The remnants of the rebellion gathered in the catacombs, their numbers halved, their spirit nearly extinguished.
Mistress Dour's death had shaken even the fiercest, her blood still staining the Cradle's floor. Factions blamed one another—some whispered she'd been betrayed, others that she'd been foolish, still others that Elric himself had delivered her to doom.
When Elric entered, silence spread like oil. All eyes turned to him.
"You led us to slaughter," growled a scarred mercenary. "The Phantom toyed with us, and Dour paid the price."
Selene's knife flashed into her hand before the words had settled, but Elric raised his cane to stop her. His tone was even, but each word landed like a hammer.
"Dour chose her death. She struck against inevitability. That is more than any of you did while you cowered in tunnels."
Murmurs rippled. Evangeline stepped forward, her voice trembling yet firm. "This is not about vengeance. The Machine grows stronger every hour. Soon it will not simply walk—it will leave. Do you understand? It will step into the world beyond Brasswick, and nothing will stop it."
The rebels shifted uneasily. To imagine the automaton loose upon the empire was to imagine the sun itself turned predator.
A grizzled veteran, leaning on a broken rifle, spoke at last. "If it is alive… then we must strike at its heart."
Elric nodded slowly. "Yes. But the heart is not where you think."
He pulled from his coat a scrap of parchment—a stolen schematic Evangeline had risked her life to recover weeks prior. The design showed a chamber hidden within the automaton's chest, marked with a single word: Sanctum.
"The Phantom's core resides there," Elric said. "Destroy it, and the body collapses. Fail… and Brasswick will march across the world."
A hush fell. At last, one by one, the rebels inclined their heads. Not in trust, not in hope—only in grim necessity.
For the first time, Elric felt the full weight of their expectation. He, the powerless man in a city of Anomalists, was to lead them into the beating chest of a god.