"Listen to me, son. Read my following words very carefully, because the world is facing a great peril, and only you're able to stop it. But fear not! For I know that you can rise to the challenge. You may not yet know it, but you're special. You're my son, after all."

— From the last will of Boots, father of Shoes

Miranda paced nervously in the small storage room. The lack of space annoyed her, but that couldn't be helped now; she had chosen this room because it was close to the dungeons where the slave was kept. She needed to consult with Sebas, and she didn't want to waste the time going back to her quarters.

"With all due respect, my lady," Sebas said, "I don't even understand why you consider the prisoner's words to be true. The man is obviously mad."

Miranda grimaced. "If it was possible, you wouldn't know about it, Sebas. If everything resets the way it was..."

Normally, Miranda would have dismissed the slave's words as ravings. The only reason she didn't was the legends—those ancient tales about House Dawngrove were her favorites as a little girl. Tales about the Titan who protected House Dawngrove when it was on the verge of collapse. The Titan had prevailed against all odds, defying all enemies and even time itself. Miranda had always thought it was just a flight of fancy, but now she became uncertain. House Dawngrove was on a downwards slope at the moment, and only a miracle would help them climb back to the top.

Of course, the slave could have learned about those legends. Miranda knew them only thanks to her grandmother, but there could be records somewhere. Perhaps the slave was just trying to confuse her by making up a story like that.

"My lady, there is a much simpler explanation," Sebas said. "The man must have been spying on us for a long time. Everything he said indicates that he knows very well—"

"No, Sebas," Miranda interrupted him, "Alright, he can be a spy, I'm not arguing on that point. But he also seems to be . . . different. I remember what Shoes was like when I gave him his name. This man is nothing like him."

"He could have been acting, my lady."

"Oh? Then why didn't he bother acting this morning? Why did he ruin his cover now?" Miranda stopped pacing and looked at Sebas. "No, I remember his features, and I see the differences. I do believe that our prisoner is an older Shoes."

"My lady," Sebas tried again, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice, "Please try to be rational. You can't just—"

"Enough," Miranda snapped. "I'm not saying I believe everything he says. I'm not a fool, Sebas. But I do know that there's something strange happening here . . . so I'm going to seek out my ancestors' memories now."

Sebas bowed his head. "That is a good idea, my lady."

Miranda sat down on a large wooden chest, and closed her eyes. She fidgeted a little, cursing Sebas inwardly for not offering her to bring something more comfortable to sit on. She had been already annoyed because of that slave, the man's mocking smirk etched into her mind. It took Miranda several minutes to calm down enough to focus.

Show me a memory about time travel, she thought to her Krinil. Miranda kept concentrating on the ruby within her body, keeping her head clear. She repeated her request over and over to no avail. The Titan who defied time, Miranda tried next. For long moments nothing happened, before a memory abruptly invaded her mind.

Miranda was elated. She sat comfortably on a big chair—no, the chair wasn't even big. Her legs were just too short. Grandmother sat on the other seat, knitting. The fireplace provided ample warmth and light, turning the room nice and cozy. With rapt attention, Miranda listened to Grandmother's tale about a heroine who stood up against the Evil Houses. The Titan. The Savior. She hadn't heard this version of the tale before, so she was really captivated.

Grandmother's exact words were blurred, but Miranda remembered the awe and wonder she had felt. She wanted to be like the Titan. She wanted to—

Miranda wrenched herself out of the memory, panting slightly from the exertion. Stupid Krinil. Why was it showing something that she herself fed to it?! She didn't need to see things she already knew!

Taking deep breaths, Miranda tried to calm herself. It took her an even longer time to clear her head this time. She decided to change tactics. If none of her ancestors had any strong feelings towards time travel, then she just needed to focus on something else that the slave had said. The Krinil Sculptures, Miranda thought. This time she didn't have to wait too long before a memory hit her.

Catillus Dawngrove was drenched in sweat, his entire body shaking. He was terrified. Only six of his most loyal guards remained as they barricaded themselves in the Chamber of Ancestors. The mansion was burning, so even if they were able to fight off the rebelling slaves, they couldn't stay here.

Catillus didn't want to die. He was afraid of dying, but more importantly, he was afraid what would happen to House Dawngrove if he died here. Yes, he needed to live. He was a coward, but he would rather be a coward than a dead man.

Holding the Krinil Sculptures with shaking hands, he approached the altar. He placed the sculptures cautiously into their slots, one into each corner. The sculptures' pitch black surface reflected the flickering torchlight, giving the vaguely human shapes an otherworldly feel. Suddenly the sculptures lit up with an inner glow, and the altar slid backwards on the floor. Beneath it a second chamber was revealed, identical to the one Catillus was in.

The true Chamber of Ancestors.

A loud boom shook the barricaded door, and Catillus cried out in fright. He ordered four of his men to hold the slaves back as long as they could, then gathered the Krinil Sculptures and jumped down to the chamber below. When the altar began to close above him, he shuddered. He could only hope that none of the slaves would realize where this escape route led. He would be still too close to the mansion for comfort.

Miranda jerked as she resurfaced from the memory, but didn't open her eyes. Not yet. This newest revelation was interesting, but it wasn't something she needed now. She had no use of escape routes out of her mansion. As long as she had her Krinil, there was nothing she would run away from.

What Miranda needed to figure out was whether the sculptures were related to time travel or not. She needed an older memory, one where her ancestors still knew what the sculptures were good for . . . aside from opening up secret passages. Miranda had a feeling that they had a higher purpose.

Memories from the distant past came scarcely, but Miranda hoped that she would get lucky this time. Maybe her Krinil would be able to sense her need and help her out. She cleared her mind from unnecessary thoughts and emotions, then tried again.

'One more thing,' Clementine Dawngrove said. She reached out and took Gregor's hand in hers. For a moment she paused, simply enjoying the feel of his calloused hand against her skin. She then took a nervous breath, and pushed the bag containing the Krinil Sculptures into Gregor's hand.

'I want you to keep them safe for me,' Clementine said, her voice frail. 'In case I don't make it.'

Clementine didn't need to add the obvious, that it was very likely she wouldn't return.

Strangely, she wasn't afraid. The only thing she felt was the choking sadness within her chest. A terrible sense off loss, tinged with regret. As she looked into Gregor's eyes, they both knew it was the last time they saw each other.

'I'll guard them with my life, my lady,' Gregor said solemnly.

'Good,' Clementine replied. 'Know that they are essential for the existence of our House. The future of House Dawngrove rests upon your shoulders, Gregor. Take the sculptures back to the mansion at all costs. Do not fail me.'

Gregor bowed his head. 'I won't, my lady.'

Clementine was doing her best not to cry. She needed to remain composed. She wanted to hug Gregor so badly, but she knew that if she did she wouldn't be able to stop at a simple hug, and then she would never be able to let him go, and she couldn't do that because she needed to—she needed to—

'Farewell, Gregor,' Clementine said, voice cracking.

'Farewell, my lady.'

Miranda fell forward as the vision ended, but Sebas steadied her. The emotions from the memories always lingered for a bit, but this one was a particularly strong one. Clementine had probably stored the memory right after that scene. Miranda breathed out slowly, then took the handkerchief Sebas offered and wiped off the tears on her cheeks. It ruined her makeup completely, but she didn't care at the moment.

"Dear God," Miranda whispered, burying her face in her hands. "We never should have sold the last sculpture."

"The memories are still influencing your emotions," Sebas cautioned her on a gentle tone. "My lady, you're not at fault. The sculpture didn't have any practical applications, and the Church paid well. It was a necessary sacrifice to pay off your mother's debts. You shouldn't feel—"

"We shouldn't have sold it!" Miranda shouted. Sebas met her fury with a calm and level stare. Damn him. Always on the verge of impudence, thinking that he knew better than her just because she was young.

"May I ask why?" Sebas inquired after a brief pause.

Miranda deflated a little. "That . . . I'm not exactly sure about, yet. I'll try to get more information out of my gem later. I just know the sculptures are important."

Truthfully, Miranda didn't have much hope that she would get much more information. It seemed like no one had strong emotions towards the Krinil Sculptures; with no strong feelings attached, Miranda's predecessors wouldn't have been able to store memories about them. Which was, all in all, truly baffling. Surely, the first Dawngroves had known the importance of the Krinil Sculptures . . . so why couldn't Miranda find any mention of them? Had it been so long into the past that the visions had faded? Why hadn't her ancestors made sure to keep those memories alive?

Miranda didn't know the answers, but she knew that she couldn't dawdle here all day. She needed to act.

"Alright, here is what we are going to do," she said as began pacing in the room once more. "I'm not going to attend the meeting of the Houses. Don't make that face Sebas, I won't change my mind. Send Vince and Grom as my representatives."

"My lady, that's—"

"Not another word about it, Sebas. That meeting is the least of my worries, and I couldn't care less what happens there. Actually, you know what? Send my brother too. I believe he will jump on this opportunity, but just in case he doesn't, tell him that this is an order."

"Understood, my lady."

"Next, look up our records and find who purchased the other three Krinil Sculptures from us. If I remember correctly, my mother sold one to the Scientific Union—that's how she got Professor Sylven to move here. I have no idea about the rest."

"I'll look into it personally, my lady."

"Good. Now, as for the slave..."

That was something Miranda wasn't sure about. The man had stated clearly that he was after the Krinil Sculptures, so their goals aligned somewhat. The problem began with this alleged time travel. Miranda could use this man to gather the sculptures for her, but if he was really able to go back in time, then all of this would be naught. It would be he who used her, and that was unacceptable.

Miranda stopped pacing and looked at Sebas defiantly. "I'll question him further about this time travel."

"As you wish, my lady," Sebas said with a sigh. Miranda's eyebrows twitched with irritation, but she held her temper.

"That would be all, Sebas," Miranda said, then changed her mind. "Just one more thing. Send someone to fix my makeup. I'll be waiting in this room."

Sebas nodded, but hesitated to leave. Miranda knew he was trying to find the right words to dissuade her from listening to their prisoner, but she would have none of it.

"Listen, Sebas, I know you are worried that the slave—"

"It's not about that, my lady," Sebas said quickly, then bowed his head. "I apologize for interrupting."

Miranda frowned. "Then what is it?"

Sebas cleared his throat awkwardly. "My lady, what would you have me do about the damages?"

"What damages?"

"The stairs in the foyer and the stone railing at the gallery are partially destroyed, my lady. Some of the carpets along the corridors are thorn to sheds, the walls suffered numerous deep slashes, and the marble floor in the great hall is also severely damaged."

"Oh, those damages!" Miranda said, cringing inwardly. "Khmm, yes, well... First of all, what about the double doors, Sebas? The ones that the slave ripped off their hinges?"

"I'm pleased to report, my lady, that the doors have been already fixed. They didn't receive any serious damage."

Miranda tried her best not to pout. "What about the bullets? The ones that bounced off the slave's head?"

"They indeed caused some minor damage on the walls and the floor, my lady. The slashes however—"

"Fine, fine!" Miranda threw up her hands. "I assume we don't have enough funds for the materials required for the repairs?"

"It depends on your decision, my lady," Sebas said. "We can afford it, but we're already in a financially tight spot. Fixing the stone railing and the marble floor would be especially costly."

"Ugh," Miranda groaned, rubbing her temples. "Fine, fix the walls, but leave the railing. We'll close off the gallery for now. About the marble floor . . . can't you just hide it under a carpet or something?"

Sebas sighed softly. "I'll try, my lady. I'll try."