They didn't give Aren a uniform.
They gave him a badge.
Small. Iron. Unadorned.
It was pressed into his palm by a clerk who wouldn't meet his eyes.
"You'll stand there," the man said, pointing to a raised platform overlooking a narrow square. "You'll listen. Then you'll decide."
"That's all?" Aren asked.
The clerk swallowed. "That's enough."
The square was already crowded.
Two men were bound at the center, wrists tied behind their backs. One was older, his beard grey and uneven. The other couldn't have been much older than Aren himself. Blood darkened the dirt beneath their feet where someone had been struck earlier—Aren didn't know who.
"They stole grain," a voice announced. "From the northern stores."
The older man dropped to his knees. "My grandchildren were starving," he cried. "I took only what would keep them alive."
The younger one said nothing.
Aren felt dozens of eyes turn toward him.
Expectation.
This was different from before.
Before, he had offered himself.
Now, the choice was his alone.
"Two thieves," a soldier said. "The law allows execution."
Aren waited.
He waited for his heart to race.
For his breath to hitch.
For the weight of it to crush him.
It didn't.
"What happens if only one is punished?" Aren asked.
The soldier hesitated. "The other is released."
The warmth in Aren's chest stirred, like a quiet approval.
The crowd murmured.
"Choose," someone whispered.
Aren looked at the two men.
The older one was crying openly now, voice breaking as he begged. The younger man stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes empty.
Aren understood something then.
Mercy wasn't about kindness.
It was about indecision.
"If I release them both," Aren said, "what happens?"
"Others will steal," the soldier answered. "And more will starve."
The logic fit together cleanly. Too cleanly.
Aren spoke.
"Execute the older one," he said. "Release the younger."
The square went silent.
The old man's sobs turned into screams.
"No—no, please—please—"
The sword fell.
Blood struck the stone.
The younger man collapsed, shaking, staring at Aren like he was trying to understand what kind of person could do this.
Aren felt something settle into place.
Not satisfaction.
Not cruelty.
Certainty.
The warmth in his chest deepened, spreading into his arms, his spine. For a moment, the world sharpened—sounds clearer, edges cleaner.
Power.
The crowd erupted.
"Decisive."
"Correct."
"He chose well."
Someone clapped.
Aren looked down at his hands.
They were steady.
That night, he washed the blood from his boots.
It took longer than it should have.
As he scrubbed, he realized something that made him pause.
He couldn't remember the old man's face.
Only the logic.
Only the result.
Aren dried his hands carefully.
Tomorrow, there would be another judgment.
And he knew—without fear—that he would not hesitate.