The holographic projection of the Mariana Trench casts a sickly, bioluminescent blue glow across the walls of the command center. At the very bottom of the digital abyss, nestled in a bed of ancient, undisturbed silt, the hexagonal structure pulses.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
It is a slow, rhythmic beat, entirely out of sync with the chaotic, high-frequency magical noise of the surface world.
Lilith stands at the edge of the light, her arms crossed, her silver eyes reflecting the pulsing geometry. She looks older in this light, the weight of her centuries pressing down on her shoulders.
"It is not a Moth," Lilith says, her voice quiet but carrying perfectly in the acoustically dampened room. "The Moths consume. They unravel. This structure is doing the opposite. It is generating a localized
