Aunor goes down hard. The temple's floor is cold under her. Banners representing the Praxic Creed flutter high above—usually a heartening sight. Right now, they make her head hurt.

Siegfried leans over her, Praxic Blade painting his beard Arc blue. Tendency to Thundercrash straight into his foes aside, he's as true a member of the Order as any of them.

As true, and as dogmatic.

"You're off your game today. Where's your fire, Mahal?"

Aunor rolls to her feet. "Right where it's always been!"

They clash once, twice, a third time—then Aunor's breaking away again, heaving for air.

"I'd accuse you of letting me win, but you've never done that in your life. What's wrong?"

"Thinking too much." Aunor touches the Cormorant Seal on her robe. "About the things we don't talk about."

"What, like Darkness? What is there to discuss?" Siegfried's incredulous. His Blade goes awry, letting Aunor slip under his guard for a hit.

"Maybe a lot, now that so many Guardians in good standing are using it."

"They're fools and traitors!"

Needles of lightning rise from Siegfried's gauntlets. Aunor matches him with her fire. In perfect sync, they feint, hurl grenades, retreat.

"Things aren't as simple as we thought. The Creed we follow wasn't written for the world we live in."

"You're arguing against the Order," Siegfried calls over the distance now separating them. He shifts his weight in a familiar way. He's going to come at her like a cannon. "Against yourself."

Someone's got to, Aunor doesn't say. She just braces for the hit.