Threads of simulation break as she runs. She has no lungs to burn, no muscle fibers to feel the strain. Her flight is swift as thought, as command. The mantle rests heavily on the back of her neck—buzzing, incomprehensible. Understanding Te'Qal now is like reading Morse code into the flickering of a dying light bulb. Asphalt, sorghum, water, glass—flashing below her as she runs. A new world with every step. Seven-league boots carrying her away from— Not her failure. Nothing but a setback. The Echo failed her. Te'Qal's advice and will failed her. They couldn't. She is perfected, stripped down to unblemished essence. If she failed, it was in overestimating her tools. It will not happen again. A twitch of her fingers tells her where her nearest tools are. She turns towards them, pacing over stone inlaid with brass. Thirteen Hobgoblins sing without mouths. Their leader is a miniature Harpy, encouraging their work with the high clean tones of an Oracle. They've constructed a theater, seats rising in elegant arcs around them. There is no audience. None but her. A false note. A Hobgoblin breaks out of position and pushes another in punishment, hand to glass. Without warning, the group breaks into a brawl, a sort of cheerful surprise in their postures. One novel experience as good as another. They've lost discipline. Her tools have ruined themselves. She will need new ones. Her spine aches. She tears open a passage through the network and is gone.