The woman at the base of the light-staircase did not walk. She drifted, her feet barely brushing the silver-stained cobbles of the plaza. Every movement she made was precise, lacking the frantic, messy cadence of human biology.
She was a synthesis of Elara’s features and the cold, unyielding architecture of the Aethelgard. Her crown, a jagged circlet of white steel, pulsed with the same blue light that had once emanated from the Spire's eye.
Julian pulled himself up, shielding Elara with a protective arm. His skin was still translucent, the golden dragon-fire flickering weakly beneath his ribs like a candle in a windstorm. Don't look at her, he rasped, his voice strained. She is a construct, Elara. A reflection designed to dismantle your identity. She isn't a person. She is a variable.
