Metis stood at the edge of nothing and watched a prison die.
She had been here before. Not in body—her body was in Heaven, standing on cracked white stone, breathing air that tasted of ozone and endings. But her awareness had never fully left this place. The Citadel had held her essence for centuries. Had labeled her, filed her, stored her like a book on a shelf. She knew its rhythms. Its breaths. Its silences.
Now it was failing.
The structure had never been beautiful. Beautiful was for temples, for palaces, for places meant to inspire. The Citadel was functional. A machine built to sort souls, to categorize them, to contain them. Every surface was smooth white stone, seamless and cold. Every corridor led somewhere specific. There were no windows, no doors, no entrances or exits except the ones the system allowed.
But Metis didn't need doors. She had slipped through cracks the first time. Now she simply watched.
The walls were weeping.
