Julian Vane closed his book and stood up, his movements graceful and fluid despite his supposed age of four centuries. He looked at us—a group of bedraggled, powerless wolves and one exhausted scientist—with a look of genuine, cold curiosity. To him, we were just variables in an equation he had already solved.
"So this is the Great Sovereign," Vane mused, walking toward us. "The one who broke the Aegis and sang to the desert. You look remarkably human without your silver light, my dear. Almost fragile. It makes me wonder why the Architects were so afraid of your lineage."
"And you look remarkably mortal for someone who has lived four hundred years on stolen time," I countered, my hand moving to the hilt of my combat dagger. "Where is the Node, Vane?"
Vane laughed, a soft, dry sound.
