The iron grate didn’t just rattle—it folded inward, groaning under the weight of relentless pressure. Heavy rivets blasted out of their sockets, ricocheting against the stone like shrapnel. From the tunnel’s dark throat, you could hear it: that signature, scratchy metallic skitter, the one that always crawled down your spine a few seconds before a Seeker-Hound revealed itself. It began as a low, insectile chatter, then swelled into a piercing whine that drilled right into your molars, a noise both mechanical and predatory. These weren’t the elegant, gold-plated Archons from the High Spire, those enforcers who moved with a kind of terrible grace. No—these were the bottom-barrel “Scavenger-Class” models. Ugly, industrial things, built from repurposed salvage and bad intentions. Their three c
