Felanya stood in one of the seven armories. Under normal circumstances, she would have been hard-pressed to find one of the great practice chambers empty. But the Trackers had all suddenly gone running for the surface, ignoring the wild, broken daze clouding her reddened, watery eyes. It did not matter to other senior Cleansers that tears had fallen from her eyes, not unless they were a milkier hue of the shade of blue of her hair. No matter if she was weak, broken. She was not yet weak enough them to benefit, not strong enough to have any power to offer in exchange for compassion. The strong never needed compassion, or mercy, or love anyways.
In the depths of Bentaehl, Corridan's laughter could no longer be heard. Part of Felanya's mind - the part of her that was completely, irreparably human - still wanted to remember Corridan as simply Deviant. But he wasn't the Deviant, nor was she a Knight anymore. Acharya, Lyahr, even Dalnek and Varesh... they were all different. Hiding behind a mask of power, denying the scathing agony of failure. They had been chosen, destined to face, and protect this world from, all the old evils. Now she served the evils that had taken her family; she executed the will of Torankhayel unquestionably. This world had fallen into darkness. Its people were miserable, leading mediocre lives they could not even be content with. There was no satisfaction in bearing a child that would only die, leave no mark on this world; no hope that tomorrow would be better. This world had fallen into darkness, and the blame rested on her shoulders.
The ground was rough in the sparring chamber. The ceilings were high, allowing ample room for desperate acrobatics and the maneuvering of lances, halberds and the like. The walls - set apart in a perfect square, 18 by 18 meters - were lined with weapons and soft blue coran'hai. The weapons looked strange to her newly "awakened" eyes. The weapons she remembered from the Old World were nowhere to be found. The simple, clean lines of shining metal and curved blades were replaced by spikes and jagged curves. The blades of Sharan'akar - heavier in her hands, or maybe her muscles had just weakened as she'd become more dependent upon her voice - were made not to defend and protect. They were made to torture, to make any death by a Tracker's hands agonizing. A shelf of sheathed weapons reeked of different poisons. A multitude of staves - what were staves in her mind's eye - resembled large metal flowers. Red folded alloys bloomed at the top, the haft was lined with miniscule, spiky projections that looked - and pricked - just like thorns.
"Beautiful death," she whispered, as her eyes fell to the simplest weapon in the room. It weighed at least fifteen pounds, was a simple undecorated longsword. The hilt had traps set into it, spring-powered nails poked out of the handle, unless a tiny pin on the underside of the hand guard was depressed. It felt almost familiar.
"I'd wondered how long it would take you to wake up." Acharya's voice sounded softly from behind her.
"Too long," was the only answer she could give, her voice breaking as she spoke. "Why?" She turned, letting the tip of the blade brush the floor. "Why us? Why?"
Acharya gave a small laugh. His eyes and hair glittered from the small movement. "Because we... you failed." He snickered when the woman before him flinched. "Why does that bother you so? Failure."
"It bothers me because it's true." She didn't let her eyes meet the Acharya's. He wasn't the person she'd known in the Old World. "The only truth I have is that I accomplished nothing. A short lifetime spent trying to avenge my family, protect the world... Another lifetime I remember of this world, all lies. I remember growing up in this world, I remember parents and pets and training to join your Magi. Why do I remember things that did not happen?"
"You remember what was necessary to continue functioning. You remember a life you never had because without it, you might cease to breathe. Your mind is tiring, Knight." The name struck Felanya like a blow. "You have spent too long fighting to change, while at the same time simply accepting the world in all its horror. You are not strong enough to simply wake in the caverns beneath Rehn'acet, knowing that you were alive - and human - centuries ago; knowing that the blood coursing through your pitiful veins is tainted. The reason your heart beats, your muscles move, your eyes perceive, is because Torankhayel has willed it."
"Vile puppetry." She spat. "The darkness cannot hold sway over me interminably -" Felanya began to rant; a defense mechanism she still carried from the Old World.
"No? Then raise that sword against me. Spill my blood, Knight." Something stirred in his eyes, something Felanya might have recognized if she hadn't been staring at the swirlings within a coran'hai.
"I can't." She let the blade fall to the floor, clattering as it settled. She dropped to her knees, her eyes watering again because she couldn't understand the why for any of this.
"No, you can't." A smirk twisted Acharya's lips, void of any satisfaction. It held slight confidence, a twinge of sadness, and pain. The small screaming, always in the back of his mind swelled when Corridan or Felanya were present. He left her, weeping in the sparring chamber, next to her useless sword.

The coran'hai in the hallways shone dim shades of violet, and blue-violet. Farther beneath the surface, they would shine in odd hues of red, but Acharya didn't need to go that far.
Here, where the light orbs glimmered in all the brilliance of a fresh bruise, he was looking for Lyahr's chamber. It had been a long time since he had needed to visit the chamber of a Mage.
Lyahr's door was simply carved, deep dark wood. Acharya lifted a hand, running a fingertip across gathered strands of energy. On the other side of the door, a slight twinkling sound could be heard. Less than an instant afterward, the door creaked inward. Lyahr peered at the Acharya warily.
"It's been years since you were down here, in person." Lyahr stepped into the hall, shutting the door behind him securely. The remnants of trust between the two men had long since been straining.
Acharya nodded. "One of your hounds is busy tearing down the gates. Some of my Trackers have lost limbs to the Beast. Bring it in, and calm it, or I'll put it down."
"Are you certain you could kill one of the voral'calev?"
"I've killed bigger monstrosities, wielding less power. But you were there," Acharya said the words even though he knew Lyahr did not yet remember facing the Rift.
"So you say. You've said much. What you haven't said, not even mentioned at all, is why you are here." There was an accusation in Lyahr's eyes, made cold by the flickering of the light orbs.
"Your hound, Lyahr, that's why -"
"No, Acharya. Why not just call to me? Why did you take the precious time to come here?" Acharya understood the look in the other man's eyes. It was an accusation of being weak, the worst sin a Mage could commit.
"As you said, it's been long since I was here. Too long. It is in my best interests to make sure that this tower stays as I had it built." Acharya turned, and strode away, keeping his face straight even though Lyahr was behind him. It was still necessary to mask all the fears. Fear that Lyahr knew he could not concentrate long enough to tap into the well of the being that was Torankhayel, that pulsed in each of those that had faced the Rift, and pull his Magi to him; the fear that Lyahr might know that the screaming was growing louder hour by hour, distracting him from the most basic Magi tasks - those fears was almost over-powering. But Acharya's will was still stronger than fear, or distraction, for now. He made his way back to his own chamber, where the coran'hai glowed that odd shade between palest blue and green.
After securing the door behind him, checking that Tahdisha was in his place, he laid back on a massive, four-poster bed. Lacing his fingers over his stomach, he closed his eyes. If he tried hard enough, he could almost ignore that scream. It used to be soft, sporadic, and wordless. Now it yelled, drowning out other sound at times, and was close to forming a single word. The shout came almost like a heartbeat, lulling Acharya into a nightmarish sleep.