Inside the shattered heart of the central citadel, the atmosphere was thick enough to choke on. The air tasted bitterly of copper, burnt ozone, and the dying, erratic sparks of thousands of violently fried circuits. The primary backup vault — the true, final redoubt of the Supreme Intelligence — was a cavernous expanse of pulsing, hostile light. It was lined with towering banks of humming servers, each one glowing with a cold, sickly red luminescence that completely stripped the colour from the room, shielding the underlying consciousness of the mechanical hive.
"The defensive shields are completely down!" Crown Prince Jules bellowed over the deafening, metallic screech of the failing room.
