In Ravha a revolution is brewing, but this story isn’t about that. The city is drafting civilians in a supposed war against the Devil Himself, while the streets fill with the impoverished. This story is not about that either. The president of the Ravha Humanitarian Mission, the last bastion of democracy in the city, has recently gone missing. Replaced with his sister, a known radical and rumored drunk, everyone fears an imminent conflict. But this story is not about any of that. In New Soto the revolution came and went. That story is told. In New Soto, the children cry out at night for Him, Him and what they lost. This isn’t their story. This is a story of consequences. This is a story of mistakes and hubris. This is a story of climbing the tallest mountain, the one that reaches above the stars, the one that takes every last bit of strength you have to reach the summit. This is a story about looking out and taking in that beautiful view, and then tearing down the mountain, crushing it piece by piece with your fists and force.  Until it is dust. This is the story of the dust.