The orc woman's home opened before me like a museum of wealth. Polished stone floors gleamed beneath intricate tapestries depicting scenes of battle and conquest. Ornate furniture carved from white stone filled rooms where humans in collars moved silently, eyes downcast, attending to various tasks.

An orc servant led me up a steep staircase to the second floor. My tendrils contracted with each step, hydraulics hissing softly with barely contained rage. The servant knocked once on a heavy wooden door before pushing it open.

"The Prophet's guest," he announced, then departed with a bow.

I entered a study lined with bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Ancient tomes bound in leather filled the space, their spines marked with titles in languages both familiar and foreign. Maps covered one wall, detailing regions I recognized from my journey here.

Yudron sat in a high-backed chair near a massive desk of polished volcanic stone. He closed a large tome and set it aside as I entered, the leather binding making a soft thump against the desk's surface.

Before he could speak, I broke the silence.

Explain. My Mind Speech carried the cold edge of fury.

Yudron sighed, his weathered hands folding in his lap. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he met my gaze.

"I knew you would discover our... unfortunate secret sooner or later," he said. "Though I had hoped to broach the subject with you in a less explosive manner."

My tendrils coiled tighter, metal scraping against metal. Stop stalling.

"What would you have me say?"

You keep slaves here. The accusation hung between us, sharp and undeniable.

"Yes." The single word fell from his lips with surprising weight. No denial, no immediate justification.

Only humans? Or do you keep monsters in chains as well?

Yudron's expression shifted, genuine offense crossing his features. "Of course only humans. What kind of monsters do you think we are?"

The absurdity of his indignation sparked something in me. Oh, forgive me. Enslaving only humans makes it so much better.

"You don't understand our ways," Yudron said, straightening in his chair. "The enclave requires many hands for its operation. We need our people mining ore, tending crops, crafting goods. The slaves handle the menial tasks: cleaning, cooking, carrying."

There are two thousand residents in this enclave, I replied, my Mind Speech dripping with contempt. Are you telling me not one could be spared to tend that woman's garden?

A flare of anger sparked in Yudron's eyes, quickly controlled but unmistakable. His jaw tightened beneath his white beard, but his voice remained measured.

"I understand your reaction," he said. "You've lived among humans, those from the lands that don't practice slavery. Your discomfort is natural." He leaned forward. "But slavery has been part of intelligent monster culture since long before we encountered humanity. It is our tradition, our way."

That's a lie. My tendrils lashed outward, striking the stone floor with enough force to crack it. I've met monsters who would be disgusted by what I witnessed today.

Yudron shook his head, his expression almost pitying. "Those who live among humans aren't true monsters anymore. They've been... tainted by human ideals and morality. They've forgotten their heritage."

I stood frozen, processing his words. This was the same Yudron who had welcomed me with kindness, who spoke of the Prophet with reverence, who had shown me the wonders of this hidden community. Yet from his mouth came words of such ignorance and cruelty that I struggled to reconcile the two versions of him.

Sophaia and the other humans who live here freely… do they know?

"Of course they know." Yudron spread his hands. "They respect our culture and traditions as guests in our home." His eyes fixed on me. "As should you."

The implication hung between us. I was a guest here too, thus expected to overlook this atrocity in the name of cultural respect.

Respect? My Mind Speech vibrated with barely contained fury. You expect me to respect the enslavement of sentient beings?

"I expect you to understand that different cultures have different ways," Yudron replied. "Just as we do not judge how humans live, we ask the same courtesy."

I stared at the elderly orc, seeing him clearly for the first time. Not the wise elder I had imagined, but something far more complex, and far more disturbing.

These humans you enslaved, I said finally, where are they from?

"Their origins are varied," Yudron said, his tone shifting to something more clinical. "Some are adventurers who ventured too close to our territory. The Voiceless found them and brought them here rather than killing them outright."

I waited, sensing there was more.

"But most..." He hesitated, then continued with practiced neutrality. "Most come from human settlements near the Hellzone's border. Villages, hamlets, small towns."

Captured? I pressed.

"Yes. Morrg organizes raiding parties several times a year. They're quite efficient."

Something broke inside me. A bitter, hollow laugh escaped through my Mind Speech.

Raiding parties? You actually send raiding parties to kidnap humans?

"It's necessary for-"

Don't. My tendrils lashed violently, gouging the stone floor again. Don't you dare try to justify this.

The realization crashed over me like a wave. This enclave, this supposed miracle of cooperation and survival that had impressed me so deeply, was nothing but another Qordos hidden beneath a veneer of civilization. No, it was worse. At least Qordos had never pretended to be anything other than a pit of misery and exploitation. This place masked its cruelty behind culture and tradition.

This is why humans fear and hate intelligent monsters, I said, each word precise and cutting. Not because of ignorance or prejudice, but because of people like you who prove their worst assumptions correct.

Yudron's face darkened, the kindly elder persona falling away completely. He rose from his chair, drawing himself to his full height.

"You will watch your tone," he said, voice hardening. "Guest of the Prophet or not, you remain a visitor in our home."

Your home built on suffering.

"Our home built on survival!" His fist struck the desk. "You think we had choices? When the kingdoms drove us into the Hellzone to die, what options did we have?"

I stared at him, unmoved by his justifications.

I've seen enslaved people survive without enslaving others.

Yudron's eyes narrowed. "This discussion is finished. You'll adjust to our ways in time."

No. I turned toward the balcony doors. I'm taking this to the Prophet.

Fear flashed across Yudron's face, the first genuine emotion I'd seen from him since entering this room.

"You can't bother the Prophet with such... trivial matters." His voice had lost its authority, replaced by something close to panic. "The Prophet concerns himself with matters of greater importance than-"

Watch me.

I strode to the balcony and pushed the doors open. The volcanic air rushed in, hot and sulfurous. Without hesitation, I stepped onto the stone railing and launched myself over the edge. My war frame absorbed the impact as I landed in the street below, hydraulics hissing in protest.

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Behind me, Yudron shouted from the balcony. "Wait! You don't understand what you're doing!"

I ignored him, already moving through the streets toward the staircase that would lead me up to the Prophet's caldera. Monsters scattered from my path, alarmed by my speed and purpose.

This would end today. One way or another.

My tendrils propelled me through the enclave's winding streets, each movement a coiled spring releasing with explosive force. I ricocheted off walls, leapt over market stalls, and twisted through narrow alleys with mechanical precision. The war frame's hydraulics hissed and whined under the strain, but I pushed harder, fury driving my systems beyond their standard parameters.

Monsters scattered from my path, some diving for cover, others freezing in place, their eyes tracking my blurred form with a mixture of awe and terror. A kobold merchant's wares scattered across cobblestones as I vaulted over her cart. Children pointed, their excited chatter following in my wake.

The ebony staircase loomed ahead, its obsidian steps spiraling upward into the volcanic throat. Four Voiceless stood sentinel at its base, their crimson bodies motionless, chitin weapons gleaming in the cavern's amber light. I didn't slow my approach.

"Halt!" The command echoed through the cavern, authoritative and sharp.

I glanced back without breaking stride. Elder Sathrak charged through the marketplace, flanked by six lizardmen guards in black leather armor. Their clawed hands rested on weapon hilts, faces set in grim determination. Among them, Arctur followed, confusion evident in his reptilian features.

I turned away. Their presence changed nothing.

The first step of the staircase resonated beneath my mechanical tendrils, then the second, then the third. The Voiceless remained perfectly still as I passed between them, their eyeless faces betraying no emotion. Only when Sathrak's contingent approached did they move: a synchronized, fluid motion as their spears crossed to form an impenetrable barrier.

Sathrak's scales darkened with rage, his tail lashing violently behind him. "This is enclave business! You have no right to-"

The Voiceless remained still, unmoved by his complaints.

I continued my ascent, the sounds of argument fading behind me. A sideways glance revealed Arctur staring up at me, his expression unreadable. Did he know? Had he always known about the humans kept as property within these walls? Of course he did. This was his home, his community. The place he'd spoken of with such pride.

The thought tasted bitter. I'd believed in this sanctuary, this miracle of cooperation. Now the truth lay exposed; it was just another civilization built on broken backs and stolen lives.

I climbed faster, the volcanic heat intensifying with each step. The Prophet would hear me. The Prophet would answer.

And then decisions would be made.

I reached the caldera's summit, the war frame's tendrils gripping volcanic rock as I emerged onto the gravel floor. Above, the sky had transformed into a churning canvas of darkness. Thick sheets of rain began pouring down, each droplet striking my metal shell with a musical ping that echoed across the volcanic bowl.

Pink and green lightning tore through the storm clouds, fracturing the heavens in patterns that seemed almost deliberate, like symbols in an ancient, forgotten language. With each flash came a strange sensation: the distant melody of an orchestra playing at the edge of perception, rising and falling with the storm's intensity. The sound wasn't physical; it resonated somewhere deeper, vibrating through the Brace link and into whatever remained of my consciousness.

I dismissed these anomalies as irrelevant. The storm, the music; all were distractions from the purpose that drove me here.

The gravel crunched beneath my mechanical limbs as I marched through the downpour toward the massive form at the caldera's center. Rain streamed down my metal shell, pooling in the joints of my war frame before spilling over in tiny waterfalls. My widow dress grew heavy from absorbed moisture. Steam rose where droplets struck the superheated ground near the Prophet's base.

The Whispering Rock loomed before me, fifteen feet of crimson stone riddled with festering wounds. Ancient weapons made of impenetrable carapace protruded from its surface like bizarre decorations. I stood before this relic of a forgotten age, my tendrils coiling restlessly around my frame.

"Little fragment... why such turmoil within?" The Prophet's voice materialized directly in my mind, bypassing all sensory input. "Your thoughts... stormy as the skies."

Did you know? I demanded, mental voice sharp with accusation. Did you know the monsters in your enclave practice human slavery?

Silence stretched between us, broken only by the physical sounds of rain striking stone. The Prophet's mental presence withdrew slightly, as if considering.

"No... I did not know this." The voice returned, softer now. "Humans among children below... yes. Their status as property... no."

My tendrils lashed out, striking the gravel. How is that possible? How can you rule over this enclave for so long without knowing what happens within it?

"Not ruler. Not parent to children below." The Prophet's thoughts carried a gentle correction. "They live as they choose. I provide protection only... keep them safe within this small area of the wound. They thrive or fail upon their own hands' actions."

Frustration coursed through my systems, causing my war frame to emit a high-pitched whine as hydraulics tensed and relaxed. How could Mulmin-no, the Prophet, remain so detached? How could any being with consciousness allow such injustice directly beneath them?

Now that you know, will you stop it? I asked, already suspecting the answer.

"No. I will not."

My fury boiled over, sending electrical surges through my systems. A tendril whipped out involuntarily, smashing into nearby rock and sending fragments scattering across the caldera floor.

Why not? I demanded.

"I told you already. I am not a parent to the children below. Their actions... are their responsibility. They weave their own tapestry, for good or ill."

I mentally shouted back, the force of my thoughts causing feedback in the Brace link that made my tendrils twitch erratically. How can you be so cruel? So indifferent?

"You are still thinking as a human does." The Prophet's voice remained steady, unperturbed by my outburst. "You need to grow stronger... to be truly whole. You are the Fragment of Machinery still bound by the fragment of Vardin's morality."

What would you have me do? I asked, the question cutting through the storm's cacophony. Ignore the slavery happening around me? Continue living here while humans suffer beneath the same roof?

For several moments, only the rain spoke, drumming against stone and metal as lightning painted the caldera in unnatural hues.

"Question for you," the Prophet finally responded. "If you had the power... would you force the children below to free their slaves? Prevent them from ever owning slaves again?"

Of course I would, I answered without hesitation.

The Prophet fell silent again, longer this time. When its thoughts returned, they carried a weight that seemed to press against my consciousness.

"Such thoughts... lead toward tyranny."

It's not tyranny if I'm doing the right thing, I countered, my tendrils coiling tighter around my frame.

"Right? Wrong? All illusion." The Prophet's mental voice grew stronger, more insistent. "You are still thinking with Vardin's thoughts. Still seeing through Vardin's eyes."

A particularly violent lightning strike illuminated the caldera, casting the Prophet's stone form in stark relief. For an instant, I glimpsed something else: a massive, multi-limbed silhouette superimposed over the rock, its form both familiar and utterly alien.

"We are not gods," the Prophet continued as darkness reclaimed the caldera. "Even those who call themselves such... they are not truly ones either. None of us have the right to impose our will upon others."

Rain continued to fall, steam rising from the gravel where it landed. The orchestra in my mind reached a crescendo, then faded to a whisper.

Then what is our purpose? I asked, my rage giving way to something hollow. If not to improve the world around us, what meaning does our existence have?

The Prophet's presence withdrew, leaving a hollow silence that stretched between us like an abyss. Rain continued to fall, each droplet striking my metal frame with percussive precision. I waited, my tendrils unnaturally still against the gravel.

"Before... when we were what we truly were..." The Prophet's thoughts finally returned, softer now. "We had no meaning beyond existence itself."

Lightning flashed, illuminating the caldera in harsh white light.

"We existed because we had to exist. The world needed our power... our essence... to continue functioning." The Prophet's mental voice grew stronger, more insistent. "No choice. No will. Only purpose."

I considered this. What memories remained of my time as Machalaziel? Nothing concrete; only fragments, impressions, the ghost of knowledge that once filled me completely.

"Now... we wear our killers' memories like chains." The Prophet continued. "Their thoughts bind us. Their feelings constrain us. Their concepts of right and wrong cage us."

My tendrils curled inward, scraping against my war frame's surface. Was that true? Were my reactions, my indignation, my very sense of self merely echoes of Vardin?

"We must grow stronger... both of us... to bypass these twin fates." The Prophet's thoughts gained clarity, cutting through the storm's ambient noise. "To exist with purpose beyond mere existence. To live as more than prisoners to another's will and beliefs."

The rain intensified, sheets of water cascading down the caldera's walls. Steam rose in thick clouds where droplets struck the heated ground around the Prophet's base.

"We must transcend both Primordial and Human... become something other... something more." The mental voice grew momentarily distant, as if reaching across vast distances. "Only then can we truly be whole."

I remained silent, processing these words. The accusation struck deeper than I wanted to admit. Was my outrage about slavery merely Vardin's morality playing through me like a mechanical music box? The thought was both disturbing and liberating.

The rain fell harder. My war frame's sensors registered the increasing water pressure, the changing temperature gradients, the electrical potential of nearby lightning strikes. All measurable, quantifiable data, so unlike the storm of uncertainty raging within whatever remained of my consciousness.

I wasn't Vardin. I knew that much. But how much of me was truly... me? How much was original thought versus programmed response? The question expanded like fractal patterns, each branch leading to more questions without answers.

Unlike other thinking beings, the Prophet and I had never had the luxury of forming our own views organically. Our beliefs hadn't developed through experience and reflection; they'd been transplanted, imposed, forced upon us through the memories of those who destroyed us. We carried the ethical frameworks of our killers, wearing them like ill-fitting garments.

To become truly sapient beings separate from those who killed us, we needed to form our own thoughts, develop our own moral structures. We needed to decide for ourselves what was right and wrong, not simply react with borrowed indignation.

It seemed impossible. How does one separate inherited morality from original thought? How does one untangle the web of someone else's memories from the fragile strands of new consciousness?

Yet something within me, perhaps the only truly original part, wanted to try. I knew I wasn't Vardin. I was different, separate. But how much of me was truly me? Was my revulsion toward slavery my own, or was it merely Vardin's voice speaking through the hollow shell I'd become?

I had to know.

My tendrils uncurled, stretching outward as if reaching for answers in the storm-lashed darkness.

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