neither can rebellion.”

Adolin’s stomach twisted.

Kaladin carried a crate toward the medical tent but froze when he saw the stage being prepped. A banner hung overhead:

COMMUNITY FIRST: MAYOR DALINAR KHOLIN SPEAKS AT NOON

Workers adjusted microphones. Families gathered. Kids climbed onto their parents’ shoulders.

And then Kaladin saw the real problem:

Adolin Kholin onstage, holding cue cards with a face so pale even the sun couldn’t warm it.

Moash walked up beside Kaladin, hands shoved in his pockets. “Guess he’s gonna say we’re scum.”

Kaladin scowled. “Adolin wouldn’t—”

He stopped.

He wasn’t actually sure what Adolin would do.

Moash smirked. “Golden boy does whatever Daddy tells him. Always has.”

Kaladin’s jaw clenched—but he didn’t have an argument to throw back.

Not today.

At noon sharp, Dalinar stepped up to introduce his eldest son.

“Community,” Dalinar boomed, “is built on trust. And trust has been shaken by recent acts of vandalism and disorder. Today, my son will address these issues on behalf of our family.”

Scattered applause.

Adolin walked to the microphone, cue cards trembling slightly between his fingers.

Kaladin stood at the back of the crowd, arms crossed. He felt the tension in his chest coil tighter, like a storm building behind his ribs.

Adolin cleared his throat.

“People of Kholinar Heights,” he began, voice steady but strained, “I want to address the acts of vandalism that have targeted my father’s campaign…”

He paused. His eyes flicked across the crowd.

They landed—only for a heartbeat—on Kaladin.

“…and the groups associated with it.”

Kaladin’s fingers curled slowly into fists.

Moash muttered, “Here it comes.”

Adolin looked back at his cards.

His father stood a few feet behind him, arms crossed. Sadeas stood beside the stage, watching like a wolf waiting for the kill.

Adolin forced down a breath.

“The acts committed…”
His voice wavered.
“…by the unruly elements in town—”

Kaladin’s heart dropped.

Moash let out a low, satisfied sound. “Told you.”

Kaladin stared at the stage, hurt burning hot and bitter.

Adolin swallowed hard.

“…are unacceptable, and must be condemned.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Dalinar nodded approvingly.

Kaladin’s jaw ticked.

Adolin stared down at the card like it might rewrite itself if he just willed it hard enough.

“These actions go against the values of our town,” Adolin continued, voice hollow, “…and the values my family stands for.”

Someone in the crowd shouted, “Lock the greasers up!”

Another said, “Stormblessed is the ringleader!”

Kaladin stiffened.

Adolin flinched.

Dalinar’s face remained stone.

Adolin looked at the next card.

His next line.

He seemed to choke on it.

Kaladin watched him—watched him hesitate, watched him crack in front of the whole town.

Finally, Adolin forced out the final sentence:

“We… we must not allow individuals who promote disorder to disrupt our community. It’s time we stand together as a community and show our neighbors what it means to be a citizen here. And my father will help enforce the values we all take so seriously.”

A few people clapped politely.

Most just nodded.

Adolin stepped back. The applause felt wrong, like it belonged to someone else.

Dalinar patted his shoulder.

Sadeas smiled.

And Kaladin walked away.

Not angrily.

Not storming off.

Just… silently.

Like something inside him had closed.

Adolin found him later near the parking lot, leaning against his bike.

Kaladin didn’t look up.

Adolin approached slowly. “Kal—”

Kaladin cut him off quietly. “Don’t.”

Adolin’s heart sank. “I didn’t want to say those things.”

“You said them anyway.”

“I had to.”

Kaladin finally met his eyes. And what Adolin saw there hurt more than anything Sadeas had ever thrown at him.

Disappointment.
Cold and sharp.

“You don’t have to do what your father says,” Kaladin said. “You choose to.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Kaladin snapped—then stopped himself. His voice dropped. “You don’t get to talk about fair today.”

Adolin opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Kaladin revved his bike and drove off, leaving dust in his wake.

Adolin stood there long after the sound faded.

Renarin eventually walked up beside him, quiet as always.

“Was it worth it?” Renarin murmured.

Adolin didn’t know, so he didn’t answer.

The trouble started small.

A bruising word here, a muttered threat there. Sidewalk whispers. Stares that burned a little too long. People who used to ignore Kaladin now tracked him with a kind of wary hostility.

Like Dalinar’s speech had given them permission.

Kaladin felt the shift before he fully understood it.

Sunday morning, Kaladin pulled up to the alley behind the auto shop where he worked part time. It was usually quiet, but today someone had spray-painted something across the brick:

“GREASER TRASH GET OUT.”

The paint was fresh. Still dripping.

Syl, the one girl who dared hang around with Kaladin and his crew, perched on a fire escape above him like a sassy street cat. She clicked her tongue. “Subtle. Very subtle.”

Kaladin stared at the words, jaw tightening. “I knew people would talk. Didn’t think they’d start redecorating.”

Moash rolled up on his motorcycle a minute later. “Hell’s this?”

“Ignore it,” Kaladin muttered.

Moash didn’t.

He stormed toward the wall, fingers brushing the wet paint. “This isn’t some joke, Kal. They’re coming for us.”

“They’re coming for me,” Kaladin corrected, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let the others stay out of it.”

Moash stared at him, exasperated. “You can’t take on the whole damn town alone.”

Kaladin gave a humorless half-smile. “Watch me.”

School used to be tolerable. Not pleasant, but survivable.

Now?

When Kaladin walked through the halls, lockers slammed shut like gunshots. A paper wad hit his shoulder. Laughter followed.

Someone hissed, “Greasers ruined the posters!”

Another said, “He’s the ringleader. Adolin said so.”

Kaladin’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t look back. Rage simmered under his ribs, but he kept his head down. He had dealt with worse.

Then he turned a corner and froze.

A crowd of students stood around a bulletin board where someone had pinned a photocopy of Dalinar’s speech transcript—highlighting every line that condemned “his type.”
Below it were notes scribbled in pencil:

He probably DID do it.
Kick him out of school.
Filthy greaser.

One added in red ink:

Stormblessed? More like stormCURSED.

Kaladin inhaled through his nose.

Shallan appeared beside him, hair wrapped up in a scarf, hands stained with charcoal. She took one look at the board and said, “Do you want me to burn it?”

Kaladin huffed. “The whole school?”

She shrugged. “If necessary.”

Her attempt at levity faltered when she saw his face.

“Hey… you know this isn’t true, right? You belong here as much as anyone else.”

Kaladin didn’t answer.

Because whatever he used to believe about himself… he wasn’t so sure anymore.

That evening, Kaladin walked home alone. The sun dipped behind the rooftops, the streetlamps flickering to life. The air smelled like exhaust and late-summer heat.

He passed the grocery store, a group of older boys lingering by the vending machine.

The kind who’d never liked greasers.

The kind who liked having someone to blame.

The tallest stepped forward. “Hey. Stormblessed.”

Kaladin didn’t stop walking.

“Your crew’s real brave, huh?” the boy continued. “Trashing campaign posters. Making the mayor look bad.”

Kaladin kept walking.

Another voice: “Maybe you didn’t do it. But you look like the kind of guy who would.”

That one hit something deep and raw inside him.

Footsteps followed. Two boys flanked him.

“Dumping your kind out of this town’d make everything simpler.”

Kaladin’s breathing slowed. His fingers curled into tight fists.

A hand shoved Kaladin from behind.

His mind snapped into that sharp, instinctive clarity he hated—fists, angles, exits, threat assessment.

He turned.

Quick. Controlled.

The boys backed up, startled at the sudden shift.

Kaladin’s voice was low. “Push me again and see what happens.”

None of them expected him to sound like that.

One muttered, “Freaking psycho.”

They scattered.

He walked the rest of the way home in silence.

At dinner that night, Adolin pushed peas around his plate while Dalinar discussed “upcoming community safety measures” with Officer Sadeas.

Renarin slid him a newspaper clipping without a word.

Adolin blinked.

LOCAL GREASERS CAUSE DISRUPTIONS AT SCHOOL
Tension Rises After Mayor Kholin’s Speech

Below was a paragraph about a “confrontation” involving Kaladin Stormblessed.

Adolin’s throat tightened.

“Dad,” he said carefully, “maybe the speech made things worse.”

Dalinar looked up, frowning. “Adolin—”

“He’s not dangerous,” Adolin said quietly. “None of them are.”

Dalinar’s jaw tightened. “You’re too close to this.”

“I’m not close at all,” Adolin snapped. “He won’t even look at me anymore.”

Dalinar’s expression softened for a moment—a father, not a mayor. “Some things,” he murmured, “cannot be mended by friendship.”

“I don’t want to be friends. I just don’t want him to look at me, at us, like we’re part the reason his world collapsed. Even if we are,”

Dalinar stiffened, and Adolin realized he’d said too much—and yet not enough.

Renarin put a hand on his arm under the table.

Dalinar stood. “Regardless, the town must remain safe. And if this Kaladin boy is causing trouble—”

“He’s not.” Adolin stood up so abruptly his chair screeched.

Dalinar’s brows rose.

Sadeas, who had been quietly stirring his coffee, finally spoke:

“The boy’s a problem, Dalinar. Your son has seen that. He agreed to the speech.”

Adolin glared. “This is exactly what you wanted.”

“Adolin,” Dalinar said sharply, “sit down.”

Adolin didn’t.

He walked out.

He could feel his father’s disappointment like a physical weight—but it didn’t hurt as much as the idea of Kaladin walking home alone in the dark with the whole town looking at him like a criminal.

Kaladin woke to shouting outside his window.

He jumped up, pulling the curtains aside—

Just in time to see a brick smash through the family car’s windshield.

Three silhouettes sprinted off into the darkness.

Kaladin’s heart hammered. He ran outside barefoot.

“HEY!”

The figures didn’t turn.

Just laughter carried on the wind.

Kaladin stood in the driveway, breathing hard, glass glittering at his feet.

His hands shook as his parents dashed outside behind to survey the damage. 

Kaladin was silent. They weren’t after the car. He knew that. He felt it in his bones. They were after him.

The broken glass stayed in the driveway all night, glittering in the moonlight like frozen lightning. Kaladin barely slept. Every noise outside made him sit up straight, ready to fight shadows.

By morning, he looked like a storm in a leather jacket.

Syl showed up before dawn, rapping her knuckles on his window until he cracked it open. She wore jeans patched at the knees. Her satin blue jacket caught the light, shining slightly. Her hair was a tangled mess from climbing through backyards to reach him.

“Tell me you didn’t go hunting for them last night,” she demanded without any further greeting.

Kaladin didn’t look at her. “Didn’t need to.”

Syl peered out the window at the shattered windshield outside.

“They’re escalating.”

“No kidding.”

She exhaled sharply. “Kal—”

“Don’t,” he cut in. “I’m tired, Syl.”

“Of what?”

“Being everyone’s favorite target.”

She moved closer, studying him like he was something brittle. “You don’t get to break. That’s their goal.”

Kaladin rubbed his eyes. “I’m not breaking.”

Syl didn’t look convinced.

A knock at the front door startled them both.

Kaladin opened it to find Moash on the porch, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes dark with something meaner than anger.

“I heard,” he said.

“Word travels fast.”

“Good,” Moash growled. “Because we need to hit back.”

Syl stepped into the doorway beside Kaladin. “Absolutely not.”

Moash’s gaze flicked over her, annoyed but dismissive. “This is between me and Stormblessed.”

Syl folded her arms. “Too bad. I’m between you and Stormblessed.”

Moash rolled his eyes. “Look, Kal, they came after you. That makes it open season.”

Kaladin’s jaw tightened. “I’m not going to—”

“You think keeping your head down keeps you safe?” Moash interrupted. “Look at your damn car.”

Kaladin flinched.

Syl stepped closer to Kaladin, voice low. “You’re not like him. Don’t start acting like it.”

Moash scoffed. “He should act like it. That’s the point.”

Kaladin shot him a look. “Moash—”

“Look,” Moash said, lowering his voice as if offering a secret. “I know who did it.”

Kaladin stilled.

Syl’s eyes narrowed. “How?”

Moash shrugged. “I have friends. People talk.”

“Names,” Kaladin said tensely.

Moash grinned like a fox. “Roshone.”

Kaladin’s expression hardened instantly. He knew the name — everyone did. His father was Dalinar’s competitor for mayor (a friendly competition of course). Just like his father, Rollir Roshone was mean, bored, and always looking to torment someone who couldn’t hit back without consequences.

Kaladin exhaled slowly. “Figures.”

“See?” Moash said. “We can take care of this. Quick. Make him think twice next time.”

Syl grabbed Kaladin’s arm. “You’re not even considering this.”

Kaladin didn’t pull away.

Moash leaned in. “We jump him tonight. Scare the hell out of him. Nothing major. Just a reminder that greasers aren’t punching bags.”

Syl’s grip tightened. “Kal—please.”

Kaladin finally spoke. “Moash… I’m not sure.”

Moash’s smile dropped. “What?”

“I’m angry,” Kaladin admitted. “I want to hit something. I want to hit him. But—”

“No ‘but,’” Moash snapped. “They started this.”

“And ending it with a beating solves what?” Syl challenged.

Moash smirked. “Satisfaction.”

Kaladin looked at him — really looked. He saw the fury, the bitterness, the love twisted into something sharp from years of being stepped on.

He also saw what Moash was becoming.

What Moash wanted him to become.

Kaladin swallowed. “Give me time to think.”

Moash scoffed. “Fine. But don’t think so long you forget who hit first.”

He stalked away, cigarette already between his fingers.

After Moash left, Syl let out a breath she’d been holding.

“You’re not doing it.”

Kaladin didn’t answer.

Syl moved in front of him, hands gripping his jacket. “Kal. Listen to me.”

He kept his eyes on the driveway.

“Kaladin, look at me.”

He slowly lifted his gaze.

Syl’s eyes were fierce, bright, and terrified all at once.

“If you go after Roshone,” she said quietly, “they win.”

“How?”

“Because they want you angry. They want you violent. They want you to prove every awful lie they’re already saying about you.”

Kaladin’s voice cracked. “What else am I supposed to do, Syl? Let them walk all over me?”

“No,” she said, softer now. “Just don’t let them turn you into something you’re not.”

Kaladin’s throat tightened.

Syl brushed a piece of glass dust off his arm. “You’re better than this town.”

He didn’t believe her.

Not today.

She saw it.

And that scared her more than any broken window.

By afternoon, every greaser in the Thunder Road Garage knew something was brewing.

Someone had stolen a baseball bat from the auto shop.

Someone else was asking when Roshone got off work.

Kaladin overheard it all, each whisper pulling him closer to a line he wasn’t sure he could un-cross.

Syl stayed glued to his side like a shadow with opinions.

“You’re not doing this,” she hissed for the tenth time.

Kaladin rubbed his temples. “You can’t decide that for me.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Syl—”

“No!” she snapped, startling him. “I won’t watch you ruin your life for a kid who throws bricks in the dark.”

Kaladin stared at her, stunned by the emotion in her voice.

Syl looked away, blinking too fast. “If you get arrested, or beaten, or worse—”

“Syl—”

“Don’t make me watch you disappear.”

Kaladin exhaled shakily.

And in the quiet that followed, he realized something gutting:

She wasn’t scared of Moash’s plan.

She was scared of losing him.

As the sun set, Kaladin walked to the gas station to clear his head.

He should’ve stayed home.

Rollir Roshone and two friends were there, laughing beside a pickup truck, drinking stolen beer.

They saw him.

The laughter stopped.

“Oh look,” Roshone drawled. “Stormblessed. Or Stormbroken.”

Kaladin froze.

One of the boys raised the brick he still had in his truck bed — like a trophy.

“We left one for your car,” he sneered. “Should’ve saved it for your skull.”

Kaladin’s pulse pounded so hard it made his fingertips shake.

Roshone smirked. “Come on, boy. Hit me. Make it fun.”

Kaladin took one step forward.

Just one.

And something deep inside him split open.

Moash’s voice echoed in his mind.

You gonna let him get away with this?

Syl’s voice cut through it, breaking, real.

Don’t disappear, Kal.

He stood there, breathing hard, eyes locked on Roshone, fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched.

One hit.

One swing.

One choice.

The whole town would never let him recover from it.

Kaladin slowly — painfully — turned away.

Roshone laughed behind him. “Coward!”

Kaladin didn’t turn back.

He counted every step until he reached the road.

He kept counting even after he turned into his driveway. He felt like if he stopped, he might turn around and change his mind. 

He didn’t.

But the storm inside him was growing.

He touched the door handle, preparing to go in, when sirens wailed in the air. Kaladin frowned, turning towards the sound. They were heading in the direction of the factory. Memories flooded back, and Kaladin’s heart dropped. Without hesitation, he leapt on his bike and tore away. 

The story reached the Kholin household before sundown.

Not through Dalinar.
Not through the sheriff.
Not even through gossip.

Renarin told him.

He slipped into Adolin’s room quietly, closing the door behind him like he was guarding a secret.

Adolin didn’t look up from his desk. “If this is about dinner, tell Dad I already—”

“It’s about Kaladin,” Renarin said gently.

Adolin froze. His pencil dropped. “What about him?”

Renarin hesitated. “I was getting snacks inside… he got cornered at the gas station.”

Adolin stood so fast his chair slammed into the wall.

“Cornered?”

“By Roshone and two others.”

Adolin’s pulse spiked. “Is he hurt?”

“No.”

“So they didn’t—” Adolin swallowed hard. “They didn’t jump him, then.”

“No. But they tried to provoke him into fighting.” Renarin’s voice wavered, because he knew exactly what that meant. “They wanted him to swing first.”

Adolin’s hands clenched at his sides. “Did he?”

“...No. He walked away.”

Adolin pressed a hand to his forehead, dizziness flooding him. Relief. And then something else—

Fury.

Cold, clean, and overwhelming.

“They did this,” he whispered. “Because of the speech. Because of me.”

“Adolin—”

“I painted a target on him.”

Renarin flinched at the sound of his brother’s voice — frayed, breaking apart. “It isn’t your fault.”

“The hell it’s not!” Adolin snapped, pacing the room. “I stood on that stage and repeated everything Dad and Sadeas wanted me to say. I told the whole town that Kaladin was a threat — and the first chance they got, they treated him like one.”

He raked a hand through his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.

Renarin approached him quietly. “You felt trapped.”

“I was trapped. But that doesn’t matter,” Adolin said, breathing unsteadily. “I gave the speech, and they heard my words loud and clear. Of course they went after him.”

His voice cracked.

“Of course they did.”

Renarin put a hand on his shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

Adolin stared at the floor.

“I don’t know. But I can’t just sit here.”

He didn’t wait for dinner.

Didn’t wait for Dalinar to finish his call.

Adolin stormed into his father’s home office like a thunderclap. Dalinar looked up, mildly surprised.

“Adolin? Something wrong?”

“Yes,” Adolin snapped. “Something is very wrong.”

Dalinar blinked, covered the receiver. “Take a breath. What happened?”

“Rillir cornered Kaladin at the gas station,” Adolin spat. “He tried to start a fight.”

Dalinar’s expression darkened — but not with concern. With political calculation. “I was told there was an incident, but it appears no one was hurt.”

“No one was hurt because Kaladin walked away,” Adolin hissed. “After being provoked. After his car was smashed.”

Dalinar’s jaw tightened. He apologized to the other person on the line and hung up. Then, he turned back to his son. “I understand you’re upset, but Kaladin’s reputation—”

“His reputation?” Adolin exploded. “You mean the one you helped destroy?”

Dalinar stood, voice stern. “You will speak to me with respect.”

“Then act like someone I can respect!” Adolin shot back before he could stop himself.

The silence was instant and suffocating.

Dalinar’s eyes narrowed. “You’re being influenced by that boy and his crowd.”

“I haven’t spoken to him since the speech,” Adolin said, voice cracking. “He won’t even look at me. And why should he? I sold him out.”

Dalinar exhaled through his nose. “You were doing your duty as my son. As a Kholin.”

“Then maybe being a Kholin is the problem,” Adolin whispered.

Dalinar stiffened.

Sadeas stepped through the doorway as silently as a shadow. He always seemed to hang around when re-election was up. He knew he had an ally in Dalinar, which meant he had a vested interest in his re-election. 

Now, he raised an eyebrow. “My, my. Looks like someone’s feeling rebellious.”

Adolin rounded on him. “Stay out of this.”

Sadeas smirked. “You’re angry at the wrong people. That greaser boy has been nothing but trouble—”

Adolin slammed his fist on the desk so hard the lamp rattled. “Kaladin didn’t do anything!”

Dalinar stepped between them. “Adolin. Enough.”

But Adolin wasn’t listening.

“He’s being hunted,” Adolin said, voice low with raw, unfiltered fury. “And you’re letting it happen. You stand for law and order? Then enforce it equally. Or stop pretending.”

Dalinar inhaled sharply, wounded by the accusation.

But Adolin didn’t stay to watch it sink in. He stormed out.

Renarin found Adolin outside, sitting on the hood of his car, staring at his shaking hands. He approached quietly and sat beside him.

“You were brave,” Renarin murmured.

“I was stupid,” Adolin muttered. “Dad’s furious.”

“He’s worried.”

“He’s wrong,” Adolin said through clenched teeth. “About Kaladin. About everything.”

Renarin looked up at the sky turning purple with dusk. “So what now?”

Adolin didn’t answer for a long time.

Then:

“I need to talk to Kaladin.”

Renarin nodded. “Will he hear you?”

“I don’t know,” Adolin said. “But I can’t sit here pretending I don’t care what happens to him. Not when it’s my fault he’s in danger.”

He ran a hand over his face.

“And if Roshone or anyone else tries something again…” Adolin’s voice dropped, trembling with something fierce and unsteady, “I won’t let Kaladin face it alone.”

For the first time in days, he meant it.