"I am pleased to see you here. May I sit?" he spoke.

Cloying noise. The stone garden is present. He is present.

The Traveler, a monarch against bleak crepuscular ink.

"You may." Osiris stands.

"Stay."

Osiris halts. He turns toward the Speaker; the Light of the Traveler washes against the bone-white hue of his mask. "Is something needed?"

"There is so much activity in the City. I feel it has been too long since we last spoke."

Osiris hangs silent. He looks to the Traveler.

There is a daunting pressure.

"What troubles you?" The Speaker steps toward Osiris.

Osiris inhales sharply. "You have read my reports?"

"Of course." The Speaker loosens his posture. "I value your council."

"We were so close. A moment in the wrong place." Osiris looks to the Speaker.

The Speaker nods. "Yes. But the Light guided your path."

A noose awaiting a misstep.

"I did not see the Traveler on the Six Fronts."

The Traveler dwarfs Osiris. "But you did, my son. It was in the fire that saved your brothers and sisters. It was in the Arc bolts that ripped through their armies. The violet shields that held the line—"

"Do not romanticize this burden. We wield a weapon."

The Speaker shakes his head. "The Light wields you, Osiris. You are what you make of it. A glorious extension of its majesty, in many directions."

Osiris paces at cadence with his words. "Then it would do well to speak clearly. To better direct me."

The Speaker cocks his head. "Without will? Then it would be no better than the Darkness."

"I am asking only for guidance; it is a delicate game we are playing." Osiris's voice, distressed.

Regal again, the Speaker motions to the stone garden. "Will you sit with me?"