Troy held the unpopular opinion that the Sacroas Center for Healing should be operated twenty four hours a day. It was, afterall, advertised to be the greatest medical facility of all time. Troy, being one of the men who worked Sacroas, could have brought this opinion to his superiors any number of times over his four years of service. He was worldly enough to understand that such an effort would have been futile. The Sacroas Center, just like every other guild resource, was a political institution. The men and women operated it worked elsewhere at night. Some parlayed with diplomats and aristocrats. Others retreated to their laboratories to develop technologies they would one day sell to private interests for untraceable fortunes. A few shed their finery and melted into the streets, where they plucked the strings of the social underground. If it were up to Troy, politics would be left to the politicians and the wielders of thyrean science would devote all of their energy to manning their posts. Troy disregarded the formalities he was expected to perform, and rushed to help the injured youth.

The poor, pallid boy was suffering from two injuries. The first was a deep incision to his abdomen, out of which dribbled a viscous viscera. The second was a hematic poison which had likely been delivered through the first wound. Troy did not bother to ask what had happened, he had a more reliable, timely method of finding out.

Troy drew a deep breath, and reached into his subconscious for a traumatic emotional trigger. From the arteries in his armored wrists began to seep a golden vapor, which coagulated into a shimmering cloud above the injured man. As Troy guided the vapor into the boy’s wounded body, the throbbing wound ceased bleeding. The golden cloud then separated into its yellow and brown polarities. The brown matter remained within the wound, reorganizing damaged flesh and holding it in place. The yellow matter withdrew from the body, assuming the shape of the weapon that had been used to inflict the wound. Within the body, brown matter collected data and relayed it through Troy’s mind. As the seconds drew on and the boy’s breathing began to steady, the weapon described by the yellow matter became increasingly detailed. The shape was that of a straight knife nine inches long with a word carved into the blade. The word read ‘traitor’.

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“Bring him to the steps of Sacroas.” Troy commanded the awestruck youths. They hoisted their stretcher upon their shoulders, and hurried to obey.

Troy turned his attention to the prodigy Athena. She stood stock still at attention, as though she were not acting in direct violation of guild regulations. Athena was the attendant and ward of the champion of the paladins’ guild himself - Gonzaga Kurtan. She had privileges Troy could not imagine, but so long as Gonzaga lived, she lay beneath Troy in the chain of command. Gonzaga had suffered a fatal injury in combat with the scourge Caesar himself, but somewhere in the bowels of the fortress he still drew breath. Out of respect for him, she deferred to Troy.