“What… what was I made for, then?” He shakes his head. The silver flashes through him, the webwork of it alive and shifting as the thing lodged in his sessapinae weaves its will again, or tries to. “To remedy a great mistake. One to which I once contributed.” This is too interesting to fall asleep to, though Nassun’s whole body craves it. “What was the mistake?” “To enslave your kind.”
