First light filtered through the ancient ventilation shafts of the engine sanctuary, cutting dusty beams across the central dais.
Within the sunken rotunda, a private galaxy of azure resonance turned slowly above the elevated custodian seat.
Overnight, the residual essence of the collective entity retreated completely into the willing frame of the First Speaker.
There were no hostages remaining within the chamber, only nine hundred and twelve voluntary wardens who chose to stand with their elder.
They sat in silent concentric rings across the tiered benches, holding extinguished ceremonial lamps in their motionless laps.
Each warden wore the formal gray mantle of an administrative clerk, having submitted their formal resignations to the city archives at midnight.
Ferra touched the alloy conduits lining the entrance archway, noting how the metal warped under forty-one years of continuous spiritual strain.
