"What did you just do?" Eos said. He kept his voice level, even though this was the last thing he wanted to do.
"I moved a piece," the Painter said. "The piece I moved is a very old one. It is called Erosion. It was my first employee. It has been asleep since I no longer needed it, but it remembers its work. I have set it as a small task. A slow task. Your outermost worlds, the youngest ones, the ones just bloomed this hour, Erosion will begin, from the seam I just opened, the quiet work of making them forget they were ever meant for anything. They will not die, but they will simply stop reaching for you. They would stop yearning for Telos, becoming lazy and decadent. In about an era of your time, they will be smooth, unshaped." The hand of the Painter shifted, and Eos thought that this almost resembled a smile, "They would be beautiful, in a way. Finished."
"That is my piece you are moving against."
"That is your piece I am moving against. Yes. And it is your turn."
