The Emperors Soul by Brandon Sanderson

facedown on a metal plate sitting before her. Soulstone, as a rock, looked not unlike soapstone or another fine-grained stone, but with bits of red mixed in. As if drops of blood had stained it.
    Shai blinked tired eyes. Was she really going to try to escape? She’d had . . . what? Four hours of sleep in the last three days combined?
    Surely escape could wait. Surely she could rest, just for today.
    Rest, she thought numbly, and I will not wake.
    She remained in place, kneeling. That stamp seemed the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
    Her ancestors had worshipped rocks that fell from the sky at night. The souls of broken gods, those chunks had been called. Master craftsmen would carve them to bring out the shape. Once, Shai had found that foolish. Why worship something you yourself created?
    Kneeling before her masterpiece, she understood. She felt as if she’d bled everything into that stamp. She had pressed two years’ worth of effort into three months, then had topped it off with a night of desperate, frantic carving. During that night, she’d made changes to her notes, to the soul itself. Drastic changes. She still didn’t know if they had been provoked by her final, awesome vision of the project as a whole . . . or if those changes had instead been faulty ideas born of fatigue and delusion.
    She wouldn’t know until the stamp was used.
    “Is it . . . is it done?” asked one of her guards. The two of them had moved to the far edge of the room, to sit beside the hearth and give her room on the floor. She vaguely remembered shoving aside the furniture. She’d spent part of the time pulling stacks of paper out from their place beneath the bed, then crawling under to fetch others.
    Was it done?
    Shai nodded.
    “What is it?” the guard asked.
    Nights, she thought. That’s right. They don’t even know. The common guards left each day during her conversations with Gaotona.
    The poor Strikers would probably find themselves assigned to some remote outpost of the empire for the rest of their lives, guarding the passes leading down to the distant Teoish Peninsula or the like. They would be quietly brushed under the rug to keep them from revealing, even accidentally, anything of what had happened here.
    “Ask Gaotona if you want to know,” Shai said softly. “I am not allowed to say.”
    Shai reverently picked up the seal, then placed both it and its plate inside a box she had prepared. The stamp nestled in red velvet, the plate—shaped like a large, thin medallion—in an indentation underneath the lid. She closed the lid, then pulled over a second, slightly larger box. Inside lay five seals, carved and prepared for her upcoming escape. If she managed it. Two of them she’d already used.
    If she could just sleep for a few hours. Just a few . . .
    No. I can’t use the bed anyway.
    Curling up on the floor sounded wonderful, however.
    The door began to open. Shai felt a sudden, striking moment of panic. Was it the Bloodsealer? He was supposed to be stuck in bed, having drunk himself to a stupor after being roughed up by the Strikers!
    For a moment, she felt a strange guilty sense of relief. If the Bloodsealer had come, she wouldn’t have a chance to escape today. She could sleep. Had Hurli and Yil not thrashed him? Shai had been sure that she’d read them correctly, and . . .
    . . . and, in her fatigue, she realized she’d been jumping to conclusions. The door opened all the way, and someone did enter, but it was not the Bloodsealer.
    It was Captain Zu.
    “Out,” he barked at the two guards.
    They jumped into motion.
    “In fact,” Zu said, “you’re relieved for the day. I’ll watch until the shift changes.”
    The two saluted and left. Shai felt like a wounded elk being abandoned by the herd. The door clicked closed, and Zu slowly, deliberately, turned to look at her.
    “The stamp isn’t ready yet,” Shai lied. “So you can—”
    “It doesn’t need to be ready,” Zu said, smiling a wide,