The chamber erupted in chaos.
Mistress Dour's rebels charged, blades clashing against enforcers' brass. Selene vanished into shadow, striking with fury. Evangeline clutched the Prism Gear, caught between dread and necessity.
Elric faced the Phantom.
"You hide behind perfection," Elric said, his cane steady in his grip. "But every equation has its flaw. Every sum has its remainder. What is yours?"
The Phantom tilted his head. "You mistake me, detective. I do not seek perfection. I am perfection. And flaw is only a word for that which has yet to be accounted for."
With that, he raised his hand. The Cradle groaned, chains snapping one by one. The ground convulsed, pipes bursting, steam scalding the rebels.
Evangeline screamed as the Prism Gear was torn from her grasp by an unseen force, drawn into the heart of the Cradle. It spun, locking into place with a sound like thunder.
The chamber shook violently. Above, the city roared as buildings shifted, streets re-formed, towers bent.
The automaton was no longer dreaming. It was waking.
Mistress Dour, bloodied and fierce, screamed defiance. "Then let it wake into fire!" She hurled herself at the Phantom, her braided hair snapping like whips.
The Phantom did not flinch. He only whispered, "Sleep," and her body fell lifeless at his feet.
The rebels faltered. Selene froze. Evangeline wept.
And Elric, for the first time, felt the weight of inevitability pressing against him like a mountain.
Above, Brasswick moved. Not as a city. As a body.
The machine was born.