A wistful sigh summoned Karax from the other room to investigation the source of his wife's woes. He found her sitting at her home terminal, staring at the curved blue screen in front of her. He came up behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Still no progress?" he guessed.

"Artanis will be expecting a report any time now," Meren replied, rubbing an eye. "But I am no closer to figuring anything out than I was the day I was thrown into a wall." She scratched the underside of her chin. "Torik told me the cause of his outburst was due to the pain he experienced."

Karax paused. This was the first he'd heard of this. "Did I…?"

"It couldn't have been just pain," Meren debunked. "It was as if his entire personality changed." She groaned, leaning forward onto the desk to cover her face with her hands. "I am not a psychiatrist, Karax. Should I outsource this to the expertise of one instead?"

"Do not be ridiculous, Meren," Karax dismissed gently. "This requires not expertise, but intellect." He took a step back and opened his arms. "And I am confident when I believe no other structure on Aiur houses as much of that as this one!"

Meren watched him, and then rolled her eyes as she looked back at the screen. "I cannot believe I committed myself to the likes of you," she replied playfully. "Nor does my sister. Do you know what she said when I told her the news of our union?"

"What Cenira…? What did she say?"

"I cannot believe after all Artanis, and even the very man you've chosen to take your vows with," Meren quoted, "has done to desegregate us, you still choose to undergo a khalai caste ritual."

"Can she not be called a hypocrite?" Karax said with a shrug.

Meren turned around in her chair to face him. "You should know better, having spent so much time with the Nerazim," she chided. "They view marriage in a much more sacred light. It's not something that more celebrated individuals ignore and leave to the lesser." She turned back to the terminal and began pecking away at the keypad with quick fingers. "Cenira has become more Nerazim than Khalai now. All that remains of her heritage is the color of her skin."

"People change," Karax said. "Some transformations more extreme than others. Isn't that fascinating, Meren? The fluidity of organic life contrasted with the static casing of machinery. Biologic imitation is something I have often tried to carry over into my work. But, ah, the results thus far have not meet my expectations…" He gave the ridge along his chin a ponderous tap.

Meren glanced over at him. "Don't you have some static casing to work on at the facility?"

"But you're still on medical leave!" Karax pointed out.

It was actually the third day Meren had been officially pardoned from work on medical leave, despite her arguments that she was fine and that minor contusions shouldn't have to put her out of commission. It was as though the Khalai believed anyone who was not one of the templar was made of glass.

It was also the third day that Karax had stayed home. It was a small gesture, and though the phase-smith would never admit to why he stayed with complete honesty, Meren was deeply touched. Not since the early days of their marriage had they been together this long in the quiet comfort of their home. But of course, Karax would love to talk about nothing other than phase-smithing. There was a passion behind his words, which was why Meren never objected. She only wondered if she would ever get to say the things she truly wanted to say—like how she no longer wanted Cenira to be the only one out of the two of them with younglings.

But that conversation, once again, would have to be pushed aside for another time. "I may be on medical leave," Meren said with a sigh, "but that will not excuse me from a late report."

"The Hierarch will understand," Karax reassured. "Relax, Meren. It is not as though you are dealing with the Conclave anymore. Besides, Torik is the least of Artanis's worries."

"There is something else?"

"Artanis received a message from the Tal'darim highlord. I did not see it myself, but I do believe it was about one of Alarak's colonies being attacked."

"Is that so?"

"Why the surprise, Meren? The Tal'darim have a talent for making enemies. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened."

"Karax, you must not speak like that," Meren said, her voice growing terse. "They are still part of us."

"Only by design," Karax said. "Artanis and I witnessed what they call Rak'shir. It is… well, the beliefs they have are like what you would expect from a disturbing work of fiction. And if only they were. There are some things that change, Meren, and then there are things that do not."

Some things do not change, Meren echoed in her mind. She looked back at the screen. She recalled the force that had struck her on that day—only one with fully developed psionic powers could have done that without lifting a finger. Once there had been someone who walked on Aiur with that terrifying power.

Meren's eyes lowered to the ground as outrageous conclusions sprung into her mind. She needed to reconcile some readings, and to do that she needed records. But that specific profile—that one individual—was highly classified. It was sealed within the archive vaults at the heart of the Hall of the Daelaam.

Her medical leave would have to be cut a little short.

From watching the port and Aiur grow in the distance, to viewing the stars glide by, Torik kept his eyes fixated on the wide window on the observation deck. Space travel was not new to his people, yet the sights never failed to be awe-inspiring. Well, that, and the fact that if he turned around he would find himself very alone with the executor. Their ship, only slightly smaller than Marcus's Caravan, was supported by a crew of drones.

"Torik."

Well, he was going to have to turn around sooner or later. He did, and met eyes with Ariadis. She was standing at the center of the observation platform. Her eyes were the exact same shade as a Khaydarin crystal. Those gold chains webbed over her face really did make those eyes shine brighter—.

Torik realized the executor had finished a sentence. He also realized he hadn't caught a single word. Where was the Khala when he needed it?

"I have not been entirely honest with you… or the Daelaam," Ariadis continued.

Wait… what?

"I could not tell them. If I did, they would have barred this expedition."

"Executor… we are not about to do something illicit, are we?"

"No. Well…" Ariadis blinked. "I am not sure I would call it illicit, exactly. Had I made a proposition to the Daelaam, they would have surely disagreed—especially the praetor." She turned away, pacing slowly. Her voice suddenly became biting. "But he is a coward."

Torik agreed, but he wasn't keen on broadcasting his disrespect so boldly even if Ellandar was far out of earshot. "Are we not going to the Lontimar system?"

"We will," the executor assured, "but on the way, there is an… anomaly that I would like to stop at and examine first."

"What sort of anomaly?"

"I do not know, but…" Ariadis trailed off, then firmly said, "I do not know. I have my suspicions, and I need to see it with my own eyes."

"I see," Torik said. He turned back to the observation window. "So we find this anomaly, and then go to the Lontimar system?"

"That is the plan."

There was a pause. Torik knew that if it stretched for too long, the executor would leave. But something had been chewing at him. The very thought of bringing it up grated at him, but he felt he could no longer suppress it.

"Executor," he said, his eyes still glued to the window. "Back on Aiur, you told me 'once again, you reach for a goal that is too high above your head.' Were you referencing my desire to become a templar?"

"I am a realist, Torik. I have always been. You cannot be a templar if you cannot even stand. Besides, whether you are or are not one is not a measure of your worth."

"Those words," Torik said, "coming from you mean little."

Her next words came out angrily. "You will address your executor with the proper respect."

How closely she sounded to the praetor just now. They were, after all, members of the Daelaam—one in the same. Suddenly, this trip no longer seemed so appealing. "My apologies, Executor."

He heard a sigh emit from her as she turned away. "This is not how I wanted this to go," she said. "Give me time. We shall try this again."

"Of course, Executor." That was finally his chance to respectfully withdraw from the conversation with Ariadis, and Torik took it in speed. He was off to find some corner of the ship to mope. How pitiful, he noted to himself. But then again, how could he not be so filled with this self-loathing, given who he was?

Torik once again reminded himself that imperfection was not loved by the firstborn. But it wasn't like he was like this by choice.

A drone hovered idly next to him. With the ship set to an automated cruise, this one was not busy. Torik stared at it. It gave a soft beep every now and then.

"Ever heard of music?" he asked it. The drone, devoid of sentience, did not answer.

What was he doing? 'Go do something before you fall deeper into insanity,' he told himself.

Dr. Meren had installed a crystal with logging capabilities into his chair before he had left Aiur. "Often, templar embarking on long expeditions would record their thoughts in these crystals. As they gathered wisdom, they would use them to record it to bring back and share with the rest of the firstborn," she told him. "Even if you do not believe yourself able to fully be one, you're still capable of adopting their habits."

"What wisdom could I possibly embed? What do I know that isn't already known?"

"Your thoughts," Dr. Meren had answered. "Your emotions. Your unique perspective. There is no one like you, Torik. No one who has struggled as you have. You see things as no firstborn has. That is just as valuable as any templar's guidance."

As Torik activated the memory crystal, it glowed a soft blue. He felt the psionic binding creep into his mind. The crystal began mirroring his thoughts, capturing the activity within his mind in a perfect echo.

I am Torik of the Firstborn. I am a living enigma—even my name is merely an alias. My true name, the one designated to me at birth, is unknown. Even by me. My memories, as you see them now, are broken and unreliable.

What a somber introduction to his first memory crystal. But what did it matter? Despite what Dr. Meren told him, Torik had doubts that anyone would ever bother to read his memory crystals.

Along with his words, Torik placed the only memories of himself that he could recall. The fragments he retained from the Lontimar system. The feeling of suddenly awakening in a small, compressed space. The walls around him were cold. It was dark.

Suddenly, with a loud hiss, the wall in front of him opened and he had fallen out onto warm rock. He recalled the pain from hitting the uneven ground, the biting of the loose stones into his wet skin. He remembered being confused, dazed, struggling to comprehend his existence and his surroundings. He looked around. It was dim, and the only light was coming from an opening at the far end of… whatever he was in. Some sort of chamber?

Then, as Torik was still fighting to collect his bearings, he had turned to look over his shoulder. There, he saw it—words etched into cold, golden metal.

Inht.

Inht? Something about it didn't seem right.

Then the dazed protoss had dragged himself to the mouth of the chamber, trying his best to ignore the pain of rock scraping against his skin. Wind whistled outside, and the air grew hotter as he neared the light.

His memory danced in fog, and as it cleared, there were loud voices. Terrans. He understood their language, as nearly all protoss had been educated in the Koprulu Sector's active languages. They had noticed him and were alerting one another. Someone shouted to "tranq him." That had been followed with a sharp pain in his back, just below his right shoulder blade. The next thing he knew, an artificially strong feeling of drowsiness had overwhelmed him.

I do not know which planet I was on, or why I found myself encased in that small box within the chamber. I pray that this journey will tell me. I am currently aboard Executor Ariadis's ship, the Weaver, as it heads towards the Lontimar system. May Tassadar guide m—.

Just as he was signing off, Torik felt a memory suddenly crash into his mind with uncontrollable force. He had no idea what had prompted it, but all of a sudden his mind was seized with a recollection that was entirely foreign and yet familiar at the same time.

"… a secondary one," someone was saying. It was him. Torik was saying it. "In the Lontimar system. Here." Torik saw his own hand, completely different to the one attached to him now, point. This arm was sturdy, muscular. Its digit was pointing to a holographic map in front of him, trained specifically on one planet it particular. "Its harsh desert climate will drive any of the Armada's scouts away."

"As you wish." The reply came from a woman. Torik looked up into the eyes of the one who had spoken. Torik looked up into green eyes—so, so familiar, and yet he had no idea who they belonged to. Vorazun? No, the woman was Nerazim, but it was not the matriarch.

And that was it. Startled, Torik blinked and the Nerazim woman vanished. He recognized the interior of the Weaver in front of him. Beside him, on the arm of his transport chair, the crystal glowed brightly with its stored memories.

"E-executor?" Torik called out nervously. It seemed Ariadis was too far away to hear him.

Tell the executor nothing. There it was again. She will only get in the way. All I need from her is a way back to the Lontimar system—to there. The time is fast approaching. No doubt they are aware of that as well.

'Who?' Torik asked, but quickly realized he was only asking himself. And it was up to him to provide an answer, but he couldn't.

It was his turn to sigh wistfully. Turning the transport chair around, Torik hovered down the short corridor. He aimed to explore the Weaver for a while. At least it would busy his mind from these puzzling thoughts.

There was a door at the end of the corridor that he hadn't gone through. Torik paused at the threshold, his eyes scanning the doorframe for any sign to tell him what the room was for. There was none. Well, there was one way to find out. Torik pushed his chair forward.

The door slid open and, as Torik entered, lights that were embedded in the seams of the walls and ceilings were activated upon his entrance. The equipment around the room told him that it was some sort of small laboratory. Against one wall were racks of small vials. Torik didn't recognize the viscous liquid contained within them. His first alarming thought was that maybe they held terrazine. But then he realized that the liquid was clear and not purple. Perhaps they were medication? Supplements? Ariadis was a templar, after all. Maybe they were enhancers for battle. It wasn't like Torik would know.

Just as he was turning to leave the lab, a containment field caught his eye. Immediately he recognized what sat behind the thin, blue force field, and the sight of them filled him with horror.

No… not here. Why were they here?

"Torik?"

He looked back. Ariadis stood in the doorway. "I sense your distress," the executor began.

"Why have you brought them with us?" Torik couldn't stop the panic from permeating his voice.

"Calm yourself, Torik," Ariadis said. "I thought it poor to leave them to rot, given all that was done to make them. Besides, you are protoss—part of a race that values strength above all else. Do you truly wish to scoot around in a chair for the rest of your years?

"You don't understand, Executor," Torik said slowly. "You were not in the phase-smith facility that day. You didn't see what happened."

Ariadis was silent as she surveyed Torik for a moment. "Why do you fear them?" she asked.

A good question. Why are you afraid of them?

Torik lowered his eyes. He couldn't tell her. Shaking his head, he said, "There are things I don't understand—that's what I'm afraid of."

"I think," Ariadis replied, "that if we are to embark on this journey together, then we need to—." The executor stopped her words short when the ship's main terminal pulsed out a psionic signal, alerting the two of them that an incoming transmission was being received.

The executor whirled around and hurried to the deck. Torik followed after her. "A message?" Ariadis muttered in disbelief. "Out here? Who could possibly…?"

They came up onto the observation deck. As Ariadis stepped to the terminal, Torik turned and scanned the windows. A milky beige planet was in view, nothing more than a small marble. Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to look. The holographic screen had been pulled up, and whatever transmission the Weaver had picked up was being played.

The signal was poor, as the image that flickered was barely coherent. Still, the bare features of a protoss face could be made out. Torik could practically see the distress in his eyes.

"… Need of… immediate… utmost urgency…" His voice wavered in and out of their minds. Abruptly, the transmission ended.

"Who is that?" Torik demanded, shaken up by what he had seen.

"I do not know," Ariadis replied, also looking uneasy. She looked around, her eyes quickly skimming over the windows. "No protoss should be out here, and yet…" She turned back to Torik. "At the same time, I am executor. If any of my people are in danger, I cannot ignore them." She paused, and then hesitantly added, "Is that not right, Torik?"

That she was asking Torik such a question shocked him. "That… that is just, Executor."

Ariadis still looked hesitant as she continued to stare at him. Torik couldn't help but realize this was the longest they had held gazes. Then, the executor turned back to the terminal. There, she sent out a responding broadcast.

"Pilot, this is Executor Ariadis. Your message has been received. Relay to me your location and your current situation."

The terminal whirled, and its embedded Khaydarin crystal glowed as responding coordinates were fed into it. From the crystal, Ariadis quickly read them. "The planet," she said, looking out towards it. "But why…?" She relayed another broadcast. "Pilot, I request your current situation."

There was no response—the blurry face did not return. Instead, the coordinates were pinged again like an eerie, voiceless call.

"I do not like this," Ariadis fretted. "I have a premonition this is something we should not investigate alone. We need to circle back and alert the Daelaam." Before she could even put words to action, the Weaver's radar suddenly beeped. Torik watched Ariadis's eyes fly down to it. He felt the fear ripple from her.

"No," the executor said softly. "No!"

Head up. Gait steady. Meren reminded herself that if she gave the air that she belonged there, then the guards would not question her. She hoped none of them knew she was supposed to be on medical leave.

Someone passed her, though Meren wasn't exactly sure if he was a templar guard or someone who simply worked at the Hall. The side-glance she shot him was nervous all the same.

She had told Karax that she had been headed to the bazaar with Cenira. Without the Khala, lying had become startlingly easy. And at the same time, it had still been hard. Having lived most of her life mentally unified with her people, Meren felt guilt weigh in her chest. She reminded herself that this was important—necessary.

The vaults were deep under the Hall of the Daelaam, accessed only by a single elevator, as warping was blocked. Standing by the elevator entrance like a sentinel was an immobile drone. As Meren neared, the crystals in its face glowed, indicating that it was aware of her presence. Quietly, it waited for her to speak.

"Meren, Khalai doctor," she told it. "I request access to the Vault."

"State your purpose."

"I wish to examine a patient's profile."

"Invalid."

Meren thought as much. The vault held information only on those already passed, and the drone was well aware of that. "I need to reconcile certain reports," she said. "The profile I seek to reconcile with is found only in this vault."

"Authorization not approved."

"This is urgent," Meren said exasperatingly. This drone was starting to irk her.

"Please step away, or a templar guard will be notified."

Well, there was no other way around it. Meren had hoped that maybe she could reason her way past the drone, but this machine apparently didn't understand the concept of 'doctor's orders.' Well… never mind the fact that this was technically beyond her scope of work. Turning away, Meren muttered to the drone, "I really hate you."

"Invalid."