The Grand Conservatory of Saint Aurelius did not possess walls; it possessed perimeters of frozen logic.
Every column was a vertical ledger of white marble, and every archway was an active mathematical theorem that measured the cellular density of anything passing beneath it. The air was pressurized, chilled to a precise temperature that prevented the formation of natural moisture, smelling faintly of old vellum, pressed lead, and the ozone scent of inactive deletion lasers.
Gwen pressed her spine against the fluted marble of a primary structural pillar, her breath held deep within her chest to prevent her solar furnace from executing an automatic ventilation cycle. Her silver-iron armor had been stripped of its external heraldry, coated in a dull, light-absorbent compound of charcoal and ground obsidian that felt cold against her skin.
