“Go home to Celwe, Setrákus. Try to forget about this madness. I will . . . clean up what you’ve done here.”

For a moment, Setrákus seems to consider this. I root for him, I really do. I wish he would realize that Pittacus is right, turn his back on his machinery and head home to my grandmother. But I already know how it all turns out.

My grandfather’s expression darkens and the flames growing in intensity from Pittacus are suddenly extinguished. “I can’t let you do that,” he says.

The Elders’ Chamber is empty now except for Pittacus and Loridas. The younger Garde slumps in his high-backed chair, his face bruised and his knuckles raw. The older Garde stands on the other side of the table, bent over a glowing object, working at whatever it is with his gnarled hands.

“I don’t agree with their decision,” Pittacus says.

“Our decision,” Loridas corrects him, gently. “You had a vote. All nine of us did.”

“Execution is too far. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“He was your friend,” Loridas replies. “But he is not that man anymore. His experiments would corrupt our very way of life. They pervert everything that is pure about Lorien. It cannot be allowed to continue. He must be removed entirely. Erased from our history. Even his seat on the Elders shall not be filled, he has damaged it so. His malignance cannot be allowed to take root and spread.”

“I heard all this when we convened, Loridas.”

“If I bore you, then why are you still here?”

Pittacus sighs deeply. He looks down at his hands.

“We grew up together. You named us Elders together. We . . .” His voice trembles and he pauses to steady himself. “I want to be the one to do it.”

Loridas locks eyes with Pittacus. Satisfied that the younger man is serious, he nods.

“I thought you might.”

Loridas activates his Aeturnus, his features slowly smoothing out until he looks much younger. Pittacus watches this with a raised eyebrow.

“He took your Legacies the last time you met,” Loridas says. “Beat you into retreat.”

“It won’t happen again,” Pittacus replies, voice a growl.

“Show me.”

Pittacus focuses on Loridas. A moment later, the skin on Loridas’s face turns saggy and wrinkled, his hairline recedes drastically and his body withers within his ceremonial Elder robe. He looks even older than before and I quickly realize this is his true appearance. Somehow, Pittacus just took away his Legacy.

“Good,” Loridas says, voice raspy. “Now give an old man back his dignity.”

With a wave of his hand, Pittacus restores Loridas’s Legacies. The Elder changes shape again, still old, but not disconcertingly so.

“How many Legacies have you mastered with your Ximic, Elder Lore?”

Pittacus rubs the back of his neck, looking modest. “Dreynen makes seventy-four. Never bothered learning it before. Didn’t think I’d ever need to use it.”