The Cabal's lesson was carved in terror.
They led Elric and his companions to a chamber where machines older than the city itself slumbered. Gilded with verdigris, their shapes were half-human, half-engine, bound by chains of rust. Each bore the faint outline of faces — men, women, children — etched into their bronze hides.
"Before Parliament, before brass and steam, there were the Architects," the feathered woman intoned. "They bound souls to metal, believing perfection could be achieved when flesh and gear were one. They failed. The hosts became prisons, the souls within screaming for release."
Evangeline trembled. "I hear them… gods, they're still singing."
The Cabal's leader turned her veiled face toward Elric. "Do you understand now? The Phantom is not inventing. He is remembering. He is completing the work of the Architects. And when his automaton rises, it will not merely be machine. It will be a cathedral of imprisoned souls."
Selene spat. "Then we tear it down brick by brick."
"No," the woman corrected. "You cannot tear down what is made of memory. To break him, you must find his flaw. Every Architect carried it, every machine bore it. A misaligned cog. A broken breath. A weakness born from their very perfection."
Her voice fell to a whisper. "But beware, detective. Seek too long, and the city will swallow you as it swallowed them."