“He hasn’t hurt me. And I’m only scared of what he might become.” Celwe reaches out and grasps Pittacus’s hand. “Just make him come home, Pittacus. Please. Make him see reason and bring my husband back to me.”

“I will.”

Pittacus streaks through the sky, flying, slicing through clouds. He dips through a mountain range and then shoots downwards into a deep chasm, like a bigger version of the Grand Canyon. As he descends, walls the color of sandstone flecked with Loralite gems rising up on all sides, Pittacus notices an array of complicated machinery and heavy-duty construction gear below him. Someone’s been digging deeper, as if this chasm wasn’t already deep enough.

Pittacus’s gaze turns, like mine, to the towering piece of machinery at the dig site’s center. Twisted beams of steel augmented with blinking circuits and Loralite symbols—it’s like a bulkier, less-refined version of the pipeline Setrákus Ra lowered from the Anubis.

So this is what Legacy meant when it said Setrákus Ra had pulled it apart before. This is where it all started, all these centuries ago. The beginning of my grandfather’s descent into madness.

When Pittacus lands, a young Loric in a lab coat hustles forward to greet him. His skin is oddly pale for a Loric and he moves in a way that’s almost robotic, as if his limbs are no longer quite in sync with his brain. Pittacus seems taken aback by his appearance, but it doesn’t put him off his task.

“Where is Setrákus?” he asks.

“He’s at the Liberator,” the young Loric says, and points towards the giant pipeline. “Is he expecting you, Elder Lore?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Pittacus replies, and marches towards the so-called Liberator. The pale Loric gets out of his way, but Pittacus hesitates. He turns back to study the kid. “What has he been doing out here? What has he done to you?”

“I . . .” The guy hesitates, like he isn’t supposed to say. But then, he holds out his hand, concentrates and levitates a handful of rocks with his telekinesis. It seems like a real strain for him.

Pittacus cocks his head, surprised. “You’re Garde? Why don’t I know you?”

“That’s the thing,” the guy replies, “I’m not Garde. I’m nobody.”

During his weak telekinesis demonstration, black veins began to pop out on the Loric guy’s forehead. Pittacus takes notice of these and reaches out to touch the young man’s face. He flinches away.

“It’s . . . it’s a work in progress,” the pale guy says. “I haven’t had my augmentation today.”