Osmund’s confusion deepened, his brow furrowing. "What are you talking about? What creature?"
"Before I crossed the Stagnant Sea," Finn began, "we were attacked. By these... things. Hollow humanoid creatures. We called them Husks."
"Husks?" Osmund repeated like the word seed foreign on his tongue.
"They looked almost human at first glance," Finn continued, watching Osmund’s face carefully for any sign of recognition. "But they were much taller... and empty. Like soone had hollowed out a person and was wearing the skin as a puppet."
Osmund’s expression remained puzzled but wary.
"They all had these mask-like faces," Finn pressed on. "Frozen in permanent expressions. Most of them had this pleasant smile that never changed, never reached the eyes. And on their chests there were two concentric circles, like a target or so kind of brand..."
Still nothing from Osmund except growing concern.
"Except for their leader..." Finn’s jaw tightened at the mory of Tron’s headless body falling. "Their leader was different. It had a face that could actually move. It was still a mask-like face, but it could change expressions. Could show curiosity, amusent. And on its chest instead of two circles... there were five, arranged in a star formation."
He gestured to his own chest, tracing the pattern in the air.
"It used spatial magic. Teleportation. Spatial compression that could delete matter. It killed my companion in less than a second... simply erased his head from existence before any of us could even react."
Osmund had now gone very still. His pale gray eyes were wide, fixed intensely on Finn, like a slow realization that he didn’t want to believe was dawning on him.
"Describe the body again," he said with a voice barely above a whisper. "The hollow part. What did you an by that?"
"Exactly what I said," Finn replied. "When they sustained a fatal hit, we could see their insides, and they weren’t solid. They were empty... like a husk..."
Finn trailed off as he saw Osmund’s face drain of color.
"And the face," Osmund pressed as his tone beca urgent now. "Their faces. Were they Male? Female?"
"Neither," Finn replied hesitantly. "They were androgynous..."
"No..." Osmund breathed. The word ca out choked, disbelieving. "That’s not... they couldn’t have..."
He turned away sharply, one hand coming up to his face. Finn could see the short man’s shoulders rising and falling with increasingly rapid breaths.
"Osmund? What is it?"
"...so they succeeded..."
The words were so quiet Finn almost didn’t catch them. Osmund’s hand had dropped from his face, but he was staring at nothing like his mind was struggling to co to terms with the fact that a vital worldview he had held on to was just broken.
"Succeeded at what?" Finn demanded. "You know what they are, don’t you?"
Osmund didn’t respond. His lips were moving slightly, as if working through calculations or possibilities. Then, almost inaudibly, he said:
"...no wonder he hasn’t made a move yet..."
The last statent ca with a look of slow, dawning realization. Osmund’s expression shifted through several stages — horror giving way to grim understanding, then sothing that looked almost like reluctant respect mixed with dread.
He was reorienting, Finn realized. Changing his entire frawork of understanding about sothing. Adjusting assumptions he’d held for who knew how long.
Finally, after a long minute, Osmund turned back to face Finn. The horror had receded sowhat, replaced by a puzzled frown that was tinged with visible determination. He studied Finn’s face for a long mont, seeming to search for sothing.
Then his expression settled into determined blankness. A deliberate neutrality that told Finn the short man had made a decision about sothing.
"Tell more about this mory," Osmund said abruptly.
The subject change was so jarring that Finn actually blinked in surprise.
"What? No. We were talking about the Husk—"
"The town," Osmund interrupted. "Brambleton, you said? The celebration of Transcendent heroes?" He pressed, evidently showing that he wasn’t willing to discuss what had just run through his mind.
Finn’s jaw tightened. Osmund had reacted to the Husk information with genuine terror — the kind that suggested he knew exactly what they were and was horrified by their existence. And now he was just... pivoting away? Refusing to explain?
But pushing wouldn’t get Finn anywhere. The contract prevented Osmund from outright lying, but it didn’t require him to volunteer every single information he knew.
Fine, Finn thought grimly. I’ll get answers later.
"Brambleton," Finn confird, forcing himself to refocus. "A small town. The festival was celebrating multiple Transcendent heroes over a two-week period, with each day dedicated to a different figure."
Osmund’s frown deepened, but now it seed more contemplative than evasive. "I’ve never heard of any Brambleton in any history books."
"Though that might not an much," he continued, more to himself than to Finn. "All I have to work with are history books from the ti the Transcendents sealed us here, and the vague, brief mories that surface from the Core Fragnt over the years. My knowledge has... significant gaps."
He shook his head.
"But I’m leaning toward the conclusion that what you experienced might not be a mory of an actual event."
"Huh?" Finn bristled imdiately. "I’m telling you, it was—"
"Let finish," Osmund held up a hand. "Even from my own fragnt mories, from the flashes I’ve received over my lifeti, and from every historical text I’ve read, there has never been any ntion of celebrations for Transcendents. Not once. Not in any era."
His pale gray eyes bored holes into Finn as he tried to drive his point across.
"You need to understand sothing. Transcendents were notorious. Far more than you could possibly imagine. The brief glimpses I’ve seen through the Core Fragnt connection..." He shuddered slightly. "They are events that would make even the most strong-hearted man’s blood run cold. Atrocities committed casually. Entire populations used as experintal subjects. World-tears opened on whims just to satisfy curiosity about what lay beyond..."
Osmund’s voice grew harder.
"These were not people who got celebrated, Finn. They were feared. Appeased when necessary. Avoided whenever possible. The idea of festivals in their honor, of children playing with figurines depicting them as heroes..." He shook his head. "It doesn’t fit with any historical reality I’m aware of."
"I know what I experienced," Finn insisted stubbornly. "That mory was vivid. Real. I could feel the original bearer’s thoughts, their emotions. It wasn’t just so vague dream."
"I’m not saying it wasn’t a mory," Osmund replied, this ti with a gentler tone. "But being a mory doesn’t necessarily an it depicts actual events."
Finn’s frown deepened. "What’s that supposed to an?"
"It could be a mory of a dream," Osmund explained. "An idealistic fantasy from your original fragnt bearer. Sothing they imagined or wished for — a world where Transcendents were celebrated rather than feared. Where their power was used heroically rather than tyrannically."
He spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty.
"I don’t know what fragnt you bear, what concept it embodies. If I did, I might be able to decipher more about the nature of these mories, and maybe understand what they’re trying to communicate. But without that information..."
The implied question hung in the air.
Finn didn’t even flinch. There was absolutely no way he was telling Osmund about Error. Not now, not ever. That secret was fundantal to his survival.
But Osmund’s theory about the mory being from a dream rather than reality gnawed at him. Was it possible? Could what he’d experienced have been Arros’ idealized fantasy rather than historical fact?
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