The abyss below the foundry floor did not smell of damp earth or decay. It smelled of static and ozone, the scent of a reality being shredded by gears. Elara clung to the edge of the metal platform, her boots dangling over the infinite drop. Below her, the reflection of her own face pulsated in the dark, its eyes burning with a cruel, mechanical hunger that mirrored the rings on her fingers.
You are not me, Elara whispered, her voice trembling as the foundry gears screeched in agony. She forced herself to look away from the mirror. I am the shield, not the sword.
A cold, synthetic laughter erupted from the shadows surrounding the core. It was the voice of the foundry, a hive of logic that had integrated the fragments of the Ascendants into its brass veins. You are the echo we have been w
