Die. Respawn. Repeat.

Soul of Trade leads us to what looks like the ruined remains of an office. Once inside, however, I see that it's surprisingly well-kept. It's not luxurious by any means, though. There's mold in the corners of crumbling walls, thick layers of dust on what remains of the shelves. Given that nothing here can escape the humidity of having an entire ocean dumped on top of the city, though, it's impressively tidy.

All four of us are silent as Soul of Trade hobbles over to a seat. There's an air of exhaustion around her—gone is the power and confidence she once held. Now the stone of her body struggles to keep itself together, small chips and fragments falling away every time she moves.

I take a moment to examine her with my Firmament sense. Her core remains strong, but... There's something tugging at it. Some sort of active skill draining her life away.

"Well?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral. There's a simmering sort of anger I'm keeping at bay; this version of her hasn't met me, and while the anger is deserved, she doesn't seem like the same person that so easily nudged Fyran into ruin. "You wanted to talk."

Soul of Trade grimaces, straightening in her chair and seemingly preparing herself for an argument. "Trialgoer," she says. There's a bite of bitterness in her tone. "I request your help to end this farce of a Trial."

I stare at her for a long moment, wondering if she's been keeping up with events this particular Trial. She seems rather out of it—her fingers drum nervously on the desk, and she sways every so often like she's on the verge of collapse.

The one thing steady about her is her eyes. They're filled with a singular sort of focus and haven't strayed from me this entire time, to the point where I'm not sure she's even noticed any of my companions.

"You must understand," she says, misinterpreting my silence for confusion. "The Trial is a lie. Hestia has been suffering under its grasp for generations. I am ashamed to say that I worked with the Integrators for a time. I helped them enforce their rule in the hopes that my city would be protected. I hoped..."

Her voice cracks briefly. "I hoped that they would be my salvation," she says. For a moment, her gaze breaks from my own, and she stares out the window into the darkness outside. There's not much visible from where we sit. Only a few pieces of floating rubble and the ever-present water.

"This place was beautiful once, you know," Soul of Trade says. She whispers the words like a prayer. "It may be difficult to believe, but there used to be a magnificent garden here. A garden of metal, yes, but it grew all the same, from a hundred thousand contributions over the decades. A long time ago, it was Inverian tradition to begin one's career with a small gift so that the garden would grow. We saw it as adding to the grand history of our home."

She lifts a hand up to the window as if trying to reach for a garden that's no longer there. I watch her for a moment, then sigh.

"It's not hard to believe," I say. I might not have known the specifics, but it was clear from the amount of care given to the garden that it was important to the people of Inveria. "I've seen it."

Soul of Trade turns back to me. For the first time, she looks scattered, thrown off her game—she'd clearly envisioned a specific way this conversation might go, and my reply doesn't fit into anything she has prepared. That I might know more than her doesn't seem to have occurred to her as a possibility. "What do you mean, you've seen it?"

I meet her gaze, but don't answer the question. Instead, I ask her one of my own.

"Why did you want me to spare that monster?"

Soul of Trade winces. "That's not important," she says, almost tripping over her words. "What's more important is—"

"It's important to me," I say, and she stares at me. I return the stare steadily and without blinking.

Eventually, she speaks.

"I... no longer know the details," she says. The words are halting and hesitant. "But there were notes I left for myself after one of the Trials. One of them included a picture of the garden as it once was and a message that told me in no uncertain terms why it was lost."

Her voice turns bitter. "Because I did as the Integrators asked. I begged them to restore it. To bring Inveria back to before that Trial. But they claimed there was nothing that could be done. That Inveria had always been that way."

Classic. It's good to know that not all the Trialgoers continue to blindly support the Integrators, but I'm not sure how much of a comfort that is, considering what it seems to have cost.

It shouldn't have had to go this far.

"I have no memory of the gardens," Soul of Trade says. "In my mind, Inveria's heart has always been a ruin. An empty, broken hollow, flooded by the rivers above. I am aware of our history, and I am aware that the garden once existed, but I hold no memory of it beyond the picture I left for myself."

"That wasn't the only note," I say, because this is only half the picture. It doesn't explain why Soul of Trade would care about Fyran or even recognize his Remnant. She nods slowly in response, too tired to question why I might know what I know.

"You must understand the nature of my skills," she says. "I make deals. Often in my favor, yes, but they are deals all the same; I must hold up my end of any bargains I make. Doing so allows me a certain degree of power over those I hold a contract with. I can... bend the conceptual weight of our agreements into strength, if you will."

"You made a deal with Fyran," I say, watching her. She's being surprisingly open about how her skills work—I'd expected her to try to avoid telling me the details in some way. The more she hides from me, the greater the advantage she has, if she tries to establish a deal. What she's told me so far fits perfectly with everything Fyran has explained to me about her skills, and the fact that she's being open about it...

Well, I don't think she's trying to trick me or use me. This seems more like a last, desperate gambit. An attempt to either get back at the Integrators or save her city.

The mention of Fyran's name strikes some kind of chord, though. Life sparks back into Soul of Trade; she stares at me, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head, the emotions flickering through her eyes. Confusion, a little bit of fear, exhaustion. "You know his name," she says. "How do you know his name? Why are you even here?"

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

She takes a step back, and then for the first time, turns her gaze to my companions.

There's no flicker of recognition when she sees Guard, no hint of concern when she takes in Ahkelios.

Then her eyes land on Gheraa, and she jerks backward, hissing with sudden, violent intent. I feel her Firmament flare up around her, sharp and unstable, sputtering weakly. She's preparing to fight. Or defend herself, perhaps.

"You work for them," she says, her voice anguished. She doesn't take her eyes off Gheraa. "You joined them. You fool—do you know what they'll do to your planet? How did you bring one of them here?"

"Uh," Gheraa says. He looks at me as if to ask me what he should do, and when I just blink at him, he shrugs helplessly. "It's the other way around," he says. "I joined him."

"What?" Soul of Trade says. She looks between the two of us, eyes darting back and forth. "You lie. The Integrators do not serve."

"He's not serving me," I say, jumping in before Gheraa can do a repeat of his little joke on the other version of Soul of Trade. Not that I think he would. He seems more distressed by the direction of this conversation than anything. "But he is helping me against the rest of the Integrators."

"And you trust him?" Soul of Trade demands. She's backed up against the wall now, the bulk of her Firmament wielded in front of her clumsily, defensively. Whatever's going on with her, she really doesn't seem to have much power she can wield. "He'll betray you. They betrayed me! You can't just trust one of them!"

Her outburst makes Gheraa shrink back. It's barely noticeable—he hides it well, especially with the bulk of his coat to obscure the movement—but I still catch the movement, and I frown.

"It's complicated," I say. "But yes, I trust him. I have my reasons."

I see Gheraa relaxing fractionally at my words. It worries me a little—this is far from the last time he's going to run into something like this, considering what the Integrators have done. I hope he knows I'll stand behind him. I know what he's sacrificed for me. For Earth.

"So did I," Soul of Trade says. She doesn't take her eyes off him. "Look what happened to my city."

"I'm not having this debate." My voice is sharper now—sharp enough that Soul of Trade flinches, surprised by my tone. "I trust him. He fought his own people to keep mine safe."

"A trick," Soul of Trade says, but there's a little less certainty in her voice. "The Integrators are full of them."

"Like I said, I'm not having this debate." I step forward, drawing Soul of Trade's focus back to me. "You helped the Integrators push Fyran into a phase shift that wasn't meant for him. To do that, you made a deal with him. Is that right?"

There's a part of her that wants to push the point, but I see her weighing her options, and eventually, practicality wins; she realizes as well as I do that pushing the point won't lead anywhere good.

It still takes a moment before she can bring herself to answer my question. "I... yes," she admits. The Firmament she's managed to summon slowly fades away, and suddenly she seems small again. Vulnerable. "It was supposed to be minor. A small deviation from the specifics of the deal. The backlash would have been small."

"But," I say. I can guess where this is going.

"I promised to help him escape the Trial," Soul of Trade says. She looks lost all over again, wandering over to the window and paying no mind to Gheraa's presence. "The phase shift was a form of escape. It worked, but only for that Trial."

The pieces click together. "His Remnant counts," I say. "And every time you don't help it escape—"

"—it gets worse. Yes." Soul of Trade lets out a laugh that carries no mirth with it. "I have very little power left for myself, and I cannot be seen by my people. Not like this. Sometimes I feel as though that Remnant is my only friend. There's a certain irony to that, wouldn't you say?"

I have no idea how to respond to that. It doesn't seem to matter. After a moment, Soul of Trade just continues speaking. "It doesn't attack me anymore," she says. "I feed it sometimes. I think it knows I want to help it. Or that I need to help it. I'm not sure I know the difference these days."

She turns back to me. The exhaustion, at least, is something I understand now: she's constantly being drained under the weight of her own contract, and it's not going to let up until the Trial is permanently done. "Satisfied with your answers, Trialgoer?"

"In a manner of speaking," I say. "You wanted me to help you end this Trial. I'm going to do that regardless, but you wouldn't have bothered to bring me here unless there was some kind of help you could offer."

Soul of Trade snorts. She's silent for a long moment. "I have very little power left to me, as you might have noticed," she says. "I cannot help you fight. But Inveria is a Great City, nonetheless, and trade flows through it like no other."

Her eyes sharpen a little. For a moment, I see a fraction of her old self in her—not the cowardice, but the confidence. There's a version of her in there that's an old hand with the political machinations of Hestia, a version of her that's powerful in her own right. "The Disconnected operate within Hestia as they do within every other Trial," she says. "Perhaps you've encountered them?"

"Once or twice," I say warily. Technically just the once, back in Isthanok, but if she's about to offer me one of those skill vials...

Well, I might not yet know the details of what Ahkelios and the others experienced down below, but I felt enough through my link to understand that something went very, very wrong. And that it had something to do with a skill vial. I can't say I'm interested.

To her credit, though, that's not what she offers. Instead, she sits back down at her desk and pulls out a strange device that hums with an odd, warped Firmament. "Hestia's Trial is convenient for experimentation, given that supplies are essentially close to unlimited within the loops," she says. "That makes it crucial for many of their operations. As you might imagine, however, the results of such experimentation would be virtually worthless without the ability to stay in contact with those outside the Trial."

I sit up, suddenly very, very interested in this device. Soul of Trade seems to sense that, because she gives me something like a tired smirk.

"And now I have your attention, it seems," she says. "Perhaps I could interest you in a deal?"

I feel the Firmament gathering around her and roll my eyes. "Not a chance," I say. "If you want to work together, we're going to do it the normal way. No skills involved."

Soul of Trade doesn't seem too inclined to fight for it, thankfully. "Can't blame me for trying," she mutters. "Fine, take it. But remember what I'm doing for you."

I'm already reaching out with my senses, examining the device and making sure it isn't a trap. It's interesting—the Firmament within seems to hold two phases at once in an attempt to bypass the temporal barrier around Hestia. The first layer is blocked by the barrier, as it should be, but the second...

It passes right through.

I can feel it trying to tangle itself with the Interface the moment I reach out to make contact with it. Given that I'm still in the process of deepening my core, I have to be careful—I reach out with Firmament Control to make sure that its connection doesn't tamper with my own.

It doesn't take long. The connection isn't complicated. It just wants access to the Firmament construct the Interface relies on.

The moment that connection gets made, the device lights up, and an Interface window flickers to life in front of me.

[Chat connecting...]

I hold my breath.

[Chat connected.]

And before I can celebrate, a second window appears.

[Downloading updates... Audio interface connected. You have one message waiting.]

Whatever it is I'm expecting, it's certainly not a recorded message from Zhao, which immediately begins to play.