The warehouse burned for hours.
Not from flame—but from tension.
Church sirens screamed in the distance, then slowly faded. The Seraph Unit's remains had been dragged into the lower furnace pits, dismantled piece by piece by Syndicate engineers who worked in grim silence.
No one celebrated.
Everyone understood.
The line had been crossed.
Kael sat alone in a side chamber lit by a single hanging bulb. His jacket lay discarded beside him, torn open where the Seraph had struck.
His chest was exposed.
Skin slowly knitting together over faint metallic seams.
Tick.
Tick.
Steady.
But deeper now. Louder somehow.
He pressed his palm against his sternum.
"I can feel it," he whispered.
The mechanical heart beneath his ribs vibrated faintly in response.
Not just beating.
Listening.
Across the warehouse, Lyra stood over a long steel table where fragments of the Seraph Unit were arranged like pieces of a fallen angel.
White alloy plating.
Feather-shaped wing blades.
A cracked synthetic eye.
Riven leaned against a support pillar nearby, shoulder bandaged, blood still seeping through faintly.
"You've gone quiet," he observed.
Lyra adjusted her monocle, scanning the fragments.
"They upgraded the resonance dampeners," she said. "This unit was specifically calibrated for Void containment."
Riven smirked faintly. "Good thing your storm doesn't follow calibration."
Lyra didn't smile.
She tapped the Seraph's cracked eye lens.
"Look at this."
Riven stepped closer.
Inside the fractured lens was a reflection recording—an internal log projection.
The last recorded image flickered to life.
Kael.
Standing in distortion.
But behind him—
For half a second—
There was something else.
A shadow larger than his body.
Outlined in rotating gears.
Watching.
Riven's grin faded.
"That wasn't there in person."
"No," Lyra said quietly. "It wasn't."
Kael closed his eyes.
Sleep had become dangerous.
But exhaustion dragged him under anyway.
Darkness.
Then—
Light.
White walls.
Glass panels.
Cold metal beneath his back.
He couldn't move.
Straps held his wrists.
Machines surrounded him, humming softly.
A younger Lyra stood beyond the glass, pounding against it.
Her eyes were red from crying.
"Stop!" she screamed.
A man in a white coat turned calmly.
"Subject Noctis displays stable synchronization at 32%," he said.
"Emotional stimuli increases compatibility."
Lyra screamed his name again.
But in the dream—
He didn't know her name.
He only knew her voice.
The machines powered up.
His chest opened—
Metal folding outward like mechanical petals.
Pain beyond description.
The white-coated man leaned closer.
"You will house the future of humanity."
Then.
Everything shattered.
Kael jolted awake with a gasp.
The ticking thundered in his ears.
TickTickTick—
He clutched his head.
The warehouse lights flickered violently.
Loose tools rolled across the floor toward him.
Lyra rushed in.
"Kael!"
The air around him rippled.
He wasn't conscious of it this time.
The distortion pulsed outward in waves.
"I saw it again," he choked.
Lyra knelt in front of him.
"What did you see?"
"You," he whispered.
Her breath caught.
"In a lab."
Her face drained of color.
Riven entered behind her, sensing the shift in pressure.
"Easy," he muttered.
Kael looked at Lyra, eyes trembling.
"You were there."
She didn't deny it.
Silence thickened.
Finally—
"Yes."
The word hung heavy.
"You were the survivor," she said quietly. "Of the First Void Incident."
Kael's mind felt like cracking glass.
"I thought I woke up in the cathedral."
"You did," she said gently. "The Church moved you. After the experiment failed."
"Failed?" Riven repeated sharply.
Lyra swallowed.
"They couldn't control the synchronization, The lab collapsed into a fracture zone."
Kael's breathing slowed unnaturally.
Tick.
Slow.
Cold.
"And I died," he said flatly.
Lyra's eyes shimmered.
"For six minutes."
The warehouse felt too small.
Too tight.
Kael stood abruptly.
Metal beams creaked as gravity distorted faintly around him.
"You knew," he said.
"I suspected," she corrected.
"You didn't tell me."
"Because if I was right," she whispered, "you wouldn't trust me."
He stared at her.
He wanted to be angry.
But all he felt was emptiness.
"Why were you there?" he asked.
Her voice nearly broke.
"My brother volunteered for the Engine research program."
The words struck harder than any blade.
"He believed the Church could cure the instability spreading through Ironreach. He believed in progress."
She clenched her fists.
"They used him as a compatibility baseline. When his synchronization failed… they needed a stronger candidate."
Kael's ticking slowed dangerously.
Tick…
"Me."
"Yes."
Riven cursed under his breath.
Lyra continued.
"They said you were a perfect anomaly. A child with no Aether signature—until the Engine reacted to you."
Kael stepped back.
The warehouse lights dimmed.
"You helped them."
The accusation wasn't loud.
But it cut.
"I was twelve," she whispered. "And I thought they were saving lives."
Silence swallowed the room.
The ticking nearly stopped.
For a terrifying second—
Everything went still.
Then—
THUMP.
A single heavy beat.
The distortion collapsed inward sharply.
Tools clattered back into place.
Air pressure normalized.
Kael's breathing steadied.
"You stayed," he said quietly.
Lyra looked up.
"After the lab collapsed. After the Church sealed the district. I stayed. I've been searching for you ever since."
Her voice trembled.
"Because if you survived… then what they did wasn't just murder."
Riven folded his arms.
"So what now?" he asked.
Kael turned toward the furnace pit where the Seraph fragments smoldered.
"They said I house the future of humanity."
Lyra nodded faintly.
"The Oblivion Engine isn't just a power core. It's a rewriting system."
Kael's eyes darkened.
"Then I'm not its weapon."
He looked at her.
"I'm its key."
Outside, thunder rolled across Ironreach.
Not from the sky.
From below.
Deep in the city's foundation.
The Oblivion Engine rotated faster.
Across the Celestial Ring, Archon Vire watched data streams scroll across cathedral glass.
Subject Noctis — Memory retrieval initiated.
Emotional destabilization detected.
Synchronization trending upward.
Vire closed his eyes briefly.
"Memory accelerates divinity," he murmured.
Behind him, the great mechanical iris dilated slightly.
Back in the warehouse, Kael walked toward the furnace pit.
Heat shimmered upward.
He stared into the glowing metal depths.
"I don't remember choosing this," he said.
Lyra stepped beside him.
"You didn't."
He nodded slowly.
"But I can choose what it becomes."
Tick.
Steady.
Resolved.
Riven smirked faintly despite the tension.
"Well," he muttered, "if we're rewriting gods, we're going to need more guns."
For the first time since waking in the cathedral—
Kael didn't feel like a malfunction.
He felt like a question.
And questions—
Could change worlds.
Deep beneath Ironreach, something ancient shifted.
Because the anomaly had begun to remember.
And memory—
Was the one variable the Engine could never perfectly calculate.