"It takes an Archon to understand our fated Gifts." —Azeryks, un-Wintered
Levaszk is my Archon and my friend. Each time I hold a piece of fruit with my strong lower arms I remember what I owe him. He breathes in Gift-Ether, and he breathes out our future.
Levaszk stands at the front of our Ketch, slime mold crawling up the hems of his cape. "The Aionians are jealous neighbors," he cries. "They will take all the gifts of this world and leave none for us."
Clever Keelsk, sent down from Kings, looks up from the crowd. "We have shared until now," he says. "The Giver is huge, and we are few. We could claim half the planetoid and have Gift-Ether enough for our hatchlings' hatchlings."
"It is not enough," Levaszk roars. He clicks deep in his chest. The thrum conducts hard through the metal of the Ketch, and all the young in the front row sway back, flinching.
Levaszk paces through the crowd. He stares out into the sky, to the Giver. No Machine, yet still Great.
"Look," says Levaszk, voice soft and persuasive. "What do our cousins have back in Sol? Eight livable planets and a warm sun. Endless territory and allies. The presence of the Great Machine. What do we want? This little green patch and the benevolence of the Giver. It's not so much. It's not more than we deserve."
What does an Exile own apart from worn-down armor, apart from a little hoard of worthless treasures? We could own this place. This is what Levaszk offers to us in his open hands.
And like we're jumping off the Ishtar Cliffs, we take it.
