Chapter 61: Foundation and Fracture
The dragon-like servitor stopped just beyond the elevator threshold, turning his glowing red gaze toward Elira's containment. The smile on his armoured jaw was unnerving, not mechanical—aware.
"Drop the act," he said, voice metallic and ancient, yet disturbingly organic. "You don't get to play desperate now. You're not here to provoke me. You're here because I let you be."
The hum around the glass prison shifted, and with a subtle gesture from his taloned hand, the enclosure around Elira lifted and dissolved into vapour. She stumbled forward slightly, unsure if it was reflex or shock.
Fenrir's cell disintegrated an instant later. He stepped forward too, on guard but not attacking. There was something about the figure—him—that even Fenrir instinctively recognised: this was the one who built them.
No title. No theatrics.
Just presence.
"Follow me," he said, and turned without another word.
No resistance. No questions. They followed.
He led them down a corridor of obsidian-tiled walls, aglow with red filaments of power. Doors passed without opening. Cameras adjusted without sound.
Finally, he stopped before a sealed glass vault.
Elira knew what was inside even before it hissed open.
The twin cores pulsed within separate chambers—Purpose and now, Pattern. The latter looked dulled, barely reactive after its violent rejection from Fenrir's body. But it pulsed still, slow and steady. Waiting.
"Give it to me," the dragon said, holding out a hand.
Silently, Elira handed him the secured containment box. He moved with a precision that was almost reverent, placing it beside Purpose. The moment Pattern's housing connected to the interface port, filaments of light passed between the two. For a fraction of a second, the Pattern core flared—then dimmed again.
Satisfied, he turned to them.
"There was an order to this," he said, stepping away from the chamber. "A design."
Neither Elira nor Fenrir spoke.
"Purpose was always meant to come first. It is the axis of your being—the anchor of direction, of will. Then, Memory, to give that purpose weight. Control, to mold it. And finally, Pattern—to walk it."
He pointed at Elira. "You hold Purpose. And yet, your journey is half-buried in misdirection. You were lit before your foundation was ever laid."
His eyes slid to Fenrir.
"And now Pattern has latched onto someone who doesn't yet carry the 'what', the 'why', or the 'how.' Only instinct. That is why it nearly destroyed him."
Elira took a slow step forward. "Then why let us have it?"
"I didn't," the dragon said flatly. "You took it. And that, in itself, is part of the result."
He walked in a slow circle around the cores.
"Vranos has Memory. But no Purpose. So he remembers everything... but does nothing. His mind ached for meaning it never received."
"Brakka," he continued, "has Control. But without memory? He builds based on pure function, blind to foundation. He understands the how—but not the why."
His gaze fixed on Elira. "You—Purpose—have the power to begin the chain. But you are using it without a pattern, without memory, without control. And so you walk blindly, just as Rian once did."
That name still drew a twitch from her fingers. She said nothing.
He pointed at Fenrir now.
"And Pattern? Pattern is the most volatile. Because it reflects potential. It requires all the others to mean something. Without Purpose, it is chaos. Without Memory, it repeats. Without Control, it fragments."
Fenrir stiffened at that.
"That's why it fought you," the dragon added. "You're not ready. Not yet. You're instinct and loyalty. But no direction."
There was silence for a long breath.
"Purpose is what," he said softly, almost to himself. "Memory is why. Control is how. And Pattern…"
He looked at the glass.
"…Pattern is the walk. The journey. The becoming."
He turned away from them at last.
"You've shaken the balance," he muttered. "The experiment is no longer pure."
Elira finally spoke, voice low. "So what happens now?"
The dragon servitor didn't look back.
"You finish what was started. Or everything burns."