Die. Respawn. Repeat.

You were a painter once.

You saw the world in colors no other mantodean could. Close one eye, and the painting shifts—your sight was your pride. Your first love glowed in your sight, didn't she? Her carapace glowed with streaks of ultragold and silverine; to you, she was a living work of art.

And now that sight is gone. Struck permanently from the record that is your Firmament. You will always remember what you had. You will always know you can never have it again. How does that feel, I wonder, to have something so integral to your sense of self removed?

Even as you are now—reduced, lesser, a mere fragment of the sum of your parts—you remember the pain of that loss. How many loops did you spend trying to paint one of your old works? How many did you spend trying to capture that magic you lost?

How many before you let yourself understand you would never have that magic again? That you would forever have a hole within yourself?

Ah, but you filled that hole with other things, didn't you? You let yourself enjoy the viscera of combat. You took the mantle of the Sword, and blood became your paint. It was never a replacement, but it was enough.

Or do you not remember that?

It seems you don't. Alas, you are lesser than you were, even now. A pity.

But you don't think of it that way, do you? You like who you are now.

Do you believe that human capable of filling that emptiness? Do you believe that he has?

You seem inspired by him. Is it his ability with Firmament, or his stubborn defiance of the fate that befalls all other Trialgoers? Perhaps you simply admire the fact that he's done what you could not: saved the lives of those that were otherwise victim to the Trials, defied the Integrators, and struck an undeniable blow against them.

Or perhaps this is your status as his familiar. Perhaps the Interface has forced upon you a sense of subservience. Perhaps it has replaced your bloodlust with fondness and loyalty.

How much of your thoughts are truly your own?

He respects you, you tell yourself. He believes in your autonomy and has promised to return it to you, even if it comes at a cost to his power. He sees a future with you as a friend and an equal.

But you know more than anyone that these things change. Apply the right pressures, push the right buttons, and even the most righteous can be driven to break. Ask yourself this: What does that human believe in? Does he have a truth, or is he defiant for the sake of defiance?

Do you believe Ethan is special?

Others like him have come and gone before. Three hundred others have taken on the Trial of Time, and three hundred others have failed. You may look up to him for his ability to overcome all that has befallen him, and he has certainly been through more than most.

But he is not the first. He will not be the last.

Do you think he'll stand up for you when he finds out who you've been? Just because he's said he will? Do you believe that the two of you are friends? You have shared laughs, certainly, but how many of his pains as he shared with you? His doubts, his fears? What weighs him down?

Do you truly know him?

You have a Remnant hidden within the Empty City. If you have so much faith in him, find that Remnant.

Let's see if your faith is stronger than your cruelty.

Ahkelios curled in on himself slightly. Just slightly. He didn't want Ethan to notice, and so he held the link between them shut as tight as he could. There were so many thoughts racing through his head, and none of them felt like him. He didn't understand where they were coming from or how to deal with them. And he didn't want Ethan to know.

The voice was right, in a way. He'd provided Ethan with unconditional support for most of their journey together, and he had no idea how much of that was the influence of the Interface on him and how much of it was voluntary. They were friends, he was pretty sure—they bickered like friends, spoke to one another like friends, shared thoughts and ideas and even shared the things that hurt them—and yet...

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

There was that nagging doubt. The what if.

He admired Ethan. He was sure of that much. Ethan had accomplished so much more than he remembered doing himself, done it in a much shorter time and with far less loops—how many loops were they on, even? Fifteen? Sixteen?

And then there was... he didn't know how to identify the feeling. Jealousy, maybe. A wish that he'd been able to get this far this quickly. If he'd been this effective, if he'd just been better, maybe his home would be fine.

He didn't even know what had happened to his home. He didn't know how long it had been. With what he and Ethan had learned about the Integrators, it was very likely it hadn't been destroyed, but how much had it changed in the time since his Trial?

"Ahkelios?" Ethan asked. Ahkelios stiffened slightly, then gave his human friend a weak smile.

"I'm fine," he lied. "Just thinking. A lot on my mind."

Ethan didn't seem to believe him, but he let it go. Ahkelios hid his sigh of relief—easy to do when he didn't need to breathe—and turned his attention inward again, ignoring the slowly-growing light they were approaching. He needed to figure this out. If this was something that could hurt him, if it was something that could hurt Ethan, he needed to know.

You have a Remnant hidden within the Empty City.

Something about those words made fear coil around Ahkelios's heart. He didn't like the idea of that. He'd spoken with Ethan and he'd agreed to absorb more of his Remnants, but he didn't think it would happen so soon, and he didn't think he was ready. Not yet.

Let's see if your faith is stronger than your cruelty.

Was it?

He didn't know how cruel he'd been. The words bothered him. As much as he'd regained of himself, the few glimpses he'd caught of who he was after all the loops... it scared him. He'd become someone entirely different. He had memories of enjoying the rush of power as Firmament flowed through him, as the Interface granted him skills that could slice through the fabric of space itself. He had memories of tearing through his enemies, gathering credits, interested in little else besides becoming more.

More powerful. Better. There were glimpses in his memories of the visceral joy of wielding his mantle of the Sword against the world, of the euphoric surge that came with a Truth so strong that nothing could break it. It was the nature of the Trials that the challenge eventually became so great that he succumbed, and he knew, intellectually, that he eventually had.

But he didn't have those memories. The ones the voice reminded him of weren't those memories, either. All he could think about, circling in his head, were the memories of what it had felt like to wield power far beyond what he had now.

It scared him, in a way. And in a way that pained him to admit... it excited him.

Ahkelios closed his eyes.

What if that version of him had been right?

What if the power he had gained was worth the slaughter? What if that other version of himself was better, happier, freer? His memories were still incomplete: for all he knew, Ethan's strength now was less than he was at his peak.

Do you truly know him?

He did, Ahkelios told himself. Ethan had never been anything less than honest, and more than that, he could feel the human's sincerity through their bond every time he spoke. He truly wanted Ahkelios to be free.

But that didn't mean he could do it, did it? His Remnant—his former Trialgoer self—it was strong. He could almost feel the pulse of its power, stronger than anything they'd faced, resonating through the city.

Could it reclaim his life for him before Ethan could?

He almost hated himself for speaking up.

"Hey, Ethan," he said. He tried to keep his voice steady. "I think... I think there's a Remnant of me somewhere in the Empty City. You think we could find it sometime?"

He didn't plan to betray Ethan, he told himself. He just... he just wanted to know.

Ethan just glanced at him and blinked. "Of course," he said easily. Ahkelios could feel Ethan reaching for their bond and the subsequent flicker of power as he searched for wherever that Fragment was. "Huh. I should've noticed that sooner. You want to head for it now?"

"Not—not now." Ahkelios fidgeted. "But when we have the time. Between Ritual stages or something."

"I'm sure we'll run close to it eventually. We'll check it out then." Ethan reached down to give him a pat on the head, and Ahkelios closed his eyes, quietly enjoying the contact.

He was happy like this, he told himself.

He was.

I watch Ahkelios for a moment as he turns away from me, curling in on himself once again. He thinks he's being subtle, I think—but the way he's closed off the link between us tells me in pretty clear terms that something's wrong. I don't bother asking him what it is, not because I don't want to know, but because I already do.

Color is one of the traits of Firmament. The closer we get to the massive blue flower blooming out of the base of this building, the more I can feel it affecting me. There's a sheer scale to it that makes it almost impossible for me to touch with Hueshift—I've tried, and the best I can do is reduce the impact it has on me.

The density of my Firmament helps. Being a third-layer practitioner seems to have shored up my core enough that this isn't enough to cripple me.

But I can feel its influence, still. Blue is sadness, but it's also an infectious sort of doubt. I don't need to look through my bond with Ahkelios to understand what kind of doubts it's likely causing to fester within him—I'm fortunate that Guard seems mostly immune to the effect, although whether that's a result of his prismatic Firmament or just his general strength, I'm not sure.

I pat Ahkelios on the head. "I'm sure we'll run close to it eventually. We'll check it out then," I say.

I think I have some idea of what's going on. If it's true, well...

If it's true, it doesn't matter. Ahkelios is my friend, and so he's under my protection.

Even if I'm protecting him from himself.

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