The Archon flexes his new claws. How spindly and frail they are. He looks down to examine them and is surprised to see his bottom two arms missing, docked long ago. He can still feel them, though! Thrilling.

He laughs. The voice that issues forth has the deep resonance of an Archon. He immediately adjusts it to the reedy timbre of a Dreg.

Next to him is another menial, who glances over suspiciously. They are both bent over an outdated Shank, repaired for the hundredth time.

"Tell me," the Archon asks in his adopted falsetto, "what do you think of Levaszk? The new Prime Archon?"

"So that's what you were laughing about," the other Dreg sneers. "His fascination with dark matter is insane. He's turned Aionian."

The Archon clenches his phantom lower arms, then calms himself. "But what if he's right?" he replies. "What if Levaszk has discovered something in the dark matter?"

"That buffoon couldn't find his rebreather with all four arms," the Dreg replies. "Now get back to work."

The Archon picks up an awl from the workbench. "You're wrong," he says in that thin, shrill voice.

He raises the awl above his head with both arms. "He's discovered something beyond Ether. Beyond time."

The Archon plunges the awl into the crease between the Dreg's head and thorax plating. The weakness of the strike surprises him. He's forced to stab a dozen more times before the Dreg goes still.

"Levaszk has the Giver's blessing," he tells the twitching corpse. "He has already ascended."