On a night heavy with fog and rain, Elric walked the broken streets of Brasswick. The gaslamps burned weakly, their flames struggling against the mist. Water pooled in the cobbles, reflecting shattered buildings like fractured stars.
He crossed a half-collapsed bridge and paused at its edge. The river below was black with soot, its surface broken by twisted beams and floating debris. His cane tapped softly against the stone, each strike echoing like a clock counting toward something unseen.
He thought of Doctor Crowe—the man buried inside the Phantom's perfection. He thought of Evangeline, still recovering, her body marked forever by glyphs. He thought of Selene, shadows dwindling, yet unbroken. He thought of Mistress Dour and the rebellion that had burned itself out in the fight.
The Phantom was gone. Yet Elric felt no triumph. No victory anthem rose in his heart. There was only weight—the knowledge that the veil between man and machine, flaw and perfection, remained perilously thin.
Another Phantom could rise. Another dream of perfection could devour another city.
Elric looked out into the fog and whispered, voice low but steady:"The veil never lifts. It only shifts. And we, flawed as we are, must walk beneath it."
The river swallowed his words. The fog rolled heavier.
And somewhere, faint and imperceptible, a gear turned.