The return journey from the Iron Citadel was a strange, suspended interlude. The world outside the land-crawler's viewports seemed unchanged—endless white, jagged peaks, a sky the color of tarnished lead. But inside, everything felt different. Lyra's hand never left the Consciousness Seed, which now rested in a small, shielded pouch against her skin. It was quiet, its radiant display in the Chamber having subsided into a deep, watchful warmth. It felt like a sleeping dragon, its power banked but immense.
They had thrown a rock into the stagnant pond of Citadel politics. Now they waited to see if the ripples would become a wave, or if the pond would simply absorb the disturbance and grow still again.
