From every surrounding mouth, words of astonishment pass. Each utterance coalesces, submerging the arena in nigh indeterminable sound. Though I fail to distinguish each noise from its clone, the general meaning of the clamorous babble is apparent. From the conglomerate body of sound, two words repeat like a mantra.

"He's innocent..."

The wide eyes on every face I see declares the result is unexpected. Indeed, my guilt was anticipated, perhaps eagerly, by some. I can hardly blame them. During my stay, this once great Clan has suffered loss after loss; if after all had transpired and they did not expect my betrayal, I could class them only as fools.

My act is convincing; my facade is alluring, but even the most trusting of men would distrust an outsider when misfortune arises. How much more would they suspect an interloper at the centre of said afflictions?

Can such things be measured?

Does it not exceed all quantification?

Even now, with the proof of my innocence incontrovertible, they should put me to death. Were they to do so, I could accuse them of no wrong. I might go so far as to say I'd respect their precaution. Certainly, that would be my course of action. Correlation might not equal causation, but that doesn't mean it should be ignored, especially considering the consequences of such negligence.

By my hand, a laboured peace has toiled to war.

Through my schemes, the enemies of this Clan have gathered against them.

At my word, this great house shall fall.

To disregard the threat I pose will be the ruin of all I see. Even without evidence of my guilt, they would fools to let me live.

'It's a trick!' From the crowd, a single voice rises above the sea of discourse. A man stands to his feet. Dressed in a white, buttoned shirt, black, formal trousers, and the deep-blue tailcoat, the man resembles each one of his neighbours, and yet… his face gives me pause.

I've seen it before….

'It's a trick!' The man repeats, silencing the rabble as he does. 'Because of you, my son is dead! I don't know how you hid your deeds from the eye, and I don't care! I don't believe it! I won't believe it!' The man lifts his face, directing his eyes towards an elder on his throne. 'I demand justice! If you will not give it to me, I will take it myself!'

Leaping from the aisle, the man soars through the air and lands on the stage. Waving the back of his hand towards me, he summons endless spears of tempestuous water. Suspended above the man, the lethal projectiles rapidly spin. Increasing their velocity with every passing moment, the turbulent spears rupture and distort the very space they inhabit.

'My son was my everything, and you took him from me!' With each word spoken louder and with more anger than the last, the man's eyes begin to wet. He rubs the moister from his eyes, but his efforts are in vain. No matter how many times the back of his hand runs across his face, he fails to prevent new tears from forming. Conceding the uncontrollable, he allows his hand to fall and grief to roll down his cheeks, hang on his chin, and drip to the ground.

I fall to my knees and prostrate before the man. With my forehead resting on the titled ground, I maintain my position.

At this moment, I don't have the strength to fight the man. Even recovered, I might not be his opponent. From the number of Arts he controls, it's clear the man's Tension Control has entered the fourth rank. Though his aura lacks the refinement of a true rank-four expert, underestimating one's foes lies within the domain of the short-lived. I won't make that mistake.

So I'll bow.

I'll lower my head in supplication.

I'll shed tears if I must.

What is it to me, anyway? If my life can be preserved through cowardice, I'll be a coward. If I have to cheat to survive, I'll swindle all I meet. There is no vice too debased or act too degrading that I wouldn't rise to its level.

It's impossible to die with dignity because death is undignified; It's unsightly and more demeaning than anything one need do to survive. It's also unnecessary. It can be staved off indefinitely. In a world where eternity is there for the taking, where gods walk the worlds beyond, where a man can transcend the frailty of the flesh, where beings shake the earth and shatter the sky, mortality is conclusive proof of not trying hard enough.

I don't fear my death. If I fall in my pursuit of immortality, I was never worthy of it in the first place. If, with my power, I cannot take my revenge, then what right do I have to pursue it? Death is a consequence of weakness. The weak have no right to complain.

Even still...

I will strive for what I desire.

If that means I must beg, then beg I shall.

'My lord, I knew your son well. He gave his life for mine. His deeds are such that I can never repay them. I don't have the words to express my gratitude, nor tears enough to convey my grief, but I did not kill your son. You saw for yourself. Know that your eyes did not deceive you. I wished to fight and die by his side, but your son would not allow it. Though my life is forfeit for failing in my duty to my brothers in arms, I must ask that you do not claim it.' Raising my head, I look the man in the eye. Tears track my face and dampen my chin.

'I cannot die, not when your son gave his life for mine. I will not disregard his final sacrifice as if it was nothing! You have every right to seek vengeance, I will not deny it, but this isn't what your son would have wanted. You saw for yourself! You know I am innocent!'

'I don't care!' The man yells. 'He was my son. My son! You might not have killed him, but it's your fault he died! It was you who poisoned his mind! You who led him to his death! And you who should have died in his place! I deserve justice! My son deserves justice!' Saliva and tears mingle together on the man's chin. With shaky breaths, the man falls to his knees, dispelling his Arts as he does.

'My boy. My precious boy!' Lifting his face, the man locks eyes with mine. 'I know… I know you're not to blame.' Air flutters from the man's throat as he repeats his words over and over, tears flowing unimpeded down his face.

Footsteps tap the ground behind me, and a hand lands on my shoulder. I turn my face to the side to see Huntress stooping low to my level.

'Brother, it is as the man says, you are not at fault. We saw it with our own eyes. You did all that you could.' Wrapping her arms around my neck, the madwoman touches her lips to my ears. 'I must say, I truly enjoyed your act. Seeing you beg like that got me very excited. I almost hate to steal the show, but I am a performer. Watch closely. I think you'll enjoy what I have planned. It's all for you, my love. It's all for you.'

Placing her hands beneath my armpits, Huntress stands, pulling me to my feet in the process.

'Lord Eisenhower Blackshire, I am prepared for my interrogation.' Moving from my side, Huntress walks towards the wide-eyed man. Unquestionably, the man had expected my guilt. Even now, it's clear the discovery of my apparent innocence has yet to register with him. So ready was he for his pound of flesh, the denial of what he believed to be his has, no doubt, shaken his confidence.

'Lady… Lady Mohan. There is no longer any need to proceed with your interrogation. Your brother is cleared of all charges; naturally, that proves you are also free from guilt.' To his words, Huntress shakes her head. Moving closer to the man, Huntress positions herself in front of the dream seeker's eye.

'In the presence of everyone, I wish to do away with all suspicion. By accusing my brother, you nested doubt pertaining to my Clan's honour. It would not do to have lingering questions regarding our loyalty.'

'But my lady-'

'It is as my daughter says.' Constancia declares from on high. 'I would see that a final end be had to the suspicion of my children. Proceed with the interrogation.' Nodding his head to the matriarch's words, Eisenhower turns to face Huntress.

Tension burns within the dream seeker, spreading its warmth throughout the theatre. Looking towards the madwoman, I see a pink light fickler from her eyes. Like the beat of a heart, the flares of radiance steady into a rhythm. They match the pulses emanating from the dream seeker's eye, synchronising with its emissions.

Abruptly, the rhythmic luminous undulations of pink light cease, replaced, both within the girl and the device with a steady radiance. From the mingling light between Huntress and the eye, a haze begins to form. The mist rises and grows; it clarifies like glass until a rose coloured screen covers the ceiling of the theatre.

'What do you know of the attacks on my clansmen?' Eisenhower asks. Lost within a trance, Huntress mutters silent words. Though no sound passes her lips, from the screen above, images begin to materialise.

The image of Huntress stands before a door. Twisting the knob, she presses her eye between the gap and looks into a room. Two men sit around a small glass table. Raising a crystal teacup, one of the men sips of its content.

'Lord Eisenhower, I have done as you commanded.' one of the men says.

'Excellent.'

'My lord, do we not go too far? To betray our clansmen to the Bishop Clan… If this is discovered, we shall never be forgiven.'

'Know your place, boy. I might treat you with favour, but that does not mean you are free to speak as if we are equals!' The recollection of Eisenhower stands from his seat. With a swipe of his arm, he launches the teaware across the room.

'I have betrayed nothing. Everything I do is in service of the Blackshire Clan. The Mohan boy must not be allowed to marry Alicia! It is disgraceful for our elders to have permitted such a thing!' Gripping the side of the table, Eisenhower throws it to the side, shattering the glass upon the wall and provoking a gasp from the girl behind the door.

'Who is it?' Without waiting for a reply, the memory of Eisenhower dashes to the door. In a single motion, he swings it fully open, revealing the cowering girl behind. Grabbing my "sister" by the throat, the man pulls her within the room and slams her onto a wall.

'This is a lie!' The real Eisenhower shouts as he removes his hand from the dream seeker's eye and ends the retelling. 'None of this is true! None of it!'

Huntress staggers on her feet. She looks towards Eisenhower, holds her head between her hands, and begins to tremble.

'I… I remember... I remember!' The madwoman screams. 'I remember what you did to me! You put that thing in my arm! You stole my memories!'

'You lying whore!' Huntress' prey lurches towards her. Gripping her neck, he lifts her from her feet. 'Tell them the truth! This never happened! Tell them!'

Gargling and clawing the man's arm, Huntress struggles to breathe. Blood drains from the madwoman's face. Desperately, the woman thrashes in the hands of her attacker, and yet…

It's faint, but I can see it.

She's smiling.

From upon her throne, the matriarch stands. Pointing a hand towards the arena, she releases a tangible strand of Tension. The energy rushes to the stage and permeates the man. Thick green veins bulge from Eisenhower's neck, and he falls to his knees, releasing his gasping victim. Reddish foam froths from his mouth, and blood leaks down from his ears, nose, and eyes. Violently, the man begins to spasm, watched from above by the gasping crowd.

Chunks of sizzling flesh drop from the inquisitor's mouth, falling into the pool of foam beneath him. With both hands, the man grips his throat. His bleeding eyes begin to bulge. He moves his lips, but words are never spoken. Gasping for air, the man claws his face; where ever his fingers trace, skin peals off before finally, the man falls face down into a pool of his own fluids, unquestionably dead.