Haraza awoke.
But not to the scent of earth, or blood, or ash.
Instead, he opened his eyes to motion—the slow, mesmerizing ballet of colossal brass gears turning in silence above his head. Each one was etched with runes and markings that shifted position with every rotation, creating a living language of movement that he couldn't decipher. The sound was not mechanical. It was orchestral, each revolution a deep resonant hum that echoed across the vast space like the tolling of a sacred bell.
He lay on a stone slab—golden-veined, polished to mirror smoothness. Around him, the platform floated above an endless sea of clockwork. Bridges of light arced outward like spokes on a wheel, each leading to towers of translucent glass and humming mechanisms shaped like obelisks.
He sat up slowly. No pain. No weight in his limbs. He looked down at his hands. Whole. Unscarred. But when he turned them over, he saw lines of radiant ink traced into his skin—glyphs that shifted, faded, and returned with every heartbeat.
The glaive was beside him.
Still real.
Still his.
A soft hum in the air rose in pitch—like music tuning itself. Then a new presence stepped into view.
Not walking—gliding.
The figure was tall and lean, clad in robes of flowing silver-threaded mesh. His body was a fusion of man and machine: metallic bones sheathed in seamless brass, with joints that whirred and clicked gently as he moved. His face was mostly human, but the eyes… the eyes were something else.
They spun. Like dials behind lenses. Like stars caged in glass.
("You touched the Seed,") the figure said, his voice soft but deeply resonant, layered with whispering echoes and tones that harmonized unnaturally.( "And now you are bound.")
Haraza struggled to find words.("Where… is this?")
The being gestured slowly, reverently.
("This is the Mechanum Sanctum. The First Vault Engine. Womb of the Rift. Before there was magic, before there were kingdoms or gods… this place was.")
Haraza stood, though the platform didn't so much as tremble under his weight.
("Why am I here?")
("Because the Vault judged you worthy,") said the man-machine. ("You faced the Echo Lord and survived the trial. Few do.")
("Then it was a test?")
("All things are, in the Rift.")
Haraza frowned. ("And you?")
The figure bowed his head slightly. "I am Tarsis, Archivist of the Sanctum. Keeper of the Clock-Wheel. I exist to record and repair the echoes of existence. And now… to teach you."
"Teach me what?"
Tarsis turned and extended a hand. A path of silver light extended outward into the void, spiraling downward through layers of mechanical rings and suspended platforms. It looked endless.
("That the Rift does not simply change worlds,") he said. ("It creates them. It remembers them. And now that it has marked you, you are part of its engine. A gear in its purpose. A potential prime spark.")
Haraza narrowed his eyes. ("I didn't ask for this.")
("No. But the Rift never asks. It chooses. As it always has. As it did with the others.")
That stopped him.
("Others?")
Tarsis nodded slowly. ("There have been a few. Not from your world. But like you—wanderers. Chosen. Touched by the Seed.")
Haraza stared at the swirling celestial gears above them. ("Where are they now?")
Tarsis was silent for a moment. Then:
("Some built empires. Some became monsters. Some… vanished. The Rift does not promise survival. Only change.")
A chill ran through Haraza.
He tightened his grip on the glaive.
("I didn't come here to be a god or a puppet.")
Tarsis's expression didn't change. But there was a flicker of approval in his rotating gaze.
("Then perhaps you'll be something rarer still.")
He turned.
("Come, Chainbreaker. The Rift is stirring. And if the Vault awakened for you… it means something is coming through.")