Listen, you awful hatchling Dregs, you whining scraps of flesh! We are Exile. Weak, argumentative, disrespectful wastes of Ether. That's what my Captain said at my final docking, and she was right.

Still, we live. Still, we have Dreg-strength. We are cunning little thieves with cunning little knives, yes? Even here, on this wretched moon, we scrape enough Ether to keep ourselves going. Enough to grow, never. Enough to live, we have.

What do you think the Houses will do when we descend from Luna to the blue land below and say, velask, it's been a while, we're here to join the effort? Will they give us cloaks and banners in soft new Dusk purple? Will they revoke our exile?

You're young. Listen to Azeryks. Look at his scars. Four molts I've been through since Venus. The carapace remembers. If your Captain likes you, she docks you with a knife, clean and fast, at the joint.

Mine used her hands.

Go down to the Barons with four arms open, asking for a share of Ether? No. No.

Levaszk brought me to Exile when I thought I would die. He showed me a way to live without Archon or Kell to dictate my growth, my life. Levaszk my friend took his wrist-blade and finished my docking. He trimmed away the shreds of muscle and shell where they met my body as I flinched and wept under his hands.

All so my arms would grow back straight. Look at me now, Exile's hatchlings! Weak and contrary and alive! Breathing still!

If Levaszk says go, Azeryks follows.