The Painter's hands were on his father, and its face was twisted in rage and pain and something that looked like fear. The audience was in the tiers, eating, eating, eating. The board was shattered, and the entire room was a ruin.
Eos stood in the ruins of the game, bleeding.
Andar called out, "Father."
Eos did not turn, not because he did not want to, but because he could not.
The Painter's hands were on him, and just the weight of these hands was the weight of millions of Existences, and turning was not possible.
But Eos replied to his son, and his voice, when it came, was steady.
"You came."
Andar smiled, these were not the first words he imagined that his father would say to him, and he nodded, "I came."
"You are proto-tenth-dimensional. Good, you did not fail my hope."
"You gave me everything I needed, Father. I am here to help you."
Eos sighed, "You cannot fight him."
