Dextera may not know what aether is in Emet-Selch’s terms, but he understands by context that being here alone should preclude the possibility of drawing on anything that once existed in Dextera’s world. His fingers tighten on his Shard through his shirt, forming the outline under fabric.

“Please,” he says, quietly. “I don’t need much.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s missing. There are people who know him who were dead even before his world was lost, but he doesn’t know what his relationship to them was. He can’t ask for anything about them. There’s only one person he knows he’s missing memories of, and so there’s only one person he can ask for.

“My big brother…”