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He pushed at his bonds again, straining, pouring power into the light. It grew brighter until his will gave out. He broke focus, waving the rune off, but the searing pain remained. As he blinked, the room flashed before him, darkness and light battling back and forth. With no victor, Kru battled on.

The light scorched his vision and into his soul. He fell back, splayed out on the ground, staring at the ceiling. His eyes, locked open by searing pain, couldn't close. Spots danced in his vision, colors swirling. Fading, as always, but this time, for the first time, Kru smiled. For Kru beheld Jur.

It ignited on the walls, light dancing across the stone. The rune had brought him a script he knew. Cherished. The words of Jur. They etched the cell, top to bottom. No space spared. Reading this gift would cost him, burning his vision. He cared not. He had the time, and with it the will to endure.

His eyes bled, he read on, draining power from the rune to feed his desire. Letters became words, then sentences, and meaning took hold. He'd once prided himself on his knowledge, but now saw it as a mere drop in the ocean. This was not the portal, but a machine of Jur, and now, it belonged to him!

The words shimmered, morphing into gears of light. Turning cogs hummed, clicked and whirled sacredly, echoing from the walls. The room spiraled, radiant, transcendent. Kru spun at the heart, rapt in awe, arms outstretched. A flash. A breath of divinity. Then the machine of Jur swallowed him whole.

The aroma of lavender and orange was the first thing to reach him, rousing him from sleep. He sat up in bed and instantly he knew this room. Yet something was… off. The walls were too bright, and if you peered hard, translucent. Gears grinding away. Still, there was no mistaking it. Kru was home.

Cold nipped at his bare feet. He paced the room, noting all in its place. The dresser, desk, murals, they were there, impeccable in detail. Yet, it was all touched by Jur. The gears were faintly turning. He faced a mirror. Sunken eyes, straggly hair, pale, blotchy skin. He was not touched by Jur.

He was in the machine, but for what purpose? His studies of Jur paled before this. He found clothes; dressed and headed for the door. A cold wind struck, and he winced, for woven into it he heard a whisper. Not the cold, echoing one from the cell, but that was warm and tugged at his heart. His wife.

She was the sunlight of a new day. She was the wisdom of the stars. In her heart beat the love of ages. Kru’s wife entered the room. His heart sank. He seized her chin and twisted her head. Gears whirled, barely seen, under luminescent skin. “What torture is this?” he spat. “You're an abomination.”

"Oh, spare me the theatre," she sighed, batting his hand away. "It's just the presentation stressing you, Kru. Your big discovery. I can hardly wait." Kru's mind went cold. A knot of ice formed in his stomach. "Presentation? What day is this?" "Have you forgotten?" her voice sharp with disbelief.

"Tonight," she laughed, "the King's High Festival, and the world awaits! Unveil the wondrous device of Jur—take center stage!" She spun and danced, but Kru sat still, his mind reeling. He remembered no festival, only his pleas before the King and his advisors. The moment before he killed them all.

He fished in his pocket, an old habit easily resumed. Surprise welled up in him as his fingers brushed cold iron. These new clothes, this world within Jur’s machine—yet still, it was here. He used his thumb to feel its edges, to trace it, to know it. The first relic of Jur unearthed in ages. A coin.

It was all wrong. His head throbbed with the thought. The machine was doing it, warping his memories, remaking his reality. Why? Was this some kind of test? He tried to hold on to the thought, but it was like water through his hands. His wife smiled and beckoned him, and they were off to the fair.

The crowd was a curse. Loud, sweating, pressing. Kru hated it. Despised it. Yet, there she was. His wife danced through the vendors. Taking in the sights. Impossible. She was his echo, his equal in desires; working in tandem, a single entity.This vibrant glee, this mask, was a lie. What was this?

They watched the games; the archery, the wrestling, the jousting and through it all a sense of warmth fell over Kru. He was happy here in ways he had never felt before; it all felt so completely right. The sun was setting, and the fires were lit, and all the crowd gathered around the center stage.

Dancers pranced across the stage. Jugglers tumbled to the crowd’s delight. Then came singers and acrobats, comedians and bards — the night stretched long. Yet not a soul strayed. They dared not miss what was coming. Waiting, breath held and eyes wide, for the main event: Kru and the Machine of Jur!

"Silence!" The compère tipped his hat, twirled his mustache, skipping on the stage. "The time's come! Gather close! Kru, Sovran Thaumaturgist, will reveal his discovery! A relic from Jur! Jur the maker, Jur the wonderful! Such a thing has not been seen for an age! Prepare your eyes! Cheer! Rejoice!"

With a light heart, he strode on stage. This was the peak of joy; he would reveal the wonders of Jur the world only dreamed of! Then, he stumbled. His mind kicked and bucked. A flash of fear, then dread, took him. His wife stood by, lifting him up. His mind instantly calmed, and all worries receded.

He looked across the sea of wide-eyed people, all locked on him in awe. Kru felt a need, a desire, to give them what they wanted. The glorious! The never-seen! The remarkable! His mouth opened, his hand reached into his pocket; touching the coin. Rage, blood, and flashes of death scored his mind.

He spoke, and the world listened. The words flowed like silk and all praised Jur. The crowd gasped, their eyes alight with ardor and hope. Inside, his mind was screaming! This was false. These were not his words, not the tale he told the king—this world, this construct was ripping through his mind.

He wrenched the coin from his pocket. Flames shooting out of his hand. The heat scorching his face. Gears connected and clawed their way across his palm. The more he fought, the more the coin sought to lull him into submission. Pain was his resistance, and he pushed into the pain. The crowd cheered!

As the light flew from Kru’s hand, little gears drifted, swirling, connecting, breaking apart, flying off, bursting into pops of color. The crowd called for more! The gale of applause was an assault on Kru’s senses while his mind reeled. “Fools!” He shouted, a futile attempt to extinguish it all.

His mind was his own. Kru would tolerate nothing less. Over the cheers of the crowd, the pounding in his head, Kru pushed back. No one saw the danger; no one saw the cataclysmic power. All they saw was the false wonders of Jur. Kru would have to force them to see the horror of their utter ignorance.