The descent into the forge was slow, agonizingly smooth. As the platform lowered into the subterranean cavern, the air pressure spiked, pressing against Elian’s eardrums until they hummed. The violet glow from the thousands of Curators below bathed the shaft in an unnatural, bruised light. They stood in absolute stillness, their obsidian plating polished to a mirror finish, a silent army awaiting a directive that had been two decades in the making.
"They aren't moving," Sarah whispered, her grip on the rifle tight enough to turn her knuckles white. She stood beside Elian at the edge of the descending platform, her gaze darting across the sea of featureless visors. "Why aren't they attacking? We’re sitting ducks."
"They aren't Curators anymore," Elian muttered, his focus fixed on the cent
