An Engineering operator, his beard slightly white, handed me my custom-order set of casting equipment. Its appearance was exactly as I'd requested: a simple metal case with not a hint of adornment, a wand with the surface polished to a mirror sheen, and a spherical energy reserve unit in a full silver color. Freshly produced, the Originium circuitry gave off the smell of solvent. I picked up the wand from the case, and the reserve smoothly floated up with it, responding to the wand's movements, resting into a stable orbit in the air some thirty or forty centimeters from my hand. I fired the reserve out, and the red circle bullseye at the center of the alloy was dented inwards by it. Impeccable energy conversion efficiency. The Engineering operator's and my expressions were in total accord. We understood what a masterpiece this was. Some months later, I met him again, bringing my old wand with me, and some Originium dice in my pocket. 'Old shoes do fit easier,' he remarked. I could only shrug. 'Still, I'd like to know why you went back to your old equipment,' he said, his gaze sharp behind his goggles. 'Even if it's just cosmetic reasons—no skin off my nose. Call it a little after-sales service courtesy of Engineering.' 'Because of... the noise.' 'Noise?' I simply pulled out my wand and give it a perfunctory wave. The tip streaked through the air, but what came was not the sound of slicing air, but music. 'I did some research into your wand there, when we got your request. The frequencies it vibrates against the air at are beyond common sense, I can tell you that. It's a real mystery, but it doesn't do anything to help casting. Doesn't hinder either, though.' 'I understand, but this ties to my—' My personal affairs. I ordered the wand precisely to distance myself from that bothersome music. It and the fantastical melody that once played at the Afterglow Hall are all but the same. For each day that I use the wand, that night I dream of that scene again, and hear that melody. The new wand successfully quietened my dreams, but the scene still laid before me, the silent struggle all the more wretched, the silent death throes all the more terrible. Only once I took up my old wand again did I understand. That nightmare would run its way through my entire life—had already done so—and to try and forget was mere futility. I couldn't flee it, and couldn't reconcile with it either. I was forced to concede that it was a part of me, and that I would fight it for the rest of my days. As now well demonstrated. I was the one who ordered the wand, and the one who gave up on it. Graf Urtica simply walked away from it all, and left all the trouble and anger to others, but Ebenholz could not. Of course, Ebenholz could denounce those morons who thought themselves so lofty; however, faced with a craftsman who he'd offended, did he truly have the right to send them packing with but a few vile words? If it were... him, what would he do? What would he want me to do? The answer couldn't be any clearer. With difficulty, I cleared my throat, unsure if I would offend the craftsman once again with this. 'The story is a little long, but... if you're willing to listen, I can explain in full detail.'