The internal air pressure inside the lower registry vault collapsed the instant the iron viewing doors were sheared from their masonry tracks. A wave of white lime dust and the bitter, sulfurous sting of black gunpowder smoke rolled down the metal scaffolding, coating the brass-rimmed data-tubes in a fine, gray shroud. The persistent mechanical click-clack of the sorting engines—the rhythm that had dictated the lifeblood of the southern delta's trade networks for months—was instantly swallowed by a low, ringing silence that vibrated directly through the limestone floorboards.
Elara did not drop her brass calibration tool. She slowly opened her palm, letting the small metal piece clatter against the stone edge of the layout desk, her sharp grey eyes locked onto the gaunt figure stepping through the settling haze. Her charcoal wool coat was white with stone dust, but her posture remained entirely rigid.
