A noisy afternoon. She buries her face in her father's arms to hide from the scorching sun. Her father makes her greet the people standing behind the glass. She cannot make out who they are from their blurry visages. 'Lyudmila.' Someone calls her. She recognizes that warm voice. Her father often quotes that person, and likes to leave a lot of comments beside their work. Watching Lyudmila doodle all over the floor with charcoal, the voice sighs, and hands the girl some paper and a wet towel to wipe her hands with. Lyudmila does not mind it, for it doesn't matter where she doodles. 'Lyudmila Ilyinichna.' Someone else calls her name, his body emanating the stench of tobacco she hates. 'What are you drawing?' 'Who let you draw these? Everything in this research institute has to remain confidential. Do you know what that word means?' 'Enough, Sergei. It's a child engaging in pure creativity.' So says the voice that handed her the paper. 'You ought to take a break, you're too tense.' 'I have a daughter too, but I prefer not to bring her here. Also, you'd best get rid of these drawings, for your teacher's sake. You know how it is out there. It'll be best for everyone.' The hateful man leaves. She raises her head, and compares her work with the structure in front of her. The warm voice approaches. 'I believe it's still possible to record your feelings about something you have no understanding of. So can you show me your drawings?' She nods. 'You have a good eye for lines and shadows. Just look at these scary shadows—you drew them like huge dark clouds, weighing down on everyone's heads. But that thing is harder, and much heavier. I can tell—this institute is oppressing you, making you afraid. The voice sighs again. 'We call it the Sarcophagus. We all feel the same way you do, but we're hoping that what we do here can change our feelings towards it.' 'You might even clear the dark clouds above with your own hands, Lyudmila.' The voice becomes a little nervous: 'Will you trust me? Give me those drawings, like you're passing on your fear to me. I'll return them to you when we're done with our work here. I believe that by the time that day comes, you'll no longer be afraid of it.' She hands over the drawings almost instantly, as if agreeing with the voice. 'Lyudmila, as long as I'm alive, I <i>will</i> find a way to return these to you. And if something happens to me and I'm unable to keep them safe, I'll help you destroy them. Now, your father's coming over. Don't tell him about this—there's no need to distract him from his work.' Her father comes over, and wipes the charcoal off her hands with a handkerchief. He looks into her eyes and says: 'Lyuda—' A shrill alarm sounds. Crownslayer's eyes flick open. The charcoal stick in her hand has already broken into three pieces. Papers covered in old drawings are spread out all over, with huge shadows and clear silhouettes. She briefly stays in a trance before realizing she is standing in Kal'tsit's office with no one else inside. The drawings before her are from twenty years ago, and not her fresh work of art. Tossed to one side, an envelope bears Kal'tsit's signature agreeing to seal them. The prior promise has been fulfilled, a secret promise not even Kal'tsit' knew about. Does this mean that person managed to walk out of the institute alive? 'You and the Doctor are organizing a group of Rhodes Islanders to go to Ursus, right?! I remembered something—No, Amiya, I'm not telling you for free, I want to negotiate a proper deal!'