The air inside the Architect’s Tomb didn’t just freeze; it fractured. The *smell of the Roman rain* was no longer a memory; it was a weaponized atmosphere, heavy with the scent of wet marble and the metallic tang of Sarah’s silver-veined skin. Sarah or the thing that wore her face stood in the center of the basalt hall, her violet eyes casting long, predatory shadows against the obsidian sarcophagus.
Beside Lila, *the sound of Ethan’s jagged breathing* was a frantic, broken rhythm. He stared at his sister, his gray eyes wide with a grief so profound it seemed to pull the very light from the room. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers twitching as if searching for the neural ghost that had lived in his skull for years.
"Sarah?" Ethan’s voice was a dry, hollow rasp. "How? I saw you
