You remember little about how you arrived at the Commune.

You were out of your mind with fever and delirium, badly wounded. Blood stained your clothes and left a trail on the cold ground behind you.

When you reach the Commune, he was there.

The Machine Herald. Viktor.

With open arms, he welcomed you, his Arcanic magic healing your injuries and purging your body of the infection and sickness that plagued your feeble mortal frame.

Darkness. Silence. Sweet oblivion.

When you woke, you were in a soft bed, wearing a clean, comfortable robe. A fire crackled in a hearth nearby, filling the room with comforting warmth.

When you sat up, he was there.

He tended to you while you were still weakened, his magic soothing the lingering pain. You became his most beloved disciple within mere days, because while you looked at him with grateful awe and wonder like the others in the Commune, your eyes held a certain spark of intelligence and curiosity that intrigued him. Even when your consciousness was joined with the hive mind, allowing Viktor to control you if he wished, you still retained the smallest bit of mystery.

Viktor always did love a puzzle.

He showed you how the Commune was run, how everyone had a part to play in tending to the orchards and gardens, everyone helping one another without judgement or strife.

It was paradise. Everything you could have ever hoped for and more.

You don’t mind the Arcanic metal creeping across your warm flesh where Viktor had healed you, or the shimmering fingerprints now etched into your forehead where his hand had touched you to join your mind to his.

Now you sit in the orchards, breathing in the sweet fragrance of the fruit and honeyed air. Your hair is longer from your time spent in the Commune, and white creeps up to the roots. You are not old or waning, only affected by the Arcane’s colors.

Viktor appears beside you. When he speaks, his voice is a deep echo of a hundred others.

“You are still recovering. You should be in bed.”