The sorceress who calls herself Masque rides along in the parade, a strange and twisted mirror of Edea's parade. Only, instead of dancers, vicious beasts lead the way, and she stands atop the vehicle laughing as the procession travels through the barren Esthar. Bodies litter the charred ground, children, women, animals. And she stands there, slowly moving across the land, hair flowing from behind her powder- blue mask, a black dress draped across her body, that shimmers into a blue in the light of the fires that radiate from the destroyed buildings. And a young man stands on a lower platform in front of her, his gunblade at the ready.

A man watches the live video feed from the event, seeing everything as it happens through magically protected security cameras. He wears a monk's robe, his head shaved, three scars on his face, one five- years old, on his forehead. Nearly all of his body, horribly scarred. A gunblade is sheathed upon his back. And the train moves silently towards Esthar.