The trip through the Queen's Gardens was a strange one. No battle. No enemies. Mantids and Mosskin shied away at its approach – displaying a capacity for thought, or perhaps fear, that had once been absent.

And they were not the only ones unchanged. Though the Godseeker was silent inside, the Knight had thoughts of its own. Thoughts. True thoughts, not flashes of strategy and instinct.

"It returns once more," said the White Lady, encased in wrappings of cloth and soul. "My roots watched that pernicious plague cease from the kingdom's every corner. Our kingdom shines dully, but safely. Our subjects think once more. It has our eternal gratitude, our eternal sorrow. But how is it here?"

The Knight, guided perhaps by the Godseeker's desire, or perhaps by its own, jumped forward, landing on the White Lady's wrapped stomach, bringing it eye-level with the lost God.

"Strange and eldritch it feels now," she observed. "Strange and eldritch must its methods have been, to yield such a future, yet we harbor no resentment. Horrid and eldritch were his methods... no, not his alone, we bear joint responsibility. By my Wyrm's mind we planned, by my agreement we acted. By my body, its egg was lain. By placement in basin, ancient and abyssal, its kin hatched condemned. With purpose fulfilled, may we finally mourn our many children, doomed to dark death at birth." The White Lady closed her eyes, tears beginning to stream. "By us."

The Knight observed this odd display. As part of a hivemind, it could now comprehend complex streams of thought. It could understand what before had been obscure. The Pale King's scheme, finally seen.

Its egg had been laid in the Ancient Basin by the White Lady. The void of the Abyss corrupted it even before it hatched. When the Knight and its kin were born, they were already dead. If not for the Godliness of their parents, perhaps it would have ended there, but their shells were strong, and their focus remained. The Vessel was the first to ascend from the pit – making it the most fit, in the Pale King's eyes. The Knight was the second, but the choice had been made, and it was too late.

The Vessel was trained to contain the Radiance, and it did for a time. But it was not a Pure Vessel, as the Godseekers proved in their Pantheon. It was a Broken Vessel, and it was failing.

The Knight had cared little for any of this. It cared naught for anything at all. It moved as if by some unseen hand, some unseen will, until it reached Godhome. It was an automaton with purpose. It only sought to contain the Radiance. And even then, it did not care. It did not think.

Not until it gave Focus to the Void. Not until it absorbed the Absolute Radiance. Not until it became the next undreaming Godseeker.

The Knight still does not care... but it does now think. And that means it can speak. Before, it never had a reason. Now...

"D... de... death," it said, repeating one of the words it had just heard, speaking its very first word.

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"Yes," said the White Lady in front of it, still crying. "It is dead."

"N... not dead," it said, speaking the full phrase it had wanted to speak. The Knight pointed at itself. "Life."

But the White Lady shook her head. "Half-life. My seed has died. Only his shell remains. It is ungendered. True life shall never be known."

The Knight was not deterred. With its capacity for thought, it came up with a strategy. Or perhaps it was simply being influenced by the Godseekers as it said with an outstretched, stubby arm, "Give life?"

"Cannot," said the trapped being. "Wrappings prevent that wondrous desire. Never again shall I-"

A swift slash of the Knight's nail did not cut the bindings. It merely brought forth a bright flash of soul, woven into a hard, protective matrix. Soul attacks, it knew from memory, yielded the same result. Not long ago, that would have been the end of it.

"Soul craft," observed the Godseeker hivemind. "Complex and inscrutable, but not without weaknesses. Light consumes all thought. Dark consumes all matter. Oh God of Gods, bless us with a display of true power!"

The Knight would have tried that next anyway. With an effort of Focus, it commanded the Void within itself.

"It grows?" asked the White Lady. "Its shade is released at will? Why... what is... it..." she trailed off, growing silent in the face of the Knight's true form.

A clawed hand touched the bindings, revealing the matrix. Eight eyes took it in at a glance. Lesser beings might have needed to comprehend the patterns to diffuse them. The Void's Focus may need to do the same, if this failed.

From an open palm, brilliant light escaped the void, shining upon the spell and burning away the details, leaving only a pale sheen surface of soul. From a different open palm, inky void poured fourth, covering the coverings completely.

"No!" said the White Lady. "Please! It must not unlock the seal! Instincts are too great! We do not deserve-"

Her protests fell on deaf ears, and were too late regardless.

Job done, the Void returned to its less powerful, yet more familiar form.

The Knight stood once again upon the White Lady. A slash of its nail freed her from the cloth bindings, and released a blinding light. The Knight did not flinch. Two hollow eyes stared out from a golden mask, meeting a pale, blind gaze. A stubby arm outstretched.

Though she had been freed, she did not move. Her voice trembled. "No... must not... it contains the plague's source... vessel must be pure. Must not feel... must not give..."

"If not given," said the Knight in its thought-driven, unfeeling voice, "taken." It brandished its nail, and a few void tentacles escaped from beneath its cloak, the threat plain and clear. If the God did not give its life for attunement, battle would surely extract it.

The White Lady cried once more. "My beloved Wyrm... deepest apologies. Too weak. We have always been..."

From her blindingly white being, an even brighter mote of light emerged, extending from a single root. Other roots gently rose and pressed the Knight forward, towards the sphere.

It grasped the orb, and into its mind, into its being, arose a single thought.

Cold.

Not the orb. No, the orb was not cold. The orb had disappeared the moment it was touched.

Cold. The Knight was cold. It hadn't felt it before. There was cold in the air, and in its skin – now grey instead of black – and in its mind. Everything was cold. The Knight began shivering.

"We have always been too weak to pretend, like he could," said the White Lady, using small roots to gently nudge the Knight closer. "We know not what will happen, if this idea instilled will bring doom. But we am too weak to deny it. My dear child." She pressed its mask to her tear-smeared face. "We... I have always loved you."

The Knight stopped shivering.

The Godseekers implored for a fight between them, so that she might be attuned, but a touch of Void put them back to sleep.

Warm.