The archive ritual chamber pulsed with cold white light beneath towering preservation columns carved directly into black stone older than Artemis Tower itself. Thin streams of silver energy moved slowly through transparent conduits embedded along the walls while suspended rings of fractured metal rotated soundlessly above the ritual platform at the center of the room.
The air smelled faintly metallic.
Like rain striking exposed wires.
Galathea Brooks stood near the center dais with her pulse hammering unevenly beneath her ribs while archivists crossed quietly around her carrying tablets, restraints, and stabilization instruments with terrifying calmness. Their movements carried the efficiency of hospital staff preparing routine surgery.
That frightened her more than panic would have.
Because nobody here considered this extraordinary anymore.
The Doom had normalized horror so thoroughly it no longer needed cruelty to enforce obedience.
Only procedure.
