A deathly, suffocating silence descended upon the Deep Steam Vents. Within the gargantuan corridor—twenty meters wide with a ceiling soaring fifteen meters high—two diametrically opposed forces were reaching a violent boiling point. The Dwarven soldiers, usually the epitome of stoic rock-bound strength, now appeared as fragile as glass statues under the soul-crushing weight of Malphas's aura. The gargantuan steam pipes anchored to the basalt walls groaned and shivered, emitting a high-pitched metallic screech that sounded like the mountain itself was wailing in agony.
Dayat no longer felt the cold bite of the metal floor beneath his boots. Mentally, he was suspended in a sterile, white vacuum filled with cascading binary code and rotating three-dimensional technical schematics. His right eye, covered by a flickering virtual digital lens projected by Dola, was locked onto the center of Malphas's mass. On his shoulder, the FGM-148 Javelin had materialized in its perfect, lethal glory.
