+In some cases,+ he replied, and then went back to his calculations and the diamond quill’s scratching whine. Ahriman watched Ignis for a second and then let his sight move back to the spheres. His eyes moved between them, noting the path and details of each. Emotions and visions from across the gulf of space yanked at his thoughts as he did so.

The face of a human pressed into a crawlspace, trying to make themselves small as giants in midnight-blue armour stalked past, their vox-speakers screaming the cries of those who had already been found; a powerless ship drifting through the dark, those within clinging to their last, shallow breaths as the air ran out; a warship tumbling over and over, blazing like a torch as its death fires fed on the fuel within its drives–

Ahriman cut the visions away with a pulse of will and steadied his mind in the thought patterns of the ninth enumeration. He felt a breath briefly frost the inside of his helm. To observe the solatarium was not just to see it with your eyes, but to be part of it – to feel it turning as it tried to pull you into its whirlpool embrace.

+You are discomforted,+ stated Ignis.

Ahriman did not answer, but looked at Menkaura and opened his thoughts to send them.

+It can still be undone,+ said Menkaura, sending the answer to the question Ahriman was about to ask. +The balance of resonances in the arrangement is such that… it is not certain. Everything is blindness and dust on the wind…+

Ahriman felt another question rise in his mind and then let it fall. Ever since Menkaura had taken on the penance of watching the Configuration, his thoughts and words had strayed into prophecy, as though his mind and will were kites dragged by storm winds into distant lands of perception. For all his skill of foresight and mastery of the occult, Ahriman found that he was disturbed by what was happening to his brother.

+Come,+ he sent to Ignis, and turned his silver disc with a flick of will. It floated down to the lone opening cut in the chamber wall. His eyes flashed across a blue-and-white-spun sphere as he turned, and he–

Blue and white stones in his hand, rounded by water, their faces dancing with patterns of herons and serpents…

The fire and blood light of the sun setting through Terra’s haze of pollution, the smell of the dust and the static tang of a building storm…

The clack as Ormuzd placed three stones into the recesses of the old, wooden board and smiled up at him…

‘What is it, brother? Can’t think what move to make?’ asked his twin.