The Cradle lay beneath Parliament—a labyrinth of iron veins, boilers, and pistons the size of towers. To reach it, Elric's band descended through hidden passages, their path lit by the faint glow of crimson.
The deeper they went, the louder the heartbeat grew. The walls themselves pulsed, iron shifting like muscle. Every step felt like trespassing inside the chest of something vast and dreaming.
At last they reached a cavernous chamber.
There it was—the Cradle. A monstrous gear of black steel, taller than any cathedral, turning in slow, dreadful rhythm. Chains stretched upward, binding it to the city above. Each turn sent tremors through Brasswick, each pulse dragging the automaton closer to birth.
Mistress Dour raised her hand, signaling her rebels. "Strike the chains. Break them before it wakes."
Evangeline cried out. "No! Not yet—the Prism Gear must be set into its heart first. Otherwise—"
Her warning drowned as the walls shuddered. From the shadows stepped figures clad in brass, faces blank, movements precise. Enforcers—dozens of them, emerging as if from the metal itself.
And in their center, calm as ever, stood the Phantom Engineer.
"Welcome," he said softly. "You've come to witness the birth. How kind of you to bring the final piece."
His gaze fell upon the Prism Gear in Evangeline's trembling hands.