Deep within the maze of the Bazaar, throngs of the City's residents wandered, enjoying all the market had to offer. An Iron War Beast sampled fresh fruits. Awoken haggled over the price of pastries. The smells of caramelized meat and rosemary wafted on the breeze, past every vendor and artisan.

The hum of activity was overpowering yet reassuring to Saint-14 as he stopped to watch an older Eliksni expertly weave fabric on a well-worn loom. The woven symbols were unique and unfamiliar to the Exo, but he watched in awe as an iridescent glow emerged within the vibrant cerulean cloth.

Fit for a Kell, Saint mused to himself—

Breath caught in his throat; hands shook—

Flashes of memory echoed in his mind. All he could feel in this moment… was shame.

He hurried past the weaver and through the crowd, landing squarely in front of a tea stand, a sample placed in his hand before he could open his mouth to refuse. He looked down. The opaque liquid steamed in his cup, pungent and medicinal.

Like distilled Darkness, Saint realized—

Breath caught in his throat; hands shook—

Flashes of memory filled his sight. All he could feel in this moment… was sadness.

He stumbled; apologies and hot liquid spilled all around him as the sounds of the Bazaar became a dull roar in his ears. He needed to escape. The noise, the tea, everything.

He closed his eyes and then rushed away at a fevered pace.

Daylight had waned against the City's walls when Saint found himself in a quiet area, where vibrant green vines stretched down from above, and below, the silhouette of his helmet stretched long and thin across the floor where Mithrax's weathered medical Servitor often waited. Saint breathed a sigh of relief.

He was alone.

Saint placed his favorite keepsake, a small stuffed bear, on the Kell's throne. Gently, he adjusted the lavender ribbon at its neck; the crisp satin sat in stark contrast to the bear's hazy black eyes, to its slightly worn ear and well-loved fur. A gift, once a comfort to a child of the City.

A gift, once a comfort to Saint in the face of loss, in the face of—

Breath caught in his throat; hands shook—

Flashes of memory swelled in his heart.

Osiris.

His strong laugh. His deep, soulful eyes. The warmth of his smile. Of his touch.

Memories of comfort, but all he could feel in this moment… was guilt. Intense and overwhelming, like daggers cutting through him, sharpness bleeding through sweetness. Saint breathed deeply and stared at the medical equipment around the empty throne before him.

"The cost of my joy," Saint whispered, and he wept.