The fragments of thought and memory remaining to most of them suggest commander instead of commanded, and it is not without reluctance that they obey his call. The power burning within those golden eyes is hard to resist.
To resist the promise of greater form, power and purpose is impossible.
Surfacing reshaped from the abstraction of Dusk brings with it greater memories. Memories of longing, of hunger, of seeking powers greater than themselves. These memories raise in the Sorcerers a silent awe of him who is but a stronger shell over a hunger that much greater than their own. The void within themselves is touched and woven upon by his words of guidance and promise; they will regain their hearts, they will take back everything taken from them, and more. Their goal, once achieved, will give them all that they had longed for when they had hearts.
All that they lost their hearts pursuing. All that they surrendered their hearts for.
Shifting, feeling out this new abstraction of the nothing they were discarded into when their somebodies died, those who remember best wonder silently: does the First recognize this pattern, that the mesmerizing ebb and flow of his power and his speech still echo the fall that brought him into being? It does not matter now, since few of them remember speaking the truth when they were alive.
None of them care to speak it, now.