The rebels who remained alive outside the Sanctum fought through madness itself.
The automaton had begun to walk—not as a man walks, but as a city reconfigures. Whole neighborhoods folded into joints, plazas tilted into knees, factories became lungs that exhaled smoke and fire.
From the machine's open ribs, brass choirs sang hymns of perfection. Their voices rolled across the night:
"Error is death. Perfection is eternity."
Against this, Mistress Dour's lieutenants led their ragged forces, blades and rifles sparking against enforcers that grew like tumors from the streets. Blood mingled with molten brass as the city itself devoured those who resisted.
Yet still they pressed forward. The rebels lit the night with their torches, chanting not hymns but curses, their cries ragged with desperation: "Brasswick belongs to us! Tear the bastard down!"
High above, Selene guided Elric and Evangeline through shifting corridors, their path mapped not by logic but by Elric's instinct for contradiction. Each time the automaton sealed a way, Elric scratched another paradox, forcing the brass to hesitate, stutter, reconfigure itself.
Evangeline stumbled, her body wracked by burning glyphs. "I can't… hold him back much longer. He's rewriting me."
Elric caught her arm, steadying her. "Then don't resist. Let him write. And then write over him. That is the flaw of memory—it is never permanent."
Her eyes widened, hope flickering faintly.