A few hours later, a shuffling sound coming down the hallway roused Sylvanni from her thoughts.

She slowly found her feet, not wanting to draw attention to herself with too much movement. Two Vandals walked into the open space of the prison room, dragging something—no, an unfortunate someone—between them. The captive appeared to be unconscious, or at least nonresponsive, as the Fallen guards opened the cell beside Sylvanni's and unceremoniously tossed the prisoner in.

Whoever it was, she could see little of them, covered in a tattered cloth that might have once been a cloak. A Hunter, perhaps? Only the soles of the boots—the only part of the body she could actually see—indicated there was a person beneath there at all. There was no motion from them as the Vandals shut the barred door with a clang and activated the arc grid there.

At the sound of harsh alien speech beside her, Sylvanni flinched back, realizing there was a third Vandal in the room, one she hadn't noticed before. It stayed back, observing the other two, or perhaps supervising them. An officer of some kind, if Sylvanni had to hazard a guess, judging by the tunic-like cloth over its armor and wide, hooded mantle around its neck; decorations that the two guards lacked.

This one looked at her then, saying something in the harsh clicks and hisses of the Fallen language. She feared it was trying to speak to her—asking questions she wouldn't be able to comprehend—until one of the other guards respond across the room.

Still, this one was looking at her. Fighting down her nerves, she took a shot in the dark. "Can you understand me?"

"Un-der-stand?" The three syllables of the word were pronounced with such drawn length and distinct separation that Sylvanni believed it was simply an alien tongue trying to mimic odd sounds, until it was followed by a confirmation. "Yes."

She started; she hadn't actually expected an answer. "You speak our language."

"Not much… of a language," the Vandal rasped out. There was a deliberate effort to each sound, as though each particular phoneme required effort to perform correctly.

Back in the Reef, Sylvanni hadn't ever considered Variks' speech to be particularly fluid, but now, comparing it to her current captor's, she could see that the language must have been a more difficult challenge for Variks than she'd realized. The pronunciations this Vandal made weren't perfect, but littered with approximations. Through the consonants, an assortment of clicks had replaced most of the stops. But the end result was close enough to be intelligible.

Sylvanni chose her next words carefully. She needed information, which meant she needed to keep her captor talking. "Waking here was… unexpected," she said slowly. "I did not know the House of Kings accepted guests. To what do I owe this… gift of your House's hospitality?"

A chirring escaped the mask with a puff of ether, which the Guardian belatedly registered as a laugh. "Not my House."

Blinking, Sylvanni reassessed. The draperies and fabric panels that made up this leader's outfit weren't golden, like the guards'. She would have noticed earlier if she hadn't been so distracted by the situation. Instead, they were a bright forest green, and the painted symbol upon them was made of four horizontal lines, surrounded by four circles in a diamond pattern. Unlike the Kings' mark, this iconography was deeply familiar to her.

House Judgement.

Sylvanni was unable to keep the surprise from her tone. "I thought Variks was the only surviving member of House Judgement."

It was the wrong thing to say. The Vandal snarled at her with such savage ferocity that she instinctively stepped back from the bars.

"Traitors have no House."

Ducking her head, the Guardian amended her statement. "Apologies. All I meant was, I did not think there were any of House Judgement among the other Houses."

Four glowing eyes narrowed behind the ether mask. "Wolves prowl. Kings scheme. Devils experiment. Judgement persists."

Contemplating that answer, the Warlock chose her next inquiry with care. She still needed information above all else, but at least she seemed to be getting responses. Perhaps she could push for more.

"My question remains, despite my incorrect assumption of your House," Sylvanni said slowly. "Might I know the purpose of my… visit?"

The Vandal clicked her mandibles idly. "It speaks smooth words to an enemy. Smoother lies."

"I've spoken no lies to you."

The Vandal's voice rasped over a single syllable. "Yet." The Guardian pursed her lips at the accusation, but before she could respond, the Fallen continued. "You ask purpose. Trial for your crimes."

Sylvanni's eyebrow arched. "For my crimes? You can't really accuse a soldier of murder for fighting her enemies. There's been killing on both sides, has there not?"

"Your kind began the conflict."

"You attacked our cities, our people! We fought back in self-defense!"

The Vandal shook its head, clicking softly. "Theft came first. Took Great Machine."

"Is that what this is about?" Sylvanni bit back a groan. "We didn't steal anything. The Traveler chose us. Chose me."

"And lies begin." The Fallen settled back, as though satisfied a point had been made. "Soon, crimes answered for. Recompense comes."

The Warlock stepped away from the bars, realizing this was a futile argument. She crossed her arms. "If you're looking for 'recompense,' why not just kill me?"

"Death… not true punishment. Not for you."

Hope flickered to life, fragile as a candle flame. "Does that mean… Do you have my Ghost?"

The smile that pulled at the Vandal's four eyes was as amused as it was cruel. "It is afraid to be like us. The thief fears it has lost what it has stolen."

Sylvanni didn't give the satisfaction of a reaction, steeling her face to stoic impassivity and staring her captor down. This seemed to signal the end of the conversation, as the Fallen called out to the two guards in their alien speech and the three headed out of the room. She'd almost forgotten the other prisoner during the conversation, though now they were alone, her thoughts turned to the other cell.

A barred opening served as a window between the two cells at about shoulder height. She leaned over, trying to get a look inside. The cloth-covered body hadn't moved an inch.

She waited until she was certain the Fallen were out of hearing range. "Hello, are you awake? Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

But then, a small shuffle and a weak groan.

The Warlock's breath left her in a rush of relief. "Oh, thank the Traveler. I thought you might be dead. Are you injured?"

The figure stilled for a few heartbeats, seeming to gather strength for another attempt to get up. A hand emerged from beneath the tatters. The skin was an Awoken gray, with a faint lavender undertone. With a feeble heave, he pushed himself onto his side and lifted his head to look at her.

Her breath caught as the recognition locked into place, and she found herself staring straight into the golden eyes of a beaten, battered, and bruised Uldren Sov.