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That mural . . . it was circular and—inlaid with golden foil—it seemed to glow with its own light. The writing on parts of it was unfamiliar to Rysn; she hadn’t seen the script during any of her travels. It wasn’t even the Dawnchant. The peculiar letters were art themselves, curling around the outside of the exploding sun—which was divided into mostly symmetrical pieces. Four of them, each in turn broken into four smaller sections.
You were brought here, she thought to herself, by one of the Guardians of Ancient Sins. Of course she had been. That made sense. Wait. Did it? Yes, she thought. You were. There are few of them left. And so the Sleepless take up the task.
“You know,” Lopen said to Rua, “now would be an excellent time for you to decide that you’d like to be a Shardblade.” Rua wagged a crustacean finger at him. An annoyed gesture that conveyed, “You know you have to earn that.” “I will protect even those I hate,” Lopen said. “See? I can say it.” He dodged again. “It’s easy.” Rua-monster wagged another limb. “But I don’t hate anyone!” Lopen complained. “And nobody hates me. I’m The Lopen. How could they? These rules, sure, aren’t fair!”
