In a moment that is only for themselves, Skotos may be found at the edge of one of the hangar bays, even while Redana praises the Alcedi Plover pilots, reminding them that their skill, their prowess, and their courage may be necessary should the Azura seek a display of force, or worse. All eyes are on the radiant princess, save for those of Skotos, who looks out upon the violet shroud of space.

Who is to say what they think? They are anonymous, after all, a mere shadow. From the rest of the hangar deck, they are nothing but a faint silhouette against the shining clouds, the color washed from their robes. There is no one to witness Skotos reaching down and wringing at their own robe in silent torment.

Redana has well-considered opinions on the Azura, built brick by brick from lessons on history, theology, statecraft, milhis, and naval strategy. Can you imagine a princess who simply wished for a place where dreams came true? Where there was adventure in abundance, where you could see a new wonder every day, where the worlds and the people were strange and decadent and perilous? Tellus provided everything: true civilization, more wonders than could be catalogued over a lifetime, wealth in such abundance that she could have demanded something new every day if she had the courage and imagination to do so, and strength. Such strength. Even now, she is like a monofilament thread cast into the void, unbreakable and perilous herself.

Who can say what Skotos thinks? Does anyone care? How difficult would it be for them to slip away, to become another shade in the shadow of towers? Redana would know. Redana would not let them. Redana alone always knows where her Skotos is. But even she could not speak concerning Skotos’s dreams, if dreams they have. 

She could not tell whether they gazed overlong on Manaemede, if the avarice of the Magi is awake in their heart, if they wish to walk among the glories, to be perhaps the last to ever look upon the trophies and masterpieces of the Shah, perhaps to even steal away something to be their own, just so that not everything of the Shah would yet pass from memory and being. She could not tell whether in longing they looked upon Igorthian, imagining Plover duels through that half-formed skeleton of a fortress, even as the storm raged all around them, each moment a test of their determination and prowess. Not even whether they dream of walking long upon the shores of Salib, of reclining upon the sand, their yellow robes indistinguishable from the shining shores, and waiting patiently forever and a day until some miracle was theirs to behold: the survivor of a crash washing up upon the shore, pursued for the medallion she holds tight to her chest, or some princess whose chariot breaks down, the result of sabotage by her disloyal servants, or a noble warrior casting her saber into the water with a despairing cry— and then Skotos could be pleased, knowing themselves a part of [i]that[/i] story. Perhaps— perhaps even— they could—

Thunderous applause, like the falling of warheads on the desolate Saliban plains. Skotos wavers like the dream at the edge of sleep, a figure half-remembered. Bloodless fingers can for a moment be seen digging deep into the folds of the robe. They sway in the throes of an unwitnessed agony, and almost reach out, as if to ask Olean to wait— please— [i]she[/i] just—

Then they are gone. Redana sweeps from the hangar, basking in the praise of her vassals, and it is haunted no longer. And of the torment of Skotos, no sign remains. Thus, it never was.