The construct's eyes burned blue.
William didn't move. He couldn't. The creature on the table was watching him with an intelligence that felt ancient, patient, hungry. Its chest—a fusion of metal plates and pale flesh—rose and fell in a rhythm that was almost human.
Elara gripped his arm. "William, we need to leave."
"Wait."
The construct sat up slowly, its joints grinding like stones in a mill. Metal fingers curled around the edge of the table. Its head turned, scanning the chamber, the debris, the two intruders.
When it spoke, the voice was dry. Cracked. Like a voice that hadn't been used in decades.
"You carry the Saint's blood."
William's hand went to his knife. "Who are you?"
"I am what he made. What he abandoned. What he feared." The construct's head tilted. "I am the first e
