Panic surges through me as strong arms clamp down, pinning me to the ground. Abeni and Rowan fight their own losing battles against the raiders. Fear chills Abeni's eyes as they lock with mine. We're outnumbered, and escape seems impossible.

The raiders haul us to their camp, an unsettling dread gnawing at my insides. I try to catch Rowan's gaze, but he studiously avoids it. My mind spins, searching for an escape route. Staying calm, staying alert – that's the key.

At the heart of the camp, they unbind us and offer food. Hesitation wars with a grumbling stomach. We all share a gnawing hunger. We accept the food cautiously, never letting our guard down.

The next day, a meager breakfast precedes a forced march to the back of a truck. Uncertainty coils around me. The guards are ripe targets, but attacking them would be suicide. It's the one thing I can control, my own demise.

A rough hand clamps on my arm, exposing the necklace as the raider leader turns towards me, his gaze locking onto it with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine.

Damn, the knowledge stones. Does he recognize them for what they are – quantum storage devices?

A ray of hope pierces the despair. Maybe these stones hold the key to bargaining. What good is dying here with this knowledge buried? Arismae's world... did they succeed in surviving underground? Could I find them if I secured my release?

Relief washes over me as the leader disappears into his car. I scramble onto the truck bed, joining Abeni and Rowan. The rusty hulk groans under my weight, the air thick with gasoline and oil. The peeling paint on the walls mocks our situation.

The once-bustling city fades into a desolate wasteland. Scrawny grass and twisted trees barely cling to life under the relentless sun. In the distance, a menacing silhouette emerges: the raider settlement. Towering walls of stone and metal pierce the sky, bristling with watchtowers and armed guards. The gates, heavily fortified, promise no easy escape.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of the groaning engine. Fear and anticipation coil within me. What awaits us within those walls? What horrors will these ruthless raiders inflict? The silence in the truck stretches, thick and heavy, as we inch closer to our unknown fate.

The truck shudders to a halt, spewing black smoke that momentarily blots out the imposing gate of the raider settlement. We scramble out, blinking in the harsh sunlight that beats down on the scene before us to move to a smaller truck.

A cacophony assaults our ears. Merchants hawk their wares in a rhythmic singsong, children shriek in playful pursuit. The rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer echoes through the narrow alleyways, punctuated by the occasional bray of a donkey laden with goods.

The settlement itself is a tapestry of contrasts. Grand structures of weathered stone, their facades adorned with faded frescoes and crumbling mosaics, loom over cramped, twisting streets. Sunlight struggles to penetrate the dense maze, casting long shadows that dance with the wisps of smoke curling from open hearths.

The air hangs heavy with a mix of exotic spices and the acrid tang of sweat. The closer we get to the center, the more opulent the surroundings become. Gleaming towers, their surfaces polished smooth, house the wealthy elite. Here, the streets are broad and meticulously swept, a stark contrast to the overflowing gutters and piles of refuse that mar the outskirts.

At the settlement's heart, a colossal cathedral dominates the skyline. Its bronze statue of Saint Dili gleams in the afternoon sun, seemingly watching over the throngs of worshippers filing in and out. Intricate mosaics adorn the cathedral walls, depicting scenes of religious devotion in vivid detail. Yet, even here, amidst the outward piety, a sense of unease lingers. Beggars huddle in the cathedral's shadow, their outstretched palms a stark reminder of the disparity that festers beneath the surface.

The stench of poverty intensifies as we venture deeper. Ragged children chase after scraps, their laughter tinged with desperation. Dilapidated buildings, their cracked facades plastered with peeling posters, crowd the narrow alleys. Here, the air is thick with the acrid smoke of burning refuse, a stark contrast to the sweet incense that perfumes the wealthier districts.

We weave through the settlement, the townsfolk's wary stares prickling my skin. Raiders, known for their brutality, inspire fear, yet these people seem strangely subdued. As we near the center, a stark contrast emerges – well-dressed figures lounging in cafes, their laughter a jarring counterpoint to our apprehension.

The truck deposits us in a dimly lit chamber. One by one, rough hands bind our eyes. My heart hammers a frantic tattoo against my ribs, a lump forming in my throat that refuses to budge. We're led through a labyrinthine maze, the stale air thick with an unidentified sweetness. Uneven floorboards creak beneath our shuffling steps, and the silence amplifies the echoes of our footsteps. Finally, a door groans open, releasing an even more potent aroma.

Blindfolds ripped away, my eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden brilliance. Candlelight illuminates a lavish scene – a long, ornate table laden with food sits at the center of a richly furnished room. Bookshelves line the walls, a fireplace crackles in the corner, and tapestries adorn the walls. The plush red carpet feels luxurious beneath my wary steps. My stomach growls in protest, a stark reminder of my hunger amidst this unexpected opulence.

We hesitate before lowering ourselves into the plush chairs at the table. The leader, introducing himself as Girin, Commander of the Altros Brigade, gestures for us to begin the feast laid before us. His dismissal of the soldiers hanging around the room sends a shiver down my spine. An unsettling silence hangs heavy in the air before Girin launches into a welcoming speech.

Hunger gnaws at our bellies, and we eventually succumb, digging into the food with a mix of apprehension and relief. The idyllic scene is shattered by a swarm of buzzing mosquitoes. Abeni's attempts to swat them away are futile. Just as frustration mounts, Girin utters a sharp command in an unknown tongue. A servant scurries in, activating a large fan that cuts through the stifling air. The sudden breeze scatters the mosquitoes and ushers in a wave of welcome relief.

Now that the pests are subdued, Girin inquires about our presence near Lux's borders. He suspects we might belong to one of the pilgrimage sects. With a practiced ease, Rowan spins a tale – we hail from the northernmost society, on a pilgrimage to ancient ruins, when bandits ambushed our caravan. Glancing at me, his eyes flicker down to my chest, seemingly oblivious to the hidden necklace beneath my clothes. My suspicions regarding Girin's motives solidify. He recognized something. Did he see through my disguise? A knot of unease tightens in my stomach as we continue the meal, Girin's hospitality masking an agenda I can't quite decipher.

"Your accents are a curious mix," Commander Girin observes, his gaze flickering between us. "Not from around here, are you?"

"Servatus," Rowan interjects, puffing out his chest a little. "We came from different societies until Lux offered us sanctuary from the darkness."

Silence hangs heavy before Girin speaks again. "And yet, your companions seem strangely quiet," he remarks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Abeni bristles. "Because you are an evil man!" she blurts out, her voice laced with defiance.

Girin throws his head back and laughs. "Evil? A familiar accusation, to be sure. But never one I've taken personally. I act within the norms of my society, ensuring its survival and prosperity. When have I ever inflicted harm for mere cruelty's sake?"

"Your society thrives by stealing from others!" Abeni retorts. "Raiding their homes, seizing their resources, enslaving their people! Your survival comes at a terrible cost."

Rowan, desperate to make peace, interjects. "My friend is... passionate. She's simply very tired." He trails off, unsure how to proceed.

Girin waves his hand dismissively. "No, please. It's refreshing to have one's perspective challenged. You, as Servatus, were 'rescued' by Lux"

Abeni snorts. "Invaded, you mean!"

The commander steeples his fingers, a contemplative look on his face. "An interesting thing happens when you ask someone how they'd behave in a society that prioritizes conquest. They tend to answer based on their own values, shaped by their current lives. It's difficult to grasp a different viewpoint, one built on entirely different principles. Realistically, most people adapt to the values they're raised with. You see our ways as barbaric, but to those born within this system, who've lived and benefited from it, it's simply a way of life."

Abeni's voice cracks with defiance. "This isn't some neutral life choice! People fight injustice because we're bound by a common humanity. Hurting others ultimately hurts yourself!" Her eyes flicker towards me, seeking support. "Remember... Athlea's teachings..."

A jolt of surprise courses through me. Why is she being combative? And why is he being accommodating? The tense silence stretched, broken only by the clinking of silverware. I reached for the salt shaker, about to call out to Abeni, but Commander Girin's voice filled the space before I could.

"I acknowledge we're all part of a whole," he concedes. "But being part of something bigger doesn't necessitate awareness. Take the human body. Individual cells function within the system, unaware of their role. Gut bacteria, for example, breaks down food for the body while competing with similar organisms – self-interest contributing to the whole. Similarly, our societies, while interdependent, prioritize survival. Morality, as you define it, may not be universal."

Abeni counters, her voice firm. "The lack of a perceived connection doesn't negate its existence."

Girin raises an eyebrow. "I do help others, but perhaps not for the reasons you imagine. The 'good deed' high doesn't resonate with me. I suspect it stems from societal conditioning, a childhood echo of praise for 'good' behavior. I offer aid without seeking emotional reward. Sometimes, I even help those who can't reciprocate. However, my motivations are pragmatic. I contribute to a society where such actions become the norm, a society that benefits me as well."

Abeni's voice hardens. "You're a soulless machine! You destroy societies and enslave people without a thought for their well-being!"

"A soul? What is a soul, truly?" Girin counters, his voice calm but laced with a hint of challenge. "Do you even understand the concept?"

"More than you ever will," Abeni retorts.

"Perhaps," Girin concedes. "Just moments ago, you swat a mosquito. Did you consider its goals, its desires, its very need to exist?"

Abeni bristles. "Comparing a person to a mosquito? That speaks volumes about your character!"

Girin's gaze flickers to me, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. "And what character is that, exactly?"

The question hangs heavy in the air.

"You swat the mosquito because it inconveniences you," Girin continues, his voice regaining its measured tone. "It didn't align with your goals or desires. Therefore, its death was justified."

Abeni's jaw clenches, but she holds her ground. "Are you seriously comparing self-preservation by protecting myself from diseases spread by the mosquito to the capture and enslavement of entire populations?"

Girin leans back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. "Perhaps the mosquito was a tangent. Let's return to the topic of the soul. You believe in a soul, an essence that defines a being. But what defines that essence? Is it self-awareness, consciousness? These are arbitrary distinctions humans impose to differentiate themselves from, say, a rock. What of the fly? Does it not have a purpose, a place in the world?"

Abeni stares at him, a flicker of doubt crossing her features. "Arbitrary?" she finally whispers, the accusation losing its bite.

"Yes," He responds, his voice steady, "I have watched people suffer severe injuries and their bodies have experienced extensive damage from which they could not possibly be considered to be alive without the assistance of machines. I have learned enough of the science of Lux to understand DNA and molecules and subatomic level and I can confidently say that at the molecular level, there is very little to distinguish a human from a vegetable beyond the form that DNA causes them to take. At a subatomic level there is even less evidence to support even the existence of discrete entities. The difference between a person leaning on a tree, the tree, and the air between them at this level is nothing but arbitrary values placed on relative measures of vibration and density." he pauses.

"Years ago," he continues as he leans forward, his gaze intense, "when I was a boy, my father went out on a raid and bought me a present from a society that they had conquered. It was an old, worn out long gun that had a faulty spring and a rusted ejector that needed replacing. While out to hunt for food the firing spring failed to fire and the game I was hunting got away. There was no meat for my family for days until I was able to replace one. Another time while with my friends, we came under fire from unknown assailants and the extractor malfunctioned causing the long gun to jam and I had to replace it. Over time, I upgraded the trigger, the barrel, and the stock. By the time I became commander, the long gun barely resembled the old, worn out present I had received from my father. Much as my body had changed from boyhood to adulthood, it had transformed to a rugged, high quality gun containing very little of the original parts, yet it was still the same gun. This is what a soul is. The essence of a thing that would remain even if every individual component were swapped out and replaced with something new." He stops.

"The question then comes of sentience," he continues steepling his fingers after not being countered, "and the rights and responsibilities incurred of those who are deemed to possess the trait. Of this I hold a similar view to that of souls. It is a useful idea to help us perceive our world but the idea of sentience is no more founded in any kind of universal principle than the idea of rights and responsibilities." he pauses his gaze around the room as if looking for a response.

"As somebody who has frequently," he continues, "even now by you, been told that I don't exhibit the basic traits of a human with a soul and am therefore not entitled to the same rights as a real or complete person I feel I am more qualified than most to comment on the flawed idea of tying the idea of rights to the idea of sentience or soul. All of these things are imaginary ideas which society has collectively agreed to pretend are true out of a sense of collective self interest. Who gets to have a soul shifts with the needs of a community. Those who would build empires cannot afford to consider the sovereignty of those they would conquer. People who live off the land cannot afford to view the animals they rely on for food as having personal goals and desires that should be respected above their own immediate needs. Even the most insufferable, progressive non-meat eater will ignore the clear reality that plants respond to various environmental stimuli and stressors in an indication of a desire to survive and thrive." he stops. No contradiction follows his response.

"The rights we confer onto others are a display of the rights we would desire for ourselves and the drive to be perceived in a certain way by those whose approval we seek." he continues. "They are not based on any grand and universal truth beyond the truth that organisms who can learn to cooperate with other organisms frequently enjoy sufficient prosperity to produce other similarly motivated organisms. Those who feel that they and others like them have a soul, while also viewing discrete entities that are sufficiently removed are without souls, are able to hold that belief because at some stage it benefited their ancestors to do so. Swatting a fly benefitted your ancestors to do so, just like taking slaves benefited mine."

Abeni's voice crackles with defiance. "The suffering a person feels is far greater than that of an insect! Your actions towards people cause more harm than swatting a fly. If everyone thought like you, the world would descend into chaos! You're nothing but a selfish monster devoid of empathy!"

Girin remains unfazed. "I understand that it can take time to learn to perceive the world as an interaction of competing desires rather than as a vessel that exists to provide whatever you want for yourself. For people who instinctively perceive the emotional states of others as an extension of their own, there is a shortcut to exercise good enough behaviour so that the extended perception of self grows to include others who are external but sufficiently similar to be perceived as part of the same greater organism. The weakness of this intuitive approach is that it can only extend to a limited range, and those individuals who fall outside the range of empathy become viewed as objects who exist for the benefit of those who are perceived as an extension of the self. Seeing a fly as something that does not experience pain to the level that you do allows you to not have to consider the goals and desires of the fly, making it perfectly justifiable for you to swat on it. So while your version of empathy has benefits for society and social cohesion, it also has a cost of allowing the empathic person to treat those who are perceived as inhuman, or those who are human but belong to an out group, to be treated in a way that is inhumane."

Abeni straightens, her voice regaining confidence. "But you treat even your own kind as inhuman! Your rigid morality ignores the richness of life – the spiritual, mystical aspects, the deeper human experience, our connection to something greater. You judge my culture based on your own narrow perspective."

"Cultural conditioning can be a blindfold," Girin concedes. "You view slavery as abhorrent, and the idea of benefiting from it is inconceivable. Yet, that's simply your cultural programming. You consume meat without considering the desires of the animal you're eating. Throughout history, evidence suggests animals possess a level of consciousness similar to humans, experiencing emotions like pain, pleasure, and fear. Your refusal to consider their desire for self-determination mirrors the slave owner who ignores that same desire in their human captives. You judge my culture based on the standards of your culture, but if you really want to know where you would have stood on the subject of slaves were you in my culture, then you need to ask yourself where you stand on the subject of the rights of beings that have demonstrated consciousness, including animals, when it comes to the matter of self determination."

Abeni leans forward, her voice firm. "You understand the essence of the soul, but not its beingness, the fundamental unity of all existence. Your criticisms of my perceived flaws are ultimately futile."

Girin meets her gaze. "I'm familiar with how people form ideas of morality because I've dedicated my life to understanding it. I can come across as dismissive of the esoteric elements of how ethics form, not because I don't see them but because I see through them to the perfectly rational and logical processes that result in vague non-answers being passed off as profound because the dominant psychology of my species uses intellectual shortcuts to reach a functional ignorance that has never been available for me."

Abeni bristles. "This isn't ignorance! It's a knowing that transcends reason and intellect. True knowledge comes from experience, not logic. A genuine seeker must break free from the shackles of reason."

Girin turns to me, his gaze expectant. "And what about you? What are your thoughts on this clash of perspectives?"

I glance between Abeni and Girin, their contrasting stances hanging heavy in the air, still confused as to why he was being so accommodating. He must know what the quantum storage stones are, despite my attempt to hide them in plain sight. "Honestly," I start, "both of you raise compelling points. Aby.....Abeni, your passion for the spiritual and interconnectedness of all things resonates with me. It feels...fundamental, almost like a forgotten truth." I turn to Girin. "But Commander, your logic is undeniable. The human tendency to rely on convenient narratives is a flaw we all grapple with. Perhaps a truly balanced approach lies somewhere in between?"

The heavy oak door slams shut behind me, the guards' receding footsteps swallowed by the silence. It's eerie quiet compared to the tense security of my capture. Curiosity gnaws at me - no guards here, not even a locked door. Is this a trap, or something more?

I step inside the room, a chill snaking down my spine despite the summer heat. The bare stone walls offer no warmth, no decorations to soften their starkness. A single, rough wooden bed dominates the space, its thin mattress promising little comfort. I perch on the edge, a knot of unease tightening in my gut.

The full moon, a luminous pearl in the inky sky, casts an eerie glow through the window. Silhouettes of trees claw at the horizon, the rest swallowed by an impenetrable veil of darkness. Only the chirping crickets and the occasional whisper of leaves break the silence.

Logic screams at me to quell the rising tide of escape fantasies swirling in my mind. Yet, the lure of exploration proves too strong. I slip out of the room, finding myself in a dimly lit corridor, the only sound my own hesitant steps. Then, a bend in the hallway reveals a surprise - a balcony overlooking the moonlit landscape.

Stepping out onto the cool stone, I take a deep breath, the crisp night air filling my lungs. A sudden, sharp sound sends a jolt through me - footsteps. I whirl around, finding myself face-to-face with Commander Girin. His imposing height and the glint of moonlight on his dark eyes make him appear even more formidable than I remember.

"Eden, is it?" Commander Girin inquires politely.

How do I play this? Naive or shrewd? "Yes," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Eden Uzoro," I respond, my old name sounding foreign on my tongue. Did I choose poorly?

His gaze sharpens. "Eastern Fringe, then?" He joins me on the balcony, his shadow stretching long across the moonlit city.

"North East," I correct, a tremor running through me.

Silence stretches, heavy and thick. The information can wait.

"I was there once," he says casually, sending a jolt through me. "As a young boy, with my mother from the Armawan society." he continues as the implications slam into me, heavy and suffocating.

I turn, surprise etching my features. He can't miss it.

"My father was sent on a mission," he explains, his voice emotionless. "He met my mother there. Armawan's integration with Lux granted them security, technology, a sliver of political influence within Fringera."

"And at what cost?" My voice comes out ragged, a mistake I instantly regret.

We stand in tense silence, the city sprawling beneath us. The amber glow of streetlamps paints the streets, a stark contrast to the memories flooding my mind. Arcane. Towering structures, bustling crowds, and technology bordering on magic. The automatic lights beneath my feet, the flying taxis whisking me through the air, the holographic billboards that filled the sky.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Girin asks, his voice soft.

"Yes," I whisper, a pang of longing twisting my gut.

"But likely nothing compared to Arcane," he muses, his words laced with a chilling certainty.

My heart stutters in my chest. He knows. This is it. The end.

The Commander leans on the railing, his gaze fixed on the city below. A wistful smile touches his lips for a brief moment. "Putwan soup," he murmurs, the sound barely audible. "My mother used to make it for me as she'd tell stories of Armawan." He closes his eyes, lost in a memory.

"It was unlike anything you've ever seen," he continues, his voice regaining strength. "A society where people chose their paths, their expressions, even their faith." A flicker of longing crosses his features. "My mother spoke of an industrial harmony with nature. They took only what they needed, a system of perfect efficiency. Artisans were revered, their creations valued beyond measure. A strong sense of community, where problems were tackled together, solutions woven from collaboration."

His voice takes on a passionate edge. "And the food! Spices that danced on your tongue, flavors you can only dream of. Feasts that stretched into the night, filled with laughter and stories shared under the stars." He falls silent again, a shadow passing over his face.

"Then Lux arrived," he says, bitterness lacing his words. "They promised progress, a gleaming future. Instead, they brought only destruction. Armawan's autonomy, ripped away. Forced assimilation into their mold." He shakes his head slowly. "A beautiful society, vibrant and alive, reduced to a hollow shell."

His gaze hardens. "My mother, from Armawan. She fell in love with a man who, unknowingly, became the instrument of her home's downfall. Blinded by the promise of a better life, she clung to the illusion of a happy family. But it was a life that never existed." His features twist in contemplation. "My father, ever loyal, spent months on raids, leaving us alone. Some in her society saw her as a traitor, their scorn another burden she carried. I watched her spirit slowly fade over the years."

He falls silent, the weight of the past hanging heavy in the air.

"An autonomous world," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "The very thought... But the technology they offered, a supposed beacon of progress, has become our chains. Just enough to survive, but never enough to be truly free."

It finally dawns on me. This man, capable of such calculated brutality, harbors a yearning for a lost utopia.

"Knowledge," he continues, his eyes locking with yours. "Knowledge that's the privilege of a select few is our only salvation. You and your friend," he says, his voice laced with a hint of amusement, "have made some incorrect assumptions about me."

"I-I don't..." you stammer, a knot of dread tightening in your stomach.

"Violence," he interrupts, his tone surprisingly gentle, "is a tool I wield not out of pleasure, but because it is effective. Now," his gaze turns intense, "given your familiarity with Arcane, I presume you're acquainted with the principles of Spenta Mainyu and Angra Mainyu..."

"Zoroastrianism," I manage, your voice barely a whisper.

"Indeed," he replies. "The religion teaches that individuals choose between two paths: Spenta Mainyu, the path of righteousness, and Angra Mainyu, the path of evil. The goal is to live a good life, promoting the triumph of good over evil."

"Religious studies weren't my strong suit," I admit, trying to sound casual.

A hint of a smile plays on Girin's lips. "Simply put, as you live your life it isn't so important where you start in terms of the social morality of what your culture deems acceptable, but what is important is the direction you are moving. If you are born into a society where it is considered normal to rob and murder and you decide that you are only going to murder people who are bad, then you are taking a step toward Spenta Mainyu and, for where you are from, that is counted toward you as righteousness."

He leans closer, his gaze intense. "If you are born into a society with a justice system and laws that work to protect people from people who rob and murder but you decide to murder the bad people instead, then that same action would be a step toward Angra Mainyu and would be counted toward you as evil. It has always made sense to me that people should only be held responsible for the choices that are within their control and not to some impossible ideal."

A sliver of hope flickers within me. Perhaps there's a way to reason with him.

"I hope of a better future for myself and by extension, my people," Girin admits. "But they're addicted to Luxian technology, a crutch they can't cast aside. That's why I need knowledge. Your knowledge stones - the only ones free from Luxian control."

Girin murmurs, his eyes narrowing. "The Arcanian rebels that we interrogated mentioned smuggled stones, given to a translator," he says, his gaze dropping to the pendant around my neck.

Terror chills my to the bone.

"What do you intend to do with me?" you ask, my voice barely audible.

Girin's lips curl into a thin smile. "That, my dear Eden," he says, his voice smooth as silk, "depends entirely on you."

I find Abeni in her room, a pensive frown etched on her face. Relief washes over me at seeing her, momentarily forgotten in the face of her existential crisis.

"Do you think he is right?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "That there's nothing beyond this, and none of it matters?"

"I think we're alive." I insist

"Alive, perhaps," she counters, her gaze distant. "But what if he's right? What if the meaning we strive to find is ultimately an illusion?"

"Girin strikes me as a practical man," I counter, hoping to shift the focus. "One who can be reasoned with."

Abeni's head snaps up, her eyes flashing with defiance. "Practical? About this place, about the subjugation of entire societies? What about Athlea's words, Eden? The divine spark within us, the connection to something greater?

"Why can't the practical serve the divine," I ask, "or the divine be practical? Why does it have to be one or the other"

Abeni regards me with a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Perhaps, just perhaps, a spark of hope.

"I have some news," I continue, hoping to build on that spark. "I spoke with Girin. And don't worry, everything is going to be alright."

I step out of the inn, the cool air a welcome contrast to the stale warmth inside. Rowan and Abeni trail close behind. The settlement sprawls before us, a stark contrast to the untamed wilderness we've endured. Stone and wood buildings line bustling streets, filled with people going about their daily lives.

Abeni practically vibrates with excitement. "Look at all the shops!" she exclaims, tugging me towards a nearby storefront.

Rowan, however, maintains a watchful distance, his gaze constantly flickering back to me. Every move I make seems to trigger suspicion in his eyes. I try to shrug it off, focusing on exploring this unexpected haven.

Suddenly, Rowan breaks the silence. "Freely roaming the streets? It's unheard of with these raiders. Mercy isn't their strong suit."

I turn to face him, feigning curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"We're captives, Eden," he reminds me, his voice laced with suspicion. "Captured by a ruthless band of raiders. Now they treat us like... like guests? Makes no sense."

"Perhaps they see a potential use for us," I offer, hoping to ease the tension that hangs heavy in the air.

The marketplace explodes with sights and smells. Roasted meats and spices battle for dominance in the air, while vendors hawk their wares in a cacophony of calls. Rowan navigates the throng with a wary scowl, every twitch of his head hinting at the expectation of an ambush. Abeni, however, is a child in a candy store, eyes sparkling as they flit across trinkets and souvenirs.

Handicrafts mingle with strange technological devices. Exotic fruits I wouldn't recognize nestle beside racks of vibrant clothing and delicately crafted jewelry. Abeni, drawn to a stall, examines the unfamiliar currency the soldiers provided. The vendor scrutinizes the currency and, with a curt nod, hands her a small, intricately carved wooden box emblazoned with a symbol of the Cornerstone of Spirituality. Inside lies a treasure trove of healing herbs and salves. Abeni's eyes widen as the vendor, with a knowing smile, offers to take them to a district where conjurers can foretell their futures.

Rowan steps in and starts bargaining with the vendor before the exchange, but a glint on a nearby stall catches my eye, small, metallic spheres that pulsate with an otherworldly glow – a holoemitter from Arcane. My heart stutters. I know exactly what it is and the possibilities it holds – interfacing with a quantum knowledge stone. The vendor, a woman with a shrewd glint in her eyes, notices my fixed gaze.

Intrigued by this little trinket, are we?" she purrs, gesturing towards the holoemitter.

"What is it?" I manage, feigning nonchalance. "It seems... curious."

The vendor's smile widens, a touch too sly. "luminescent orbs" imbued with mystical properties – warding off evil spirits and bolstering inner strength.

My eyebrow arches to convey skepticism. "Truly? How does this magic work?"

The vendor drones on about the holoemitter's advanced healing technology, her words a mere buzz in my ears. My mind races, calculating how to acquire this device without raising suspicion. Abeni's excited nudge, showing off her purchase, jolts me back to reality. I offer a forced smile and congratulations, my mind already grappling with the implications of my own potential purchase.

The holoemitter. A bridge to unlocking the knowledge stones. But acquiring it would paint a target on my back. Escape. Is escape the answer?

The knowledge stones. Knowledge. Does it belong to one place, one people? Arcanians stumbled upon it, just like anyone could. Don't these people deserve it too? The collective heritage of the ancient civilisation. Yet, knowledge in the wrong hands... Arcanians, Luxians – both corrupted by it? Or did they corrupt the knowledge itself?