The air in the subterranean chamber felt heavy, ionized by the encroaching presence of the final Archon. Lucien’s lungs burned, each breath a jagged shard of glass against his ribs. He looked up at the masked figure. The Sentinel, who stood between him and the towering, angelic monstrosity.
"High Architect?" Lucien rasped, the words tasting of copper and soot. He tried to scramble back, but his limbs were leaden, scorched by the Archon’s failed detonation. "Who is that?"
The Sentinel didn't look back. His hand remained outstretched, an offer of aid that felt more like a summons. "The one who designed the cages we call reality, Lucien. You didn't just break a chain today; you shattered the entire foundation. He doesn't fix broken things. He clears the floor."
The final Archon. A towerin
