The transition from the fortified stability of the New Scriptorium to the ethereal, brass-and-wood elegance of the *Hesperus* was a leap across a century of lost aesthetics. The airship didn't hum with the sterile whine of Syndicate anti-gravity; it breathed. The interior of the gondola was lined with aged mahogany and polished brass, smelling of cedarwood, beeswax, and the *smell of the Roman rain*, a scent that here felt curated, like a vintage wine preserved in a cellar. In the center of the observation deck, the Rose-Architect, a man who looked as though he had stepped out of an 1890s salon, sat behind a drafting table that was a masterpiece of analog gears and ivory inlays.
Lila stepped onto the Persian rug, her tactical boots feeling heavy and clumsy against the refined surroundings
