The interior of the Conductor's Core was a cathedral of perfect, terrifying geometry. Walls of Black Stone pulsed with captured light. In the center of the vast chamber hung a single, immense crystal—not a Living Stone, but a Prism of Order, a synthetic masterpiece that was absorbing, refining, and preparing to broadcast Malakor's harmonic command.
Their goal was to plant a dissonance charge—a device Elara had built that would emit a chaotic, randomized resonance, the audio-viral equivalent of a scream in the middle of a symphony.
But as they entered the chamber, the doors sealed behind them. The thrumming intensified.
A hologram of Malakor, life-sized and solid-looking, appeared before the Prism. "Your predictability is a comforting constant," he said, his void eyes on Skodar. "The surgical strike. The belief in the 'critical flaw'. You are thinking like a warrior of old. I am an architect of the new."
The walls around them shimmered, and from them emerged not soldiers, but Resonance Fields—walls of solid, humming energy that began to constrict the space, herding them towards the center.
"This chamber is a resonator. Your very presence, your unique energy signatures, are now part of the calibration process. Your struggle, your fear, your 'heart'—all will be measured, quantified, and integrated into the Chorus. You are not sabotaging the instrument; you are tuning it."
It was the ultimate trap. They weren't invaders; they were components.
Kaelen's cybernetic eye flared. "He's using us as live test subjects. To create a harmonic counter to our own resonance. To make the Chorus immune to us."
The walls closed in. The thrumming was now a physical pressure, seeking to match their brainwaves, their heartbeats. Elara cried out, clutching her head. Lyra fired her plasma rifle at the energy wall; the beam was absorbed, making the field glow brighter.
Skodar felt the adaptive memory in his scars react, trying to counter the frequency. But it was like one voice trying to shout down a hundred perfectly tuned singers. He was being harmonized against his will.
He looked at the Prism of Order, at Malakor's smug hologram. He couldn't fight the song.
So he had to change the music.