Kaelos is a massive gear of bck stone and iron, wedged into a natural basin where snow melts into grimy rain before ever hitting the ground. The city unfolds across three concentric rings, rotating on oily obsidian tracks. Every hour, a dull thud shakes the very foundations: hydraulic pistons firing to shift the sectors, realigning streets and Baroque paces into an ever-changing order.

  The architecture of the lower levels is a violent graft of eras. Ancient cssical facades with marble columns are gutted by external pipes and industrial bolts as rge as a man. The system is fueled by a network of reinforced gss tubing pulsed with a glowing green magical fluid, pumped at constant pressure from the street-level workshops. The air is thick, saturated with sulfurous vapors and coal smoke belching from chimneys in a relentless rhythm.

  At the center of this motion, suspended five kilometers high, floats the Citadel. Up there, the air changes drastically. While the lower city chokes in shadow, the upper fortress is bathed in perpetual sunlight that warms white marbles and blue-tiled roofs. Dozens of iron chains, stretching for miles, keep it anchored to the tracks below, while vertical pipes carry the energy fluid deep into the heart of the structure.

  The Citadel is an artificial paradise defying the high-altitude chill. Behind its perimeter walls lie lush gardens with heavy-den fruit trees and emerald-green wns, kept alive by the constant heat rising from the conduits. Pale stone fountains spsh with pure water, their sound masking the hum of generators hidden beneath the soil. Graceful, soot-free houses line paved avenues where the scent of flowers overwhelms the stench of sulfur pgueing the world below.

  From flower-covered balconies, nobles look down at the carpet of bck smoke hiding the misery of the rotating rings. The Overseers' ships—resembling gilded vessels—glide silently toward marble piers suspended in the void. It is a world split in two: below, the brutal heartbeat of the factory; above, a motionless peace fed by the green blood of the earth.

  The roar of the military parade echoes through the Citadel’s white marble walls, drowning out the spshing fountains. The sunlight, piercingly clear at five kilometers up, glints off the polished metal of the marching ranks.

  Leading the procession are the siege tanks, dark iron behemoths that look like cathedrals on tracks. Their fnks are covered in crude bolts and reinforcement ptes welded over ancient carved friezes. Atop them, long brass cannons emit a constant hiss of steam, their circur lenses pulsing with an unstable green glow. Every time the treads turn, the Citadel’s pavement shudders—a reminder of the brute force that crushed Oakheaven.

  Behind the tanks march the mechanical octopodes. Their multi-jointed legs tap against the marble with a sharp, synchronized clicking, like a massive clock. Their dark gss eyeballs rotate frantically, scanning the crowd as small electronic hums leak from unlubricated joints. They do not look like machines built for flight, but steel predators chained to the Emperor’s will.

  The infantry follows in tight formation. They wear heavy, ancient-style pte armor, but thin wire antennas and translucent cables sprout from their backptes, snaking directly under their flesh through gaps in the metal. A small green mp set into the center of each breastpte glows steadily—a sign of their link to the central power reserves. They march without a single heavy breath, moved by an unnatural precision.

  The high-town citizens watch from their floral balconies. Men in silk tunics and women with architectural hairstyles toss white petals onto the dust-stained armor of the soldiers. To them, the conquest of Oakheaven is just another trophy for the Imperial collection, a confirmation of their divine superiority. The beat of hide drums mingles with the drone of generators, creating a solemn march that celebrates the end of a world and the parasitic glory of Kaelos.

  Gliding silently behind the tanks, level with the nobles' balconies, are the light frigates. These are small hulls of wood and wrought iron, much like riverboats, floating at low altitude thanks to noisy turbines mounted on their sides. Translucent tubes sprout from their keels, pulsing with magical fluid to keep them airborne. The decks are crowded with light-armored soldiers standing like sailors ready to board, watching the crowd with detachment.

  Closing the procession, looming like metallic deities, come the four ships of honor, each carrying a resting Armor. These war machines are monuments to analog engineering and Baroque violence, seated on iron thrones atop the decks of their dedicated vessels.

  The first Armor, The Ruby Warden, is a squat, scarlet mass. Its pting is yered like dragon scales, with great brass spikes jutting from the shoulders. It sits with iron-gauntlet hands resting on the hilt of a titanic double-headed axe. A visible heat emanates from its joints, causing the surrounding air to shimmer.

  The second, The Sapphire Lance, is slender and elegant, cd in deep blue. Mechanical wings made of overpping metal foils unfurl from its back, currently folded shut. It sits in a composed pose, a knight’s nce as long as the ship itself propped against the throne, its helmet topped with a crest of fine metal feathers.

  The third, The Jade Bastion, is the most massive, a forest-dark green. Its silhouette is jagged, covered in rectangur ptes that form a towering shield integrated into the left arm. It sits bolt upright, a low, constant thrum emitting from its chest like a factory engine at rest.

  The st, The Ivory Wraith, is a sterile, undecorated white. It is the tallest and most unsettling, with long, spindly limbs and a featureless metal face save for two horizontal slits. It sits in a near-meditative pose, hands joined, yet a heavy, dark fabric cloak drapes its shoulders, concealing the complex machinery of its back.

  The four Armors remain motionless, their analog engines emitting a synchronized hiss of steam as the ships carry them slowly past the admiring gaze of the high-town citizens, who shower white flowers upon the machines that annihited Oakheaven.

  Far from the roar of the parade, at the Citadel’s outer piers, Secundus’s two ships dock with a groan of tortured metal. The pristine marble of the quays is stained by streaks of soot bleeding from the mangled hulls. The fnks are scarred by impacts and scorch marks—the remnants of the dwarves' desperate defense.

  Secundus descends the gangway with a heavy tread, his armor still streaked with ash from the Mall. He is met not by silence, but by the rhythmic tapping of an Acolyte’s footsteps. The man wears a floor-length robe of gray silk that rustles against the stone. Behind him, two sves—bowed under the weight of massive ledgers bound in human skin—wait ready to dip their quills into brass inkwells.

  "The cargo, Commander," the Acolyte murmurs without looking up, his thin fingers leafing through yellowed pages. "They say you gutted the very heart of the mountain."

  Secundus gives a sharp nod toward the main ship’s hold. From the darkness of the metal womb, mechanical cranes begin to hoist the Mall Generator. It is a cyclopean mass of copper coils and opaque gss tanks, within which residual energy fluid glows with a sickly light. Alongside it, iron crates are lowered, filled with dwarven artifacts: geared cogs, magnifying lenses, and objects whose purpose the Empire does not yet grasp, but whose function it craves.

  Fnking the gangway, a ptoon of officers in full dress uniform snaps to attention. The strike of their boots against the ground is a solemn salute to a man who, despite the losses, has brought back the enemy's secrets.

  "Analyze everything," Secundus growls, brushing past the Acolyte without stopping. "And tell the Emperor that the Mall is ash. What remains is here, in these crates."

  The Acolyte begins to dictate frantically to the sves, describing every bolt and valve of the pilged generator, while the stench of sulfur from the hold invades the Citadel gardens, momentarily shattering the illusion of paradise.

  Secundus strides along the pier with the confidence of a victor, despite the scars on his ships. Not far from the military cordons, a group of young women from the Citadel, dressed in light, refined gowns, huddle to watch him pass. Their cries of admiration and excited sighs fill the thin air as they toss small flowers toward the Hero of the Mall. Secundus does not look at them, but his natural charisma seems to feed on the attention, making his stride even prouder.

  Suddenly, a hoarse, deep voice, weathered by time, breaks the chorus of admirers.

  "A fine haul, Secundus. But tell me… is the Emperor’s will in those crates, or just more iron to be melted down?"

  The women's cheers die instantly. From the shadows of a marble portico emerges Terzus, the eldest of the four generals. He wears no armor, but a heavy robe of dark wool that falls straight over his tired frame. His appearance is a living manifesto of war: one arm is entirely mechanical—a tangle of pistons and brass cables emitting a constant hiss—and the left side of his head is missing an ear, repced by a shiny, puckered scar. His gaze is not one of reproach, but it carries the weight of one who has seen too many worlds burn.

  Beside him, almost swallowed by his shadow, stands his son. He is a frail slip of a man with delicate, manicured features—skin that has never felt the bite of the cold or the searing heat of battle. He wears clothes far too rich for a soot-stained pier, nervously wringing his hands. There is no malice in the boy’s eyes, only a timid curiosity and a tremor of fear that shakes him as he watches the newly unloaded generator.

  Secundus halts, stiffening. Terzus does not judge; he questions with the wisdom of one who knows that every conquest carries a price paid in more than just blood. The old general absentmindedly strokes his mechanical wrist, his gaze fixed on the ash-covered cargo.

  "My son wished to witness the triumph," Terzus adds, resting his weathered hand on the boy’s shoulder, making him flinch slightly. "He wanted to see what happens when the Citadel decides it is hungry."

  Secundus stops a few paces from the veteran, meeting Terzus’s weary stare with a pride that barely masks his unease. He knew the dwarven generator was an imposing trophy, but he also knew that to the Emperor, it was nothing more than a toy compared to the prey that had slipped through his fingers.

  "The Emperor shall have what he seeks, Terzus," Secundus replies, his voice steady and deep, ringing across the pier like a toll of bronze. "The Mall was merely an obstacle in our path. This iron will feed the Citadel while I prepare to undo the only true error of the campaign."

  Terzus’s son, spurred by a reckless curiosity and shielded by a life of indulgence, takes a step forward. A near-amused smirk curls his lips as he looks at Secundus.

  "So, the girl Primus let slip away is still free?" the youth asks in a shrill voice, ignoring the sudden chill that falls over the soldiers. "The one the Emperor called… what was it? Ah, yes, an 'abomination'?"

  The metallic sound is instantaneous. A hiss of pistons and the sharp click of a gear precede the movement. Terzus’s mechanical arm streaks through the air, catching his son with a backhand blow that sends him sprawling onto the white marble. The sound of metal meeting flesh is exaggerated, violent, softened only by the mastery with which the old general tempered his strength to avoid shattering bone.

  "Silence, fool!" Terzus roars, his voice trembling with fury and religious awe.

  The boy cowers on the ground, clutching his reddened face, eyes wide with terror. Around them, the silence becomes absolute; even the nearby admirers hold their breath.

  "The Emperor’s words are not to be uttered by lips such as yours without due reverence," Terzus continues, towering over his son. "That you overheard them does not justify you, nor does it give you the right to drag them through the mud. And never dare mock a General again. The four of us are his will made flesh; to insult Secundus is to spit upon the very foundations of this Citadel."

  Terzus turns his gaze back to Secundus. There is no apology in his eye, only the recognition of a shared burden.

  "Forgive him, brother," he says in a low voice, his mechanical arm emitting a final vent of steam. "There are those who eat the fruit without knowing how much blood was needed to grow the tree."

  Secundus watches the boy on the ground with an unreadable expression. A part of him feels a twisted sort of pity for such a fragile creature, but his warrior’s instinct yearns to kick that heap of silk and thin bones simply for daring to speak. Seeing Terzus strike him had sparked something; the commander’s charisma takes on a sadistic edge, a sudden hunger for power to be exerted immediately upon something living.

  He ignores the boy and turns his gaze toward the group of admirers nearby. His finger, cd in bck leather and still smeared with soot, points directly at one of the young noblewomen. Beside her, trembling, stands a malnourished lizard-man. The creature is a pitiful sight: its tail has been hacked off, leaving a scarred stump, and its dull scales cling to a protruding ribcage.

  "Come here, sweetheart," Secundus murmurs, his voice soft, almost a caress, beckoning with his fingers as if calling a pet.

  The girl, fttered and blushing at the General’s attention, pushes the sve forward with enthusiasm. As soon as the creature is within reach, Secundus’s sweetness vanishes. His arm fshes out, fingers cmping around the lizard-man’s slender neck, hoisting him inches off the ground. The creature lets out a choked rattle, weakly kicking its cwed feet.

  "How much for this scrap of junk?" Secundus asks the girl, his eyes never leaving the prey’s pulsing throat.

  The young noblewoman gives a small curtsy, her eyes shining with pride before her envious friends. To her, this act of violence is the height of Imperial galntry.

  "If you want him, he is yours, General," she replies with a radiant smile. "I would be honored for a possession of mine to end up in your hands. Consider it a modest gift for your return."

  Secundus tightens his grip, feeling the cartige of the sve’s neck creak beneath his gloves. He gnces at Terzus, as if to show that while the old General must discipline his own blood, he can dispose of another’s life with a simple nod.

  Secundus loosens his grip on the lizard-man’s throat, letting him drop to the ground with a dull thud at the feet of Terzus’s son. The wretched being remains curled on the marble, coughing and trying to shield his head with cwed hands, while his severed stump twitches nervously from an instinctual urge to flee.

  Secundus cleaned his glove with care, as if the contact with the scales had defiled him, and offered the youth a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was a predatory grin, steeped in poisonous condescension.

  "Here, boy," Secundus said, his voice once again melodic and calm. "A gift for your debut at the docks. Do not waste your rage on your neighbors or those of your own blood. That is an amateur's mistake."

  He leaned slightly toward the young man, who looked up at him with eyes still watering from his father’s strike.

  "Vent your fury on those born to be sves. That is what these creatures are for: to remind us that we are the architects, and they are merely the bricks. Learn to break them before they learn to look you in the eye."

  Terzus watched the scene in silence. His mechanical arm emitted a low hiss, almost a metallic sigh. He knew Secundus was poisoning his son’s mind with the same cruelty that fueled the Empire, but in this world, that was the only lesson that guaranteed survival.

  The boy looked at the trembling sve at his feet. His previous timid curiosity was slowly being repced by a sick sense of power—the same power shimmering in the eyes of the surrounding crowd. He reached a hand toward the creature, hesitating, as Secundus loomed over him like an imposing shadow, waiting to see if the seed of cruelty would finally sprout.

  Terzus caught his son’s wrist before he could touch the creature. The mechanical hand’s grip was iron—a steel warning that froze the boy mid-motion.

  "Not here. And not now," the old General decred, his voice low like distant thunder.

  Then, Terzus raised his gaze to Secundus. There was no defiance in his eyes, but a millennial awareness—the exhaustion of one who has seen glorious kingdoms crumble because of a single mispced grain of sand. He drew himself up to his full height, and his voice seemed to deepen, heavy with a symbolism that silenced even the hum of the ships.

  "Laugh at fragility if you must, Secundus," he said with poetic solemnity. "But remember: a single drop possesses no strength to divert the river, yet when the heavens weep as one, the union of those infinite, invisible tears has the power to rewrite the course of history and sweep away the highest mountains. Even those made of iron."

  The silence that followed was as heavy as lead. Terzus turned toward his son, whose eyes were still lost in the void of that brutal lesson.

  "It is time," he concluded curtly.

  The boy stood up with difficulty, smoothing his tunic with trembling hands. He gave a quick, reverent bow toward Secundus, murmuring a thanks that tasted of ash, then set off following his father. The lizard-sve, seeing his new masters depart, scrambled on all fours, following them like a wounded shadow across the white marble.

  Secundus stood motionless for a moment, watching them walk away. Then, his chest began to heave. A furious, jarring ugh, charged with demonic charisma, erupted from his lips, bouncing off the pristine walls of the Citadel. He pressed a hand to his face, almost overwhelmed by his own delusions of omnipotence, and shouted after them:

  "Then I shall be the heat that damns them, Terzus! I shall be the fire that evaporates every single, wretched drop before it ever touches the earth!"

  His shouts and ughter continued to echo through the port, while the girls and soldiers looked away, struck by the lucid madness shining in the eyes of the man the Emperor had chosen as his bde.

  Secundus’s ughter died down slowly, giving way to an unnatural silence that seemed to swallow the harbor’s noise. Two figures stepped forward from the crowd, moving with choreographed grace, as if gliding over the marble.

  They were handmaidens—high-ranking sves dressed in veils of transparent silk that hid nothing of their perfect, almost sculptural forms. Around their necks, they wore heavy colrs of solid gold, finely engraved, glinting in the sunlight. But the most disturbing detail appeared as they drew near: their ears had been removed with surgical precision, and their lips were sewn together with thin, braided gold wire.

  They could not hear the Empire's secrets, nor could they tell them. They were mute and deaf instruments, empty vessels destined only to serve and embody their master's distorted aesthetic.

  Secundus, usually arrogant and ready for violence, stiffened. He knew exactly who they were. These were no ordinary Citadel sves; they were extensions of the Emperor's will, living pieces of his private property. Though his sadistic instinct urged him to test their endurance, he knew that to twist even a single hair of these women would be to sign his own death warrant. The Emperor did not tolerate anyone touching his personal "objects."

  The two handmaidens stopped inches away from him without a sound and tilted their heads in unison. One of them raised an ivory-skinned hand, pointing toward the Central Pace—the highest spire soaring from the heart of the artificial paradise.

  Secundus adjusted his cloak, stifering a lingering shiver of excitement."The master’s summons," he murmured to himself with a thin smile. "Let us hope the iron from the Mall sates his thirst, or these beautiful guardians will be escorting me toward a much darker fate."Without another word, he set off, following the silent, rhythmic pace of the two women, vanishing among the flowering avenues of the Citadel toward the throne of the one who ruled this rotating world.

  The transition from the pier to the sacred zone of the Pace occurs in a tomb-like silence, broken only by the rustle of silk and the flow of water. Secundus is led into a circur chamber where steam carries scents of jasmine and rare oils, finally masking the nauseating stench of sulfur and ash that had followed him from the Mall.

  The two handmaidens begin the rite of purification with slow, precise movements. As the warm water slides over his skin, washing away clotted blood and iron dust, the sves maintain an unnatural eye contact. Despite their sewn mouths and missing ears, their eyes are amber mirrors that do not blink, locked onto Secundus’s own. It is not a look of submission, but a silent challenge, as if they were seeking to read the sins and failures written in his soul to report them to their master through some dark, unseen bond.

  Secundus endures the gaze, feeling unease crawl beneath his skin. Once dried, he is dressed in a heavy silk tunic of storm-gray that clings perfectly to his athletic frame. He is without weapons, without his armor: naked in his vulnerability before absolute power.Finally, the handmaidens escort him to the Great Gates of the Throne Room.

  The structure is titanic—a single block of bck oak and gold rising three stories high, nearly vanishing into the shadows of the upper vaults. The surface is a masterpiece of obsessive carving: mythological figures from forgotten worlds entwine in an eternal dance, surrounded by garnds of metallic flowers so realistic they seem ready to bloom. Multi-headed winged creatures appear to guard the entrance, their gem-like eyes glinting in the half-light.

  There are no handles, no visible locks. The two handmaidens stop on either side, bowing deeply as the gates—with a dull rumble that vibrates in Secundus’s chest—begin to rotate on invisible hinges. A draft of frigid, bone-pure air escapes the crack, bringing with it a silence even deeper than that of the previous hall.Secundus squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and crosses the threshold, knowing that beyond that wood, he is no longer a General, but a subject awaiting judgment.

  The door closes behind Secundus with a pneumatic sigh, sealing away every remnant of the outside world. Before him stretches the impossible.

  The room has no walls, no ceiling, no boundaries. It is an infinite expanse of blinding, milky white, where the floor is a sb of bck ice, so polished and cold it reflects the sky above like a dark mirror. Secundus walks suspended among the clouds, but it is no natural vapor: it is chemical smoke, thick and heavy—the exhaust of the Citadel’s engines pooling at his ankles like a shroud. The air tastes metallic, electric, stinging his nostrils with every breath.At the center of this cosmic nothingness towers the Pedestal of Eras. It is not merely gold; it is a molten mass of crowns, shields, and relics from a thousand different worlds, crushed together to form a stairway leading to the room’s sole focal point.

  Atop the pedestal sits the Emperor. His figure is monstrous in its perfection. He is not a man; he is a four-meter-tall column of flesh and will. His limbs are unnaturally slender, long and supple like branches of white birch.

  A drape of bck silk, heavy and woven with threads of shadow, descends from the infinite void above him, wrapping his shoulders and cascading for meters across the floor like a waterfall of oil. From the throne—and directly from the being’s back—extend twelve translucent tubes. These conduits pulse with emerald-green liquid, a visible heartbeat pumping life directly into the Emperor’s vertebrae. The tubes are not merely resting there: they enter the flesh, becoming external tendons that quiver at his slightest movement.

  The face is that of a young man of predatory beauty, yet devoid of all human warmth. His skin is so pale it looks like translucent porcein, through which veins glowing with a faint green light can be glimpsed.

  Secundus halts at the foot of the pedestal. For the first time in his life, he must crane his neck back so far he feels his vertebrae creak. The Emperor’s shadow swallows him whole, erasing the light reflected from the floor.

  The being does not open its mouth, yet the very air begins to vibrate. The voice originates from no specific point; it is a shockwave hitting Secundus’s chest—a dual frequency yering a crystalline, frigid female tone over a deep, resonating male baritone.

  “Secundus…”

  The name tolls in the General’s skull like a submerged bell.

  “You have brought dwarven iron among my flowers. I taste the ash of the Mall upon your hands. It is a bitter taste, General. Tell me… why must my gaze fall upon scrap metal, when the prey I designated still runs free beneath my sky?”

  The Emperor leans forward slightly. The movement is fluid, silent, like a mechanical crane lowering onto its prey. His ten-centimeter-long fingers drum against the armrest of the throne, producing a metallic clicking.

  “You gutted a mountain to offer me a dead generator. Do you think me a merchant of junk? Or have you forgotten that every breath you take is a loan I may call in at any moment?”

  Secundus feels the weight of those four meters of artificial divinity crushing his lungs. Before him stands no king, but the unmoved mover of all that exists—a parasite so vast its existence is indistinguishable from the machine keeping it alive.

  Secundus feels his charisma drain away like blood from an open wound. His voice, usually a thundercp, is now a trembling whisper—a tangle of excuses and promises dying in the room’s chemical smoke.

  “My Lord… the… the technologies… I…”

  The Emperor raises a finger. A slight, almost zy gesture, yet the air around Secundus’s throat seals instantly, choking off every sylble. The General lunges forward, his knees hitting the bck ice with a sharp crack, his torso bent in a bow so deep it brushes the ground.

  “What is done, is done,” the dual voice vibrates now with a sweetness that makes the skin crawl. “The iron seeds you tore from the mountain shall feed my strength. But the ephemeral flower, the only beauty I craved… that flower is not in your hands. And for this, Secundus, the toll is due.”

  Without needing an order, Secundus strips off his silk tunic. He remains naked, exposed—a colossus of muscle and scars appearing minuscule beneath the sovereign’s four-meter shadow.

  From the exhaust clouds pooling on the floor, they emerge.

  They are children, or creatures mimicking their form, but their skin is an absolute bck, devoid of reflections—like man-shaped holes in reality. They begin to circle the General, emitting thin, gssy giggles that seem to come from a thousand years away. As soon as their frozen fingers touch Secundus’s flesh, his mind explodes.

  The General sees his life fsh before him: not as memories, but as shredded strips of meat. He sees his first kill, the warmth of the sun on worlds now extinguished, the taste of wine and blood. A child grabs the General’s raven hair and, with a strength defying every physical w, lifts him from the ground like a ragdoll.

  “Let this be my will,” the Emperor decims, the male voice overpowering the female in an authoritative boom. “Let this be decisive.”

  The bck creatures seize Secundus’s limbs. They begin to pull in opposite directions with methodical slowness. The General feels his tendons stretch to the snapping point, his joints screaming as they are wrenched from their sockets, his breath hitching in a silent scream. It is the ecstasy of absolute pain—the sensation of being dismembered by an idea, rather than a force.

  Then, an instant before the spine snaps, the Emperor closes his hand into a fist.

  In the blink of an eye, the children vanish. There is no fading; they simply cease to exist. Secundus colpses onto the bck ice, gasping, his body intact but his mind devastated. The pain stops so abruptly it triggers a violent nausea.

  The Emperor settles back into his seat, the infinite drape once again wrapping him in mystery.

  “Go, Secundus. Find the flower. Or next time, there will be no final moment.”

  Secundus does not dare turn his back on the Emperor’s titanic height. He retreats slowly, almost crawling on his knees and then his feet, a humiliating reverse that forces him to keep his gaze locked on those four meters of flesh and pulsing tubes. The chill of the bck ice floor bites into his naked skin, but it is nothing compared to the frost he feels in his soul.

  Just as he reaches the threshold of the three-story-high door, the mechanism engages. The titanic valves rotate with a metallic groan, and in the opening, Primus appears.

  The two cross paths for an instant that seems to stretch into eternity. The look they exchange is an abyss of meaning: Primus sees his peer naked, trembling, eyes still dited from the touch of the bck shadows; Secundus sees in Primus the next sacrificial mb. No words are needed. There is only the recognition of a shared destiny—the realization that neither of them is a general, but merely a repceable gear in a divine machine.

  As soon as Primus crosses the threshold and the great door heaves shut, the silence of the hall is shattered.

  An inhuman, piercing scream, den with a suffering that does not belong to this world, filters through the thick bck wood. These are Primus’s cries. The "toll" has begun for him as well, perhaps with even greater ferocity for having allowed the initial escape.

  Secundus stumbles, his legs buckling under the weight of post-traumatic shock. The two handmaidens with sewn lips are upon him instantly. They do not steady him with kindness; they seize his arms with an iron grip, dragging him out of the corridors of power like a wounded man being hauled off a battlefield. Their amber eyes remain fixed on his—mute witnesses to the fact that his life now has only one desperate direction: find the "ephemeral flower" or vanish forever into the Emperor’s shadow.