He took a deep breath, something in his chest rattling wetly. “And since then, I have worked to bring it to life. Scavenged what I needed from the rubble of our empire. It was built to fight the Chosen at their height. Once it is activated, nothing in this fallen world will be capable of stopping it.” He looked down at Kit. “It hosts a swarm of constructs, all controlled by the Core Analytica, to gather organic material from the land around it, and so it can power itself indefinitely. It is perfection, and all that remains is to deliver the last piece.”

Gyre tried to catch Kit’s eye, but she kept looking at Naumoriel with a disingenuous grin.

“So,” she said. “What happens now?”

Naumoriel pulled his canopy closed again. The war-construct started forward, toward the end of the—dock, Gyre realized; that was the best analogy. Ahead, there was a tower, stretching up into the darkness and connected to a bridge that arched over to the top of the vast construct. The pair of constructs that had flanked them doubled back, toward the archway where they’d come in.

“I will install the Core Analytica,” Naumoriel said. His tentacle-arm flourished the code-key that had opened the door. “Once it is in place, this key will mark me as the Leviathan’s master. It will obey only me.”

“I see.” And now she did look at Gyre, and raise her eyebrows suggestively.

“And us?” Gyre said. “The things you promised us?”

“Elariel will provide Kitsraea’s cure when you return to Refuge,” Naumoriel said dismissively. “As for you, boy, Leviathan and I will grant your desire ourselves. The end of the Republic and the Order, and the final destruction of all the works of the sun-lovers.” He reached the base of the tower, and one tendril stroked its surface. “You only need to watch.”

There was a boom, echoing out of the tunnel behind them, and a puff of dust emerged from the arch. Gyre half turned, frowning, and saw the two soldier-constructs moving into the murk, blades gleaming. In that moment, the base of the tower opened, revealing a chamber barely big enough for Naumoriel’s war-construct. He stepped forward, and the doors began to close behind him.

“The Order comes,” he said. “You must delay them until my preparations are complete.”

“Wait just a fucking—” Kit began, but the door closed on her words. Gyre heard a whirr as the lifter chamber sped upward, toward the top of the tower, where the bridge connected it to Leviathan.

“Plaguefire,” Kit swore, skidding to a halt at the doors. She pressed her fingers to the metal, searching for the seam. “I have to get this fucking thing open.”

“I can set off the bomb,” Gyre said, moving to shrug off his pack to find the detonator. “Stop him.”