"Lies are the territory of man."

The giant preached to statues.

It was a usual habit for Prester Garth to rehearse his sermons in the Garden of Stone, where one could make as many verbal errors they wished without the humiliating laughter that usually followed. The statues were incapable of judging, or mocking, or questioning -- only staring forward with their empty, stone eyes, forever frozen in the moment of revelry the artist had wished to convey.

In terms of appearance, Prester Garth was as immovable as the statues. Gaunt and tall -- nearly seven foot, at least -- with two chaotic reachers that sprouted from his head and spread like the branches of a great tree. Unlike most of the aristocracy, who busied themselves with many fashions and styles, Garth simply allowed his reachers to grow out of control.

This was the body he had been given. What right had he to modify it?

"And yet," Garth went on, eyes scanning the sea of statues as if he'd spot any sign of dissent from them. "Truth is also the territory of man. A mere beast may be honest in the pursuit of its desires, but it can never be truthful -- for it knows not what truth is. Thus, the burden of differentiating truth and falsehood falls to man alone. Thus, the clash between good and evil is both universal and internal."

He took a deep breath. Even with statues, the sight of so many people listening to him was intimidating. The architect who'd designed the Regulatory Diamond had been eccentric -- eccentric enough to commission numerous sculptures to build this sea of statues in the middle of the new military complex. Garth knew not what that man had been thinking, but perhaps there was wisdom in it.

"The gods may have fallen, but their will lives on. Their truth. Truth is thus not just the territory of man -- it is their actuality. Man is truth. And thus it is in our nature to deny the lies and falsehoods that crawl out from within ourselves. Forevermore."

He gently shut the book in his hand, returning it to the inside pocket of his black-and-white robes. The mass sermon this speech had been written for was still weeks away, but it was never too early for diligence.

"Sir," a nervous voice rang out through the garden.

For a moment, Garth's eyes flicked wide in surprise to the nearest statue, only to relax when he recognized the voice as one of his younger Regulators, hovering by the entrance.

"Speak, child," Garth said, his voice as deep and immovable as stone itself.

The Regulator nodded. "Sir, the prisoner -- they're awake. Are you ready to proceed with the interrogation?"

Ah, the prisoner. It was time for life to become unpleasant again. Garth's soft expression deepens into a scowl. "Of course. Lead the way."

Alas, it really was never too early for diligence.

Her left leg was missing below the knee. She couldn't see out of one of her eyes Her left leg, below the knee, gone Her left leg she Her left leg Hurt It hurt

Daphne Halacourt did her best not to panic, but it was truly difficult, truly impossible -- so she screamed, long and hard, the sound filling the dim and dingy room she'd been dragged into. The pain was truly excruciating -- each time her bloody stump, hastily treated, brushed against the wooden bed she'd been restrained to, unimaginable pain spiked through her body.

She'd die. She'd die if she remained like this. Perhaps she was dying already, haha. Delirious throthing laughter trickled from her throat.

The door to the chamber creaked as it opened, and three of her antlered captors walked into the room. There were two of the robed figures she recognised -- the ones who had dragged her here, had 'treated' her injuries, had tied her to this bed -- but the giant leading them she didn't know. The gaunt-faced man smiled softly at her.

"Poor thing," he said calmly. "Such accursed eyes."

She stuffed down the urge to scream -- she couldn't show any more weakness here, she couldn't show it, she wasn't weak, she was strong -- supreme, in fact. Perhaps she'd already become the Supreme, victorious in this chamber! Victory over pain!

No, no, her mind was drifting, pain being driven into the faultlines like a stake.

"Let me out of here," she growled, agony giving her voice a raspy flavour. "Let me out of here right now. I'll kill you. I'll kill you."

"Why would I release you if you'd kill me?" the giant asked, his voice sympathetic, genuine sadness on his face. He turned his gaze towards one of his compatriots. "This treatment is barbaric. There's no need for this. Use it and get this over with."

Use it? Use what? Intrusive images of torture devices flooded into Daphne's mind. Breaking wheels, stretching racks, thumbscrews. Would she die here? How long would it be until she died? Would she not die? She was not sure what would be worse.

Perhaps what was worst was being here, right now, with the pain of choice and legless glee in fact of all things she'd seen in her life the pulse pulse pulse of leg gone was like sun inside her blood burning it was burning --

"As I said, Barber," the giant patted the younger man next to him on the shoulder. "Please proceed. I have an appointment with the good lady next."

"Yes, Prester Garth." The younger man nodded respectfully, placing his hands in front of his mouth as if he was about to start praying.

"What's he doing?" Daphne hissed cautiously.

"I'd recommend you not move around too much," the huge man -- Prester Garth, apparently -- said. "There's a significant risk you could exacerbate your injuries."

"Guardian Entity, Satori," Barber intoned -- and a moment later, a surge of yellow Aether burst from his back and coalesced into a small form on the floor in front of them.

The creature that appeared was bizarre looking, like nothing Daphne had ever seen. The closest thing she could compare it to was a monkey, but even that didn't quite describe it.

It was small, small enough to climb on someone's shoulder and have some leg room, and it was dwarfed by the two prehensile tails that sprouted from its back and swayed gently in the air. A single, cyclopean eye, wet and bleary, blinked at Daphne as the creature crawled up the wooden bed, a low gurgle coming from the fleshy vents on either side of its eye.

"The hell is this thing?!" Daphne screamed, straining against her restraints as the creature came closer and closer.

Garth smiled. "A miracle. Barber, I'd like to receive the information here, if you please."

Barber nodded -- and with a subtle hand movement, apparently communicated that to the monkey-thing. One of the creature's tails lashed out across the room and, without resistance, pierced Garth's wrist. Soft yellow Aether sparked at the point of connection.

The second tail snaked around Daphne's neck -- and then there was a moment of new, fresh pain as it stabbed into her body right at the base of her spine. She could see the shadows dance in front of her, made crazy by the light of the Aether on her back.

"Wait, wait," she rambled, desperation overcoming pride. "You don't have to do shit like this -- whatever this is -- I, I could just tell you. You don't have to waste your time!"

Garth looked up as he adjusted the tail piercing his wrist. "Your offer is appreciated," he nodded, sounding genuinely grateful. "But this is much more efficient. Barber, if you would?"

Barber nodded -- and clapped his hands together, the sound echoing throughout the room. Immediately, the glow of the Aether intensified, flooding the space with light.

Daphne had assumed the pain she'd felt from losing her leg had been the worst she'd ever experience.

She hadn't seen anything yet.

Ruth kicked the wooden door of the cabin apart with an Aether-infused kick, dragging her new prisoner outside with her.

"Nobody try anything!" she growled, immediately spotting the motley group of warriors milling around outside.

They didn't look like much, to be honest, nor did their camp. Scared faces and shaking hands. What little armour and weapons they had seemed to have been cobbled together on short notice. The biggest threat Ruth could spot upon first glance was a greatsword wielded by a pale-looking boy that clearly didn't have the muscles to properly swing it.

The cabin seemed to have been the sturdiest thing in the camp -- all the rest were tents, patched and stitched together from whatever materials were on hand.

One idiot took a step forward, clearly hoping to take a swing at Ruth while he could. A golden warning glance shut him down pretty quick.

"Don't," Lily grunted, straining against Ruth's headlock. "Shit. She's got some kinda Guardian Entity."

Guardian Entity? Ruth didn't know what the hell that was, but so long as Lily was calling her goons off that was good enough for now. She allowed her body to relax, just slightly.

Ruth intensified her glare at the nearest 'warrior', and he flinched in response. "My friends. Where?"

He pointed a shaking finger towards another nearby tent, pale green in a sad attempt at camouflage. "T-They're both in there, um, still."

Ruth's heart dropped. Both?

The mouth of the tent shifted as someone stepped out -- Bruno, hands bound behind his back, but quite clearly healthy. He grimaced as he saw Ruth and her hostage, and that grimace only deepened as the nearest guards looked at him with danger in their eyes.

"Ruth," he said cautiously. "Maybe let her go for right now. We need to talk."

The situation made less and less sense by the second. Ruth stared at Bruno, brow furrowed. "They said both, Bruno. Both. Who's not here?"

Bruno -- no, Serena switched in -- stared down at the ground sadly.

Ruth's voice cracked as she shouted louder: "Who isn't here?!"

Dragan winced as he opened his eyes. The hell had he been doing last night?

A flurry of memories assaulted him to answer that question. The fight against Darren Roash, encountering North, the trek through the gas-filled hallways of the Unite Regent, the distant feeling of a gun pressed against his temple.

And then the equally distant sensations of heat and deafening noise. Had their ship gone down? How? Why?

And for that matter, where the hell was he?

Dragan sat up from his comfortable bed -- all soft pillows and sheets -- and looked around the room. Despite the comfort of the bed, the walls were stone, rough but with the impression of past glory, like some kind of ancient monastery. There was a window high on one wall, but iron bars made it useless as any kind of escape route.

The clothes he was wearing were just as strange -- some sort of black robe, composed of a substance Dragan didn't quite recognise the texture of. Whoever had received him hadn't been expecting him, then -- otherwise, the clothing provided would have been in his size.

Ignoring the protests from his suffering body, Dragan got out of the bed and approached the window, standing on tiptoes to look out of it.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the blue light of the sun.

Beyond the window was a huge city -- all stone spires and chaotically jumbled streets, stretching on for miles. The sounds of life drifted up without end -- haggling from the markets and shouting from the residences -- filling Dragan's ears. This was a place with history, clearly -- just like this room.

But how had he ended up here? And where even was here?

The door on the far side of the room thunked as someone unlocked it, and when it swung open a tall, gaunt man stepped inside. His height was such that he had to duck to avoid brain trauma on his way in -- for a moment, Dragan was unpleasantly reminded of Mr. Fix. What caught his eyes more than that resemblance, however, were the massive antlers sprouting from either side of the man's head. Was he some kind of Scurrant?

"Hello there, young man," the man said, smiling softly. "I'd like to ask you some questions."