But deep beneath Brasswick, hidden under the collapsed bones of Parliament, something still lived.
Amid rivers of molten brass, shards of mirrored glass lay shattered, their surfaces blackened and cracked. All but one. A single fragment gleamed faintly in the dark, untouched by flame, unbroken by collapse.
And within that shard, a reflection stirred.
The Phantom.
Not whole, not infinite—only a whisper of the god-machine he had been. His voice flickered like static across a dead channel."Error… accounted. Flaw… recorded. I endure."
The shard pulsed once, faint as a heartbeat. Then it fell still, half-buried in ash.
Above, the survivors of Brasswick began to rebuild, unaware that a ghost still lingered.