"Stasis was the thesis. Strand is his dissertation." —Sister Faora
Shayura kneels in front of a gilded copper pot and the young bonsai rising from inside it. Tucked away in the soil are the vertically sliced fragments of a Ghost. The tree grows up around them, and where root and dirt meet, Shayura places a stick of lit incense.
The Bazaar is quiet as she lifts the freshly potted tree and places it on a low table, overlooking the City the Traveler once protected. "You are missed," Shayura whispers, brushing her fingertips against the soft branches.
The remains of Reed-7's Ghost stare up at her.
For a moment, she remembers seeing the cockpit of her jumpship littered with the Ghosts of her victims. Yet her Ghost was spared the Witness's wrath. Aisha's too, but this pain isn't about her. It is selfish. Shayura's heart lurches, and she tries to center herself.
"I exalt my fireteam."
"Is that a prayer?" A woman asks behind her. Shayura quickly turns and spots a stranger approaching between stalls. She carries a glaive like a walking staff. Its design matches the ornate pattern of her robes. Familiar. Osirian.
"…Of sorts," Shayura answers belatedly.
The robed woman bows, apologetic. "I ask for a moment of your time, Shayura."
Hearing her name from the mouth of a stranger sets Shayura on edge. She glances at the memorial, then stands.
"Please, leave me be."
"My name is Sister Faora," the robed woman continues. "Devotee of Osiris, Seeker of Truth. Outcast." The last title earns a squint from Shayura.
"What do you want, Outcast Faora?"
Sister Faora gestures to herself with one hand. "Only to offer you something that few others would, given your history."
Shayura raises a brow in challenge. Faora boldly meets it.