The Reefsteep Black Market, where I was born anew. At the end of the western passage, one can see the land and the sky. Once, it was an arms dealer's territory. I worked under him in my first few years in this place. He was a born despot. He left several welts on my back, but I've no hate for him. It was only natural, just as it was only natural that his irate underlings slit his throat in drunkenness, before throwing him from a cliff. I placed my first gold coin in those turncoats' hands, and it was warm to the touch. The northern oasis, Reefsteep's border. For a time and an age, the favored turf of the mercenaries. Soldiers were replaced batch by batch, but there was only ever one leader. My biggest customer, and the one who taught me how to taste wine. But that winter, he died. He died in front of my storehouse, his body bruised and battered. He coveted my creations, and died to my precautions. Mercenaries keep no loyalty, and thus I rewarded his subordinates at his funeral. Unfortunately, his life couldn't even buy a decent bottle of wine. The southern side, where the towns sit. Messengers and merchants come and go in spades, the value they trade in circulating through the villages. The lords recognize as much, hence why Ibut's lord ameer had such a special fondness for the place. Sargon's unbearably chaotic, barbaric politics never interested me, but I needed the lord's support. The division of powers within the Reefsteep Black Market bored me so much I'm loathe to mention it, but we all had something to say when it came to the lord. I'm surprised that I held such frail relations for so long; a lord that doesn't judge by the cover, perhaps? Out of respect, I didn't personally attend the revolt. But once his family were puppets, I did show up to pay respects to that poor boy—he was akin to Elliot. Akin to me. The Reefsteep Black Market's center. An old tomb lies there, an ancient pasha's grave. Every night, Isin carefully wipes his memory under the light of the stars. A long time ago, I exhausted his wealth. And by now, I've repaid him several times over, but he doesn't pay any mind. His age looms by the day, and aside from a few errant, insignificant questions, we never even speak. That day, Old Isin asked me why others call me 'Sand Soldier.' 'Sand Soldier.' The meaninglessness of a grain of sand. The pathetic fate of a pawn. The term is filled with significance I abhor. Hence why I gladly accepted it. As a price paid in advance, for the impossible trial to follow. The Reefsteep Black Market had its towns, and they were fuel ready for the fire. I waited for the lord ameer of Ibut to come. If I could, I would have burned even the golden sands to nothing. And in the final moment before I set the flame alight— —what came to mind was the afternoon a young Elliot Glover was taken to tour an institute of science, where he sees a new model of Originium engine ignite and combust, upon which a tremendous machine stirs to life. He's always remembered how much that moved him. I've always remembered.