The boardroom was dark, its walls lined with polished obsidian that reflected faint streaks of light from the holographic table in the center. Twelve seats encircled the glowing projection, each one occupied by a figure whose name was never spoken outside these walls. Together, they were the Consortium—a council that thrived in secrecy, feeding on nations, corporations, and lives.At the head of the table, the Chairman leaned forward, his hands steepled. His voice was soft but carried the weight of authority that could topple governments.“Damian Cross is dead.”The words settled over the council like a shroud. Some faces betrayed shock, others indifference. None showed grief.A woman draped in emerald silk, her silver hair pulled tight into a severe knot, spoke first. “Then the Architect has won another round.” Her tone was edged with disdain.A man in a steel-gray suit countered smoothly, “O

The air in the Rust District always smelled of rust and smoke—of lives dismantled and left to corrode. Inside Kael’s warehouse, the makeshift war council was in motion. Maps, digital schematics, and stolen Consortium files were spread across a long table made of scavenged doors.Kael leaned over the table, her mechanical arm tapping against the surface in a restless rhythm. “I can bring in two crews from the southern yards—ex-military scavengers. They’ve lost friends to Consortium roundups. They’ll follow if there’s blood on the table.”Adrian’s gaze remained fixed on the glowing schematic Marcus projected into the air. The Aurelius Trust node pulsed like a heart in the diagram, its arteries branching into false corporations, shell networks, and encrypted vaults.“Not yet,” Adrian said. “We can’t throw bodies at the Trust. We need precision. The first strike must fracture t

The library felt like a cathedral of dust and silence, the shelves bowing under the weight of forgotten tomes. Ashen light leaked in through the cracked windows, illuminating floating motes that hung in the air like ghosts reluctant to leave. The group gathered around the oak table in the center, its surface dominated by a spread of parchment, fragments of a map pieced together like a shattered mirror.Elias leaned forward, his gloved hand trembling slightly as he pressed another fragment into place. The ink was faded, but the shapes were unmistakable. A web of pathways, corridors, and sigils—architecture that was not merely functional, but ritualistic.“This isn’t just a map of the Citadel,” he said, voice low, each word deliberate. “It’s a construct. A design meant to guide thought as much as movement. Whoever built this wasn’t planning a fortress. They were scripting a ritual.”Dr. Caelum adjusted hi