The organic elevator they occupied ascended with a smoothness that bordered on the uncanny. In the world Dayat had left behind, an elevator was a cacophony of screeching steel cables, the hum of high-voltage electric motors, and the jarring jolt of pneumatic brakes. But here, within the colossal vascular system of Vaelith, there was only a profound, rhythmic silence. The only sound was the muted, distant rushing of water flowing behind the massive, bark-covered walls—a sound like the heartbeat of the world itself.
Dayat stood at the open edge of the lift, his fingers brushing against the damp, warm surface of the inner trunk. As a man who had grown up amidst the unyielding gray of Jakarta's concrete and the cold precision of steel, his mind instinctively sought to dissect the phenomenon. His engineering background was a persistent itch, an automatic reflex that demanded he find the technical logic behind the magic.
