Today is… I suppose the twelfth sunset since our departure from Aiur. Sunsets are difficult to track in space—we pass many suns regularly. But the ship's systems track time as though we were planet side, and it says that twelve sunsets have passed. I suppose with little else, I must trust this ship's decree.

Since our encounter with the terran renegades, the Weaver has been unable to system-warp until the damages are fully repaired. The executor says we cannot risk a warp until the ship's frames are solid, lest we run the risk of emerging on the other side of the warp in a dissolving vessel. For now we have traveled manually, moving across empty space like a lonely meteorite.

Hazuris… how did I know her name? It simply emerged, like something dredged up from the murky pond floor. It puzzles me to think of why I would know her—she is quite clearly a criminal. And yet… when I gazed at her image on the projected screen, I couldn't help but feel…

As though I was graced with a dear old friend.

Doubt clouded him as soon as Torik retracted his mind from the memory crystal. As he held the stone in his hand, he considered destroying it. Such deep thoughts seemed dangerous, especially if the Daelaam learned of them.

And one such member was aboard this very ship.

But, as Torik held the crystal, his mind returned to what Dr. Meren had told him. She'd said that his memories were invaluable, and he could tell she had truly believed that. Her words, indeed just the memory of them, comforted him. The doctor claimed to be a healer of physical ailments, but powerful were her effects to ease the mind's troubles. Torik missed her company dearly. Indeed, Karax was a lucky man, even if he had chosen to bury himself up to his crested head in his phase-smith work.

As Torik settled into his slumber pod, he wondered if, like the phase-smith, he would ever find the one to hold his hearts forever. Foolishly, he thought he had found that one already—but he'd been dwelling on the impossible then. Though harsh, though arrogant, Ellandar's words had held some truth in them. Torik wasn't fit for the executor, and his blatant cowardice in the face of danger provided testament to that.

The interior of the pod dimmed, though soft light traced around the edges to provide Torik with nourishment while he slept. He shut his eyes. While he waited for sleep to overcome him, Torik attempted to summon the melodies of the songs he had listened to while on Marcus's ship. But he found that he couldn't quite remember how they went.

"What of this one, Meren?" The doctor lifted her eyes to look as the woman standing next to her lifted a set of flowing mauve robes from a stand. As she turned them, they shimmered in the midday sun. "This shade is of that which adorns traditional Nerazim garb, do you not agree? It does look beautiful on them—on me, it makes me look pale and sickly."

"Well, you do have lighter skin, Cenira," Meren pointed out.

"Indeed I do," Cenira sighed. "I believe Khutyl has a set of this exact color… hmm, perhaps I ought to commission similar robes for our youngest."

"Perhaps," Meren agreed absently-mindedly.

"Is something troubling you, dear sister?"

"Troubling?" Meren echoed. "No, I—apologies, Cenira. My mind was simply adrift."

"Something ails you, I can tell," Cenira insisted. "Be honest, Meren. You know you can voice your worries to me."

Meren hesitated, though the weariness was caused more by her attempts to bring her anxiety into tangible words. She found no qualms in confiding with her sister—gods forbid it, but if Meren had nursed a terrible terrazine addiction even that wouldn't be kept from Cenira.

But now… it was different. This was not something Meren could bring herself to lay completely bare. And her need for secrecy was for another's sake, not hers. That was what made it sacred. "I… attempted to enter the Vault of Memories." She kept her voice low, hoping only Cenira's mind received it.

Her sister glanced around, dropped the robes back, and practically dragged Meren by the arm to an isolated corner. "The Vault?" she hissed back. "Why?"

"I needed to access a profile," Meren answered vaguely.

"Well, yes, that is why one enters the Vault in the first place. What did you intend to do with said profile?"

"I needed it for my work." Meren knew any time she tacked 'for my work' onto any of her sentences, Cenira would quickly lose interest. Luckily, it worked this time… to some regard. Cenira still didn't look completely convinced, but she ceased her prying.

"Well…" Cenira said. "If you cannot get into the Vault yourself, I may know of another way."

"You do?"

"Khutyl has a friend who is a record-keeper—he is granted regular access to the Vault. Perhaps he may be able to help you. However, you will likely have to explain yourself to Khutyl first before he chooses to consider doing such a favor."

"Of course. I understand."

"We can head to my home now," Cenira suggested, her eyes alight with excitement, "and you can finally see the youngling!" She grabbed Meren by the wrist and they headed out of the bazaar and down the bustling citadel street towards the warp station.

The simple act of obtaining a profile from the Vault of Memories had instead been made complex, but Meren knew why. Though the Vault seemed like a harmless institution, it held a dark past that originated from the era of the Purifier program. At the program's genesis, it became clear that in order to closely mimic the personalities of the chosen great templar, thorough data of each and every one would need to be compiled. And thus the Khalai constructed the Vault—a deeply guarded, underground chamber holding collections upon collections of data pertinent to the Firstborn's most renowned individuals. These included memory crystals, articles, medical readings, training records—anything that added to the very definition of that templar.

Of course, Purifiers still remained in a touchy position among many of the Khalai—especially among those old enough to remember bearing witness to the news of the slaughter that came about from the Purifiers' rebellion as it had happened. Meren herself had once worked briefly in one of the research colonies on Endion. She remembered how Cybros, the stasis-locked warship that then had been decommissioned to serve was the Purifiers' orbital prison, could be seen like a bright star at night. As beautiful as it had looked, trepidation would also ripple across the Khala any time a scientist lifted their head to gaze at it. And always would there be work to improve its stasis locks.

The reputation of the Vault fell in tandem with that of the Purifiers. The Firstborn sealed the machine-protoss in stasis, and confined the secrets of the Vault to only a chosen few. Reverence kept the records from being destroyed altogether.

As the two women reappeared from their warp at the entrance of a residential area, Meren quietly pondered to herself what she would tell Khutyl with regards to why she wanted to go down into the Vault. She obviously couldn't tell him the truth—oh curses, here she was plotting to lie again. Meren sorely hoped this wouldn't become a habit.

They walked through the streets towards Cenira's home. Meren always loved the beauty of Nerazim architecture—the colors varying from elegant silver to sleek onyx, the green and turquoise crystalwork that lined the structures like veins, and the gold accents. Hides and embroidered tapestries draped over some homes, offering a cozy, rustic feel. A pair of Nerazim, likely a master and his pupil, sat on a nearby stone bench. The master, his body more defined and decorated, looked to be explaining something with his hand gestures while his young student listened in attentive silence.

"The air is so still here," Meren commented, looking up at the cloud-speckled sky.

"Well," Cenira replied, "we do not live close to the Daelaam. How do you manage to sleep with the light of warps and vehicles flashing all around you?"

"Window guards," Meren answered.

"And the noise?"

"Window guards are for that too."

Cenira sighed. "The notion of having to shield your own windows depresses me. Well, here we are."

"Is Khutyl home?"

"He was to look after the youngling in my absence, so I should hope so," Cenira said. The front door slid open before them and the two of them stepped in.

"Have you no drone to care for her?"

"Meren!" Cenira scoffed lightly. "I will have no drone raising my youngling—never will one replace the love and care of a parent." Yup, she was far too Nerazim now.

"So where is she?" Meren asked, looking around. From another room, the telekinetic wailing of a youngling assaulted their minds.

"The timing is impeccable," Cenira mused as she hurried towards the source of the noise, Meren following closely. They turned into a small, dim room with nothing much but a chair and a tiny sleeping pod. Meren found herself carefully stepping over the toys scattered on the floor. From within the sleeping pod, she spied flailing limbs. Before Cenira could reach the restless youngling, a form atop the chair stirred and rose. Meren quickly recognized the towering frame of her sister's husband. The gold clamps affixing his dark maroon clothes to his body and decorating the severed ends of his nerve cords jangled softly as he stepped over to the sleeping pod.

"Hush now, little one," Khutyl shushed, his gruff voice rumbling softly. Drowsiness clung to his words like the last traces of morning dew. "You have nothing to despair over." He scooped the youngling up in one hand and held her against his chest. Upon feeling her father's warmth, the youngling quieted down. Finally, Khutyl looked to the two women.

"Love," he addressed Cenira. To Meren, he gave a courteous nod. "Meren. Good to see you."

"How has she been?" Cenira asked.

"Up until now, sleeping."

"And you?"

"The same."

Cenira held her arms out, and Khutyl passed the youngling over to her. Immediately, the little one latched her arms around her mother's neck.

"I hope you have been doing well," Khutyl said to Meren.

"I have, thank you."

"And Karax? Busy as always?"

"Yes."

Meren didn't miss the glare Cenira shot him. She knew Khutyl had a less-than-favorable view of Karax. The Nerazim veteran valued family above all else, having even turned down an offer to join the ranks of the Shadow Guard from Matriarch Vorazun herself. His decision to permanently retire was largely influenced by the fact that Cenira had been heavy with their first youngling then. And through Cenira's quiet confessions, Meren had learned that Khutyl saw Karax's work-centric lifestyle as blatant disrespect to those highly revered values.

It was fortunate, then, that Meren didn't see things the same way. Marriage didn't have to wholly end one's way of living. But, at times, Meren couldn't help but secretly wish Karax's time on Shakuras had influenced him just a bit more.

"Not that it's a problem," Cenira interjected, her telepathic voice taking on a higher tone that Meren knew all too well.

There came a sigh, followed by a, "No, not at all." It seemed Khutyl had grown to learn what that tone meant as well.

Meren suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Her sister and Khutyl, even away from the public eye, were still like a couple in their early days. Even their quarrels were endearing, though Meren loathed the idea of being the cause of one.

"Well Meren?" Cenira's question quickly shook the doctor from her thoughts. "It is like I said back at the bazaar—this one takes after her father. Mauve would look just perfect on her."

"Indeed," Meren agreed simply, throwing a quick glance at Khutyl. The Nerazim had gone to set aside the chair he had been resting on. It took all her willpower to keep her foot from tapping. A visit to her sister's homestead was always a reprieve Meren would welcome, though now she had something urgent at hand. And this favor from Khutyl—well, she wondered how she was even going to begin bringing it up.

The answer was simpler than she anticipate. First, the youngling began wailing, fueled by some unknown desire, and began thrashing in the arms of her exasperated mother. Cenira quickly excused herself, rushing out of the room. After the infant's howls faded away, silence wallowed—though not for long.

"Meren." At her name, the doctor turned. Then, she leaned her head back, having never quite gotten used to how Khutyl towered over her. "I've heard that you attempted to enter the Vault."

Meren blinked. Then, she lowered her eyes. A pulse—not coherent enough to be a thought, and yet to complex to be a mere sentiment—shot from her. Wait, let me explain.

Old habits die hard, it seemed. Quickly, Meren realized that Khutyl had no Khala to feel that pulse through. "Well…" she began.

"Understand that I bring this up only out of concern," Khutyl continued. "As you are Cenira's family, so are you mine." A part of Meren was touched—the other part again wanted to roll her eyes. "Any business involving the Vault is a dangerous venture." Those forest green eyes regarded her deeply. There was always something about Nerazim eyes, as though they saw more than just the mere physical.

"I would not have attempted if the matters involved were not important," Meren defended. "You know I would never put Karax or Cenira in that kind of danger."

"I know," Khutyl assured. "Cenira tells me you are a doctor above the rest—that everything you do is for the good of others. Though you keep your reasons about the Vault to yourself, I know this circumstance is no different." The Nerazim paused, and then let out a deep sigh. "So I suppose you came to our home for the express purpose of speaking to me, am I correct?"

"I…"

"No need to act surprised, Meren. Though I spent most of my life on Shakuras with my brothers and sisters, I have also been around the Khalai for long enough to know what they are like."

Meren lowered her eyes, finally unable to meet that gaze which made her feel so transparent. "Forgive me, Khutyl. I pray you do not think that I wish to merely use you."

"As if you were capable of such a thing," Khutyl responded, his gruff voice suddenly becoming light-hearted. Meren looked up. "The Firstborn owe you a great deal for all that you have done. The least I can do is pay some of it back. I suppose you know about that friend of mine?"

"The record-keeper?"

"Yes, him. I shall speak to him about getting the information that you need. All I ask is that you keep this away from the Daelaam. And if the worst should come to pass, let the fault be entirely my own—not one bit Cenira's, nor yours."

The doctor found herself at a loss for words. She'd never truly known the man that her sister had wed—just as the towering, intimidating Nerazim that had pulled her sister away from the Citadel and into this tiny village. Now, she found herself nothing but glad that this was the one Cenira was living her life with. "Thank you, Khutyl."

"Anything for family."

Torik had a strong feeling that this was something he wasn't meant to witness. From the doorway, his wide eyes followed the needle as it stuck into the Executor's arm. The drone whirred quietly, as though pleased with itself. Then, it withdrew the needle and hovered over to the rack of small vials. From a port near its belly, the drone ejected a similar vial neatly onto the rack—only this one was empty.

Now that this… whatever it was… had concluded, Torik figured he ought to quickly take his leave. But before he could even turn, he heard the Executor.

"It is alright," Ariadis assured, her back still turned to the door. Despite her words, Torik felt his shame double from being caught—feeling as though he had done something as deplorable as watching her bathe.

"Forgive me, Executor. I—."

"Came to check on me?" Ariadis finished for him. Torik remained silent. The Executor's head turned towards the rack of vials. "No doubt you had noticed them already," she continued. "And I figured you would find out about this sooner or later, given that we will be in close proximity for a while." Her hand came up, resting gently over where the needle had punctured her. "Though I admit, I am afraid of how much of me you will begin to see."

"Why is that, Executor?"

Ariadis suddenly stood and turned. Torik spied the wound on her forehead where the terran mercenary had struck her with the wrench—a blow that had been meant for him. It was healed to the point where it would no longer bleed, though the dark blue splotch stood out vibrantly against her pale skin.

"Tell me, Torik—why is it that you wish to join the templars? I want your true answer."

His true answer? Torik hesitated. He wondered what the Executor would make of him if she knew. But he reminded himself that she had very nearly given her life for him—honesty was the least he could give in return

"I… think it will prove me worthy," Torik finally responded. "Prove that I am not just a burden upon my people, subject to live the rest of my life strictly as a deformed anomaly."

"And who are you trying to prove this to?"

"Everyone. Myself included." Torik looked down at the end of his chair, where the robes tapered off into empty drapes. "To those who stared while I was on Aiur, their eyes conveying as much as the Khala once did. To Artanis, whom I did nothing but disappoint. But it's not just that. Some part of me—I cannot explain it—wants so desperately to be… great." He wasn't sure if that was the right word.

Not just great. Revered. Feared.

"Such ambitions are good to have," Ariadis said. "They drive us forward."

"Not if they are too high above one's head," Torik sighed. "Pardon me, Executor. I should let you rest." He turned his chair, but suddenly Ariadis spoke up.

"Once, the Conclave doubted my capability to be among the templar," she said. "Due to something wholly out of my control, though it was a part of me that I embraced. We cannot let these things hold us down, Torik—they become shackles only when we permit them to be."

"I do not think our shackles can be compared, Executor."

"Maybe not," Ariadis agreed.

"I appreciate your words," Torik quickly said. "You should rest."

He caught a glimpse of something in the Executor's eyes—like something just on the cusp of being spoken. But he saw that light die down, and Ariadis simply responded, "Yes, I will. As should you, Torik."

His chair hovered smoothly down a corridor. On one side, the hallway was made entirely of glass—offering an unrestricted view of one of the Weaver's slick fins and the vast stretch of space beyond. Torik paused, watching the drones outside whizz back and forth tirelessly to repair the ship. The fin that was in view bore wide, expansive cracks that offered glimpses of the infrastructure underneath, like a grisly wound exposing soft flesh. Torik knew that the rest of the ship was in no better shape. Though the Executor's repair drones were top of the line, this ship would not be warping any time soon.

Perhaps this was fate's attempt at setting the two of them up, was the thought that Torik humored himself with. He turned his chair away from the window and continued down the corridor. His fingers tapped restlessly on the armrest as he glided. And then he stopped.

Had he excused himself too abruptly from the Executor's presence, he fretted? Perhaps it had been too brash to leave her in the laboratory all on her own. But even as he considered turning back, Torik hesitated.

Would she even welcome back his companionship? And even if they were to sit in the lab together, what would they talk about? Were they to engage in awkward, idle chatter—or perhaps they would speak again of Torik's hapless goals of becoming a templar?

Torik sighed. This was pitiful, really. Again and again, he had tried to convince himself of what Ellandar had told him back on Aiur. When it came to the Executor, he should mind his own business. His feelings were frivolous—what did he like about her besides her beauty? Their connection didn't run as deep as that of Meren's and Karax's. True, she had saved his life from the terran mercenaries, but what of it? Torik reminded himself of the times she had been condescending to him—trampling his aspirations as though she knew him better than he did.

But it was like beating a boulder with a stick. Try as he did, he could not change with these forced thoughts. And even though he knew he should not have been, Torik found himself as in love with the Executor as ever.

And yet he couldn't even say her name, for Tassadar's sake. "I should never have come to Aiur," he told himself for the thousandth time. He found himself drifting into the control room, where the soft blue glow from the main control board indicated that the ship's autopilot was engaged. "I should have stayed with Marcus and the terrans."

The terrans? Disgusting.

Torik blinked. No… that wasn't right. He liked them. He'd his encounters with the bad eggs, yes, but he had made a friend out of one who had shown him that humanity was much like the Khaydarin crystals of his people—with many faces.

Humanity is but sludge, slowing down all unfortunate enough to near it. Well, it was true that their technology paled in comparison, but they couldn't be blamed for that. With the universe so vast, the progress made by her races couldn't possibly be synced. Do you really think they'd ever amount to the might of the Firstborn? Perhaps not, but humanity needn't be wholly like the Firstborn either. That's what made them so fascinatingly different. That's what made them turn their vocalizations into delightful symphonies of notes.

Torik didn't know why he was having these thoughts. Perhaps it was an aftereffect of dealing with the stress from the terran mercenaries, coupled with his depressed longings for the Executor. Yes, surely that was it. Leaning back in his chair, Torik closed his eyes.

Meren had never been this nervous before in her life—not even during her make-or-break medical exams that could've cut short her career back during the days of her medical apprenticeship. She was once again in the Hall of the Daelaam, standing just around the corner from the frustrating sentinel that guarded the Vault. However, unlike during her first visit, this drone did not object to the individual who had passed by. He was down there now—deep below in those vast chasms in search of records of one individual in particular.

She wondered what Khutyl's friend thought of her request. Upon telling him of the profile she wanted, he had shown no response. There was, however, no doubt that he was curious—it was a name, after all, that was now notorious to all the Firstborn for what he had tried to do during his years among the living.

Approaching footsteps alarmed her. Quickly, Meren turned towards the wall. Desperate for a cover so not to look as suspicious as she felt, the doctor held up her tablet—a lightweight frame that projected a holographic screen within its golden borders. She pulled up a patient profile and feigned its inspection as two robed officials came around the corner. They walked towards her, and then past—too engrossed in their conversation to pay Meren any mind. Nonetheless, she kept a sharp focus on their receding footsteps until they became muted enough. Stifling a sigh of relief, Meren found her attention drawn to the projected profile before her very eyes.

The patient that had been pulled up was the most recent one she had looked at—Torik. Her eyes skimmed over his details, her diagnosis of his conditions, and finally… his psionic readings.

If what she suspected was true… well, she didn't quite know what would follow. But considering Torik's mysterious origins, perhaps this curiosity of hers was not so out of line.

"Doctor."

Meren nearly dropped her tablet. She turned. Wide eyes conveyed her shock to the protoss that stood there, the record-keeper. He shook his head apologetically.

"Ah, I did not mean to startle you," he said.

"It… it is no problem!" Meren replied, her wide eyes betraying her. "I did not expect—well, you were quicker than I anticipated!"

"The…" The record-keeper stole a quick glance down the hall to ensure they were alone. "The profile you requested was not difficult to find. Although I must warn you, Meren, that you mustn't let anyone know of this. And I bid you to be quick, lest anyone discover that this profile has been removed from the Vault." A hand rose from beneath the record-keeper's robes clutching a gold, ovular disc. Quickly, Meren took it and slipped it into a pocket.

"I understand. It should not take me more than an evening to make my analysis. I must thank you—this is a great help."

"Think nothing of it," the record-keeper responded with a nod. "Once you have done what you need to do, you know where to find me." His blue eyes shot a side-glance as an official came from around the corner. He turned to leave. "Good day, Meren. Go home and rest."