n the head of a young man with dirty blonde hair in ceremonial armor.

“What is the fuck— “

The word ricocheted around the room, a profane echo chamber. The gathered group all turned towards him, Padgett biting back a smile, strangling a laugh behind tight lips. The Dowager pinned him down. He felt very small, a paramecium under a microscope, a dying star adrift in the distant Infinite viewable only through a telescope.

“Something bothering you, my boy?” The Dowager asked, he face an unreadable mask.

“It’s just… just that,” he grasped for the words, his head unable to send the correct ones to his mouth. “How is that possible?”

“Thest tapestries are a diving gift from the Soraline Order, enchanted with etheric...

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