De Loredo Fight
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description
Beneath the spires of a city carved from living stone, where clockwork carriages rattled across bridges older than empires, Ezekiel De Loredo pressed his palm against the throbbing wall of the Council Vault. The granite whispered secrets in a language that scorched his veins—equations of collapsing realities, the true names of dying gods. They called him heretic for listening. Fool. They didn’t understand the city itself was screaming. Smoke coiled through the Chamber of Equilibrium as the Order of the Golden Dawn leveled their accusations, their gilded staves crackling with censured magic. De Loredo’s laughter cut sharper than the rune-blade at his hip. “You chain the world to dying myths,” he spat, fingers dancing over the shard of fractured chronosphere in his coat pocket. The air rippled. For half a heartbeat, the councilors aged centuries—wrinkled flesh melting to bone, then to dust in their jeweled seats. An illusion, but one that left the taste of graves on their tongues. They didn’t see the fissures spreading beneath the city’s foundations. Not like Mariam saw, her ink-stained fingers mapping the unraveling ley lines in their clandestine workshop. Not like Kael, the scarred gunslinger from the Shattered Wastes, who’d watched entire towns blink out of existence when the old rules snapped. Together, they’d siphoned stormlight into arcane batteries, grafted necrotic flesh to steam-driven automatons—abominations, the Order hissed, even as their own sanctums crumbled. The reckoning came on a night drenched in false stars. De Loredo stood atop the Astral Conduit, the device that could either reforge reality’s weave or unravel it entirely. Golden Dawn zealots scaled the girders, their hymns drowned by the machine’s world-scream. Mariam’s blood slicked the control panels; Kael’s revolver clicked empty. De Loredo didn’t flinch as the blade found his ribs. Let them carve out his heart. It had always belonged to the tempest howling between seconds—to the change that would claim them all. The explosion lit the sky in colors unborn. When the ash settled, the city breathed anew, gears meshing with vines, streetlamps humming with captive starlight. Some called it salvation. Others, a quieter apocalypse. In the shadow of the reconfigured spire, a figure in a tattered coat limped into the alleyways, chronosphere shard glowing hot against his chest. The work wasn’t done. It never was.
