The smoke rising from the mangled remains of the iron tower was not black. it was a shimmering, prismatic grey that hung in the air like frozen mist. Malphas sat amidst the overgrown moss, his palms raw and blackened where the cube had nearly fused into his flesh.
Lyra knelt beside him, her hands steady as she tore strips from her inner tunic to bind his wounds. The air smelled of burnt silicon and wet earth. It was a sharp contrast to the clinical sterility that usually accompanied the machine’s reach.
You took a risk that could have wiped your mind, Malphas, Lyra said quietly.
Her voice lacked its usual bite. There was a tremor in her hands that she couldn't quite hide. She had watched him pour centuries of collective human grief into a machine designed for cold data. For a few seco
