The newly forged atmosphere was heavy with the scent of wet soil, crushed pine, and ozone. The violent, hyper-accelerated terraforming had settled, leaving behind a sprawling, primordial forest that stretched from horizon to horizon. Above the canopy, the reinvigorated yellow sun beat down through a pristine envelope of blue clouds.
It was a perfect, living world.
At the base of the massive Ironwood dreadnought, Zenith knelt in the rich, dark dirt. The twelve-year-old Architect had his celestial steel Logic Rod buried halfway into the soil, running a deep-crust diagnostic to ensure the hydrostatic water table was properly distributed across the continent.
Suddenly, the pulsing green circuitry on his rod flickered, turning a sharp, inquisitive amber.
Zenith frowned. He twisted the rod, isolating a specific frequency echoing up through the bedrock. It wasn't a tectonic shift. It wasn't the natural settling of Rowan's ironwood roots.
