The sun has returned to Orion. Trained by many memories of fierce battle, flight, and dance, it rockets through the air, composing itself as a momentary lapse in all the brilliant quartz lights on the ceiling. Much like the Sun of the real sky that it has never known, this Valkhound is possibly the most visible thing for any eyes cast upward. And why wouldn't they be? The rest of the room is entropy, in the most pejorative sense. Things that break and then break further and then break more. Arenas that lose their meaning beneath the footsteps set to music. The flesh of Orion meant very little without the bones of Canis. Each cell disperses into particles, the powdery dust that lungs are taught to exhale like a dragon's fire. There are so many promises laid to waste in here. And yet, to some those misshapen clumps could condense into a treasure.

This is not what Khavur saw, but it was what he was looking for. From this sea of dust was meant to swell a place for the Chaos Forge, instituted and maintained by the Zoisite. Did it work now on those projects? Or was the garden still too much of a toll? Khavur moved through more painful memories like the air that battered against its wings. Its form was made for this; to cut through pain. To move through anything, to serve a nest. This below, the nest they served. What was Master Vargas saving it from?

A treasure had consolidated underneath his wingspan. Khavur couldn't see it yet, but it was there. The calf. A relic of poetry none here had ever before encountered. Something to organize against their entropic state: new life.