The transition from a land governed by the rhythmic, telepathic "Song" of a
goddess to a society run by the clatter of iron and the hiss of steam was a
brutal education in the weight of the mundane. In the "Real" world, the Obsidian
Peak was no longer a glowing beacon of sovereign power. It was a construction
site of monumental proportions, etched in grey stone, blackened timber, and the
frozen, muddy tracks of thousands of people who were discovering that freedom
felt a lot like exhaustion.
I stood at the threshold of the lower vaults, which we had officially renamed
the District of the First Spark. The air here was no longer stale with the scent
of a dungeon; it was thick with the acrid, biting tang of coal smoke and the
sweet, heavy smell of hot lubricating oil. The silence that had once defined
these depths was gone, replaced by the mechanical symphony of the new era: the
rhythmic thump-hiss of steam-pumps, the ringing of hammers against anvils, and
