The safehouse reeked of damp decay. Burned oil lingered in the air like an old wound, mixing with the earthy musk of moss that crept through every crack of the broken monastery walls. The fire in the hearth had long ago died to gray ash and scattered embers, leaving only the faintest warmth. Pale morning light leaked through shattered windows, slicing the chamber in thin, sharp blades, as if the sun itself wished to cut the ruin into pieces.
Within those pale lines of light, Owen worked.
Copper wires, scavenged from broken machines and torn lanterns, sprawled across the floor in a tangle of loops and spirals. Strange sigils, drawn in ash and charcoal, marked the spaces between them, binding each coil to the next with deliberate, manic geometry. The lattice stretched outward like a spider's web spun by a desperate god. At its heart lay Leo.
