Setrákus crawls across the canyon floor, smeared with dirt and ash, his face and head covered in small cuts. In the background, a team of Garde commanding all kinds of different elements lay waste to his Liberator. The machine belches huge plumes of black smoke as it begins to collapse. The bodies of his assistants litter the ground. They weren’t killed by the Garde, though. No, something sinister and black seeps from their pores even in death.

“I’m not the one who’s crazy . . . ,” Setrákus says, spitting blood into the dirt as he drags himself away from his dig site. He doesn’t look back when his machine explodes, although a look of almost physical pain does cross his face. “The rest of you, all of you—you’re the wrong ones. You don’t understand progress.”

Pittacus follows along behind Setrákus. The noose dangles from his hands. His strong jaw is set and determined, but his eyes are glistening.

“Please, Setrákus. Stop talking.”

Setrákus knows that he can’t escape, so he stops trying to crawl away. He rolls over onto his back, flat in the dirt, and looks up at Pittacus.

“How can I be wrong, Pittacus?” Setrákus asks breathlessly. “Lorien itself gave me the power to dominate other Garde, to strip their Legacies as I see fit. That’s the planet’s way of saying that it wants me in control.”

Pittacus shakes his head and stands over his friend. “Listen to yourself. First you decry the way Lorien gives out its gifts at random, and now you claim that your Legacies are destiny. I’m not sure which thought I find more disturbing.”

“We could rule together, Pittacus,” Setrákus pleads. “Please. You are like a brother to me!”

Pittacus swallows hard. With his telekinesis, he loops the noose around Setrákus’s throat. He crouches down so he’s straddling his fellow Elder, his hand poised on the thick knot of rope that will tighten the noose.

“You went too far,” Pittacus says. “I am sorry, Setrákus. But what you’ve done . . .”

Pittacus begins to tighten the noose. He should do this quickly, but he can’t quite bring himself to end things, not yet. The sharpened edge bites into Setrákus’s neck. My grandfather gasps at the pain, yet doesn’t fight against it. There’s a sudden knowledge in his eyes, a resignation. Setrákus leans back. The noose bites deeper into his flesh. He stares up at the sky.

“There will be two moons tonight,” he says. “They’ll dance on the beach like we used to, Pittacus.”

Blood darkens the ground beneath my grandfather. He begins to weep, so he closes his eyes to hide this.