Faraday looked at Scythe Da Vinci’s brittle pages. Da Vinci had torn them out of his journal and hidden them here so no one would know the truth. That the founding scythes—the shining paragons of all Faraday held true—had murdered one another. “What is it about us, Munira?” Faraday said. “What is it that drives us to seek such lofty goals, yet tear out the foundations? Why must we always sabotage the pursuit of our own dreams?” “We are imperfect beings,” Munira said. “How could we ever fit in a perfect world?”
