Moriarty's gaze flickered. Behind him, a hundred faces did the same, a hundred old minds weighing a hundred old things all at once.
And while they weighed, the occupation began.
Root Bearers of the Iron Psalm walked through the Legacy's great halls in neat pairs, and wherever Lucy's sigil hung over a doorway, they lifted it down carefully, rolled it with care, and set it aside, and hung the shut gate in its place. They broke nothing and raised no voices. They simply replaced.
In the Legacy's archive, an Established One of the Psalm stood at the entrance with an iron register, ready to ask every lifeform that passed for their name, their Lineage, and their power!
At the Legacy's oldest shrine, where a tall statue of Lucy had stood for Ages, two Ancients unrolled a long sheet of grey iron cloth and drew it gently over her face.
