Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Citadel’s skyline flickered as Sentinel pulled themselves up, pointed roofs of spires gleaming in the low light. Their shell, fresh with dents and scrapes, tucked neatly into the battered alcove of one such tower with a flash of gold and the thwmp of fabric. Gears protested with a soft ch-ch as they folded their legs, head bowed ever so slightly.

Their cloak bunched as they lifted an arm. Fingers flexed as they noted each dent and divot, the scrapes that had raked themselves across their shell since their awakening. A long, thin scratch had pulled itself in a line across their forearm, and with a flick chipped paint fell to their lap. A crude attack aimed at them by an enthralled Grand Reed, but an attack nonetheless. With a hum, they pushed the panel aside and began their repairs. Their arm was first. Following this was their abdomen, where a pin had glanced off earlier, and then their core. Thin fingers reached in, grasping where their slow-methodical heart sat.

Slow-methodical was not what they had first known it to be, of course. Sentinel had always thought of it as steady, calming. A constant hum in their body. No, slow-methodical had been what that Architect- Twelfth Architect- had called it. A slow-methodical beat in their chest. They liked that.

With a click, the panel over their core closed, and their heart wound back into rhythm. A low wind picked up from the Ducts, passing over their perch and down to Songclave. Its pilgrims had dwindled in numbers since the black silk first sprouted from the ground, tearing through the Citadel in angry, writhing strands. Before, they had drawn themselves together in song, loud enough for Sentinel to hear in its passing. Now, they barely spoke as they huddled beneath the rubble. 

As they moved to stand, they could see a faint shape dart into the clearing. A burst of crimson, the flash of a silver needle. Hunter in Red. She trailed into Songclave, picking her way over the debris and moving to a white-cloaked figure at its center. As they watched, something clicked, picking itself out of alignment for just a moment too long. Sentinel’s shell stuttered. Maybe that is who they would visit, hidden deep beneath the Citadel in its darkened corners. 

Dusting off their cloak, Sentinel leapt from the roof and landed near the adjacent spire. The path to Underworks wound through the Choral Chambers, and as Sentinel slid past the walkway to the Cogworks Core they unsheathed both blades, fingers pulled tight against the handles. The enthralled had dwindled in number since the black silk had first appeared- a blessing as much as it was a curse- for with each new husk they found, the enthralled’s strength seemed to have returned to them in some way Sentinel could not make sense of. The first few times it had believed the observation a mistake, something it didn’t account for. Yet, the growing dents along its shell proved otherwise.

Gold darted across their vision as they cut down an enthralled. The noise of Underworks had grown now, and as they ducked beneath tattered cloth they found the air thick with steam and smog. With a mechanical grunt, they drew themselves across the hanging crates of shell shards, landing squarely on the opposite platform. Gold flashed once more as they neared the bridge, and with a flick of their hand the path unfolded before them.

It’s a chip, it reasoned, a chip in its gears, causing a skip in its rhythm. No more than an interruption now, but enough to visit. 

They landed next to the bench. Blades tucked against their back, clicking into place. Sentinel took a moment, dusting off their cloak and clearing the soot from its edges. This part of Underworks was calm, save for the chatter of the Architect and the distant sound of the cauldron. 

It paused. Hot rock and magma crackled far ahead, a red hue painting itself over the walkway. Sentinel straightened. The room above them was silent against the hum. White cloth flared across the balcony as Sentinel moved forward, hand reaching for the lever. With a bow of their head, they knelt under the workstation door, eyes a soft pale glow against the ground as they turned to greet Twelfth.

Twelfth. The lone hum of their own cogworks filled the air. Knees touched the ground as they bent into a kneel, stiff and slow. Twelfth, their cloak haloing their body, laid on the floor before them. 

Their hand reached out. Pressing against Twelfth’s body, they waited, feeling for a hum or a click, any sign of life. Nothing. Fingers curled tight around Twelfth’s cloak. No sound, no movement. Nothing at all. 

Something shifted. Soft threads fell against their fingers as a silkfly raised itself into the air and then into their hands, settling calmly in their palm. Its wings stilled. Another soft whisper filled the air, barely audible to the kneeling Sentinel.

Eternal, they heard, feeling the word resonate through their shell, to serve… Eternal.

The silkfly- Twelfth’s silkfly- glowed faintly in their open hands.

They stared at it, the only remnant of the Architect. Sentinel had seen many automatons fail under the weight of time, and yet… they couldn’t believe this. To persist... that promise, the one they had both made, before the black-thread and the howling had split the air. Broken now, as was its maker, limp on the floor. Their finger didn't dare to twitch, hand left open as if to hope the silkfly would leave, would rise gracefully back into the air and into the chest of the Maker and fix this, fix all of this that had gone wrong. They were complex, a machine much grander than Sentinel. It couldn’t fix them, couldn’t even think to try. It didn’t know how.

The silkfly whispered again. Slowly, it drew out its options, turning the thoughts over in its head. Gears spun with a low whine. With a drawn-out sound not unlike a sigh, their chest opened once more, cloak pushed aside. Fingers curled under Twelfth’s silkfly as they carefully tucked it next to their own.

For the sacred Citadel, and its own eternal duty to it, it would do its best to fix Pharloom’s last Architect.

It would need to lift the Architect off the ground first, however. Picking itself up, Sentinel wrapped its arms around Twelfth. It was smaller than them, with markedly less mechanics, and as it pulled it felt its gears stutter, snagging before- pop- it skipped. Their arm froze, then dropped, sagging under the weight of the Architect.

Not capable, Sentinel rubbed where the gear had slid, pseudo-soreness alerting them of the malfunction, it needs help.

Broken glass sat beneath their feet, and as they turned to the door it glinted once like starlight before fading into the dark of the workstation. The Ventrica, as much as Sentinel despised it, would be the quickest way up. Crossing the bridge, it all but leapt into the tube, selecting First Shrine with a click. Air rushed around them as they flew up. It needed to find Hunter in Red. She, of all bugs, would be able to help them.

The glass of the Ventrica clouded with condensation as the tube slid into place, steam billowing around it. Pushing past the door, they dropped down past the glass walkway and skidded into view of Songclave. There.

“Innocent,” it rushed forward before bowing its head, “aid, this s-s-sentinel requires.”

The Hunter in Red looked up. A hand rested idly over a bag of rosaries, clearly having finished some transaction in the moments prior. Next to her, the white-cloaked figure from before turned with a soft oh!

“Gilded one?” she said, “what is the matter?”

“Fallen, has the A-A-Architect. Deep beneath the Citadel,” its head lowered more, “unable to a-a-aid them alone, is this sentinel.”

Hunter in Red gave a quick nod.

“I feared so,” she replied, “the maker's condition was not sound during my last visit, even less so than before. They believed their time was at its end.”

“Knows this n-now, does this sentinel,” it wished it had sooner, had been told something, anything, “the Architect must be r-r-restored. Moved.”

“Then I shall aid you, gilded one,” Hornet tucked her rosaries away, “that is what you were going to request, yes?”

“A-a-affirmative,” Sentinel said. 

“Understood,” she replied, “little Sherma, I ask that you stay here. We have to tend to someone injured.”

At this, the white-cloaked figure nodded his head. 

“O-Okay! If I can aid you in any way, Red Maiden, please let me know!” the figure- Sherma- raised his chime, a lone note ringing out once in confirmation.

Antennae brushed their face as Sentinel stood straight. With hastened movements, it darted back across the shrine and to the Ventrica. As they stepped onto the platform, they glanced back to see Hornet hauling herself up next to them.

“Still in U-U-Underworks, beneath the Citadel,” they spoke as hastily as their voice allowed before entering the Ventrica.

Glass slid across their vision as the tube hissed, slipping both itself and Sentinel into darkness within seconds. The rush of air and the clack of machinery echoed in the space as glimpses of the Citadel flashed by. Sentinel stared. 

What if, when they returned, the Architect was gone? What if some automaton had seen their making, had pulled at their body until they were hauled off, taken away for processing? What if the black silk had wound itself tight around the Architect, pulling at them and picking at their seams, infesting their shell until- 

Their heart fluttered. Something beat against the inside of their chest, pushing against their own mind. Twelfth. Twelfth’s silkfly wasn’t in their shell. Twelfth wouldn’t be enthralled, couldn’t be, not with an emptiness in the chest of their bronze carapace. 

The Ventrica brakes clamped with a thwum. Sentinel tensed, gears locking briefly as they pulled themselves away from the thought. With practiced motions, they unsheathed their blades, fingers pressed tightly around the handles. As they stepped out into the Underworks, their tube slid into the darkness, replaced by the Hunter in Red. 

With a flash of red in their vision Sentinel moved towards the bridge, striking it once with their blade. Gears clicked and spun as it unfolded, and within seconds, both had moved across the heat of Underworks and towards the Architect’s workstation. Maneuvering up the ducts, Sentinel pushed off the floor and leapt towards the balcony. Wings fluttered behind them as Hornet followed, a flash of pale light briefly striking the metallic walls. Their helm ducked once more as they entered the workstation.

Twelfth was still there. Their grip loosened. With careful movements, they tucked their blades behind their back and stepped aside.

“I now see why you requested aid, gilded one,” Hornet moved into the light, “I see more clearly that the maker is similar to its cogwork kin, in build and in size.”

With little regard to the statement, Sentinel moved to Twelfth’s side. 

“Unable to see the A-A-Architect’s damages, was this sentinel,” they spoke, staring down at Twelfth, “cautious, it is.”

“Then we shall see together,” she replied.

Two furred hands wrapped around the Architects abdomen. Carefully, Sentinel wrapped their own arms around Twelfth’s chest, and pulled. With an unceremonious grunt, the Architect rolled, facing the ceiling. A thin, deep crack had bored itself into their faceplate, splitting one of their eyes and travelling down their helm. Their antennae were bent, crunched in their casing from some impact. Where their leg should be laid only half, tension coils broken and snapped in metal shards that coated the ground. The only undamaged part of the once great automaton was their core, pulled just slightly from their chest.

The glass under their feet pricked at their shell. Gears churned, rolling and processing and writing as their own silkfly beat its wings, threads loosening and tightening across their gilded body. They could hear its thoughts, hear the din of something else as they repeated not functional, not functional, not functional in their head-

CLANG!

Sentinel whirled around, blades drawn. Silk flew through the air as Hunter in Red drew her needle. Enthralled. They could hear the footsteps, the sound of shaky, haunted movements. Their friend drew lower to the ground, readying herself to charge.

THWACK!

The workstation door flew open. Gold glinted from the entryway as a small, shiny bell-hat hit the light.

“Hoy! Red maiden!” Sherma called out, “and golden knight, it’s a comfort to see you in such a place! So much smoke and hurt here...”

The door swung shut as Sherma walked forward. He had shedded his hood, instead wearing the white cloth around him like a cloak. 

“Sherma?” Hornet raised herself, “your presence is… unexpected. I thought you were to stay at the settlement.”

“I was! But it was the mention of someone hurt that drew me here,” Sherma paused, “I… I must confess, I fear I may not be able to help as much as I first thought.”

Sentinel didn’t have to follow his gaze to know he was looking at Twelfth.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, little one,” Hornet sighed, “but you are correct. This is not something any normal bug can fix.”

Sherma looked nervously between the three of them. Idly, a small chiming sound began to echo from the little bug.

“The Architect must be restored,” Sentinel paused, “e-e-eternal, is the Citadel. Eternal, is the Architect to it.”

“I am not sure I know of someone who is able, gilded one,” Hornet said, “unless you are capable.”

“Unable, is this sentinel,” they replied, "to Forge and to Make, does the t-t-task require."

“Hm…” Sherma clinked his chime, slower, “in my pilgrimage, I do remember meeting someone. She worked in metal and fire, a most delightful forge-bug, down past the fields and moors!”

“Do you mean Forge Daughter, little one?” Hornet asked.

Sherma could only manage a nod before Sentinel snapped up.

“D-d-daughter?” Sentinel interrupted, “one survives?”

“Survives? At the bottom of the world, yes,” Hornet replied, “down where the rocks and magma run hot. She and her assistant have provided much needed aid since the black threads first tore this place apart.”

“Who kept the Forges hot, D-d-daughters, this sentinel knows of,” Sentinel said, “aid, she can provide. Restored, the Architect will be.”

Both silkflies fluttered in their chest as they spoke.

Without warning, the air went still. Motes of dust suspended themselves, hanging delicately before a low, howling shriek split the air.

Sentinel braced themselves, drawing closer to the floor. That scream, that distant scream. It had appeared with the black silk, and now it shook the kingdom and the Citadel with it. Hunter in Red covered her face as gray laced itself over their surroundings, rock and rubble shaking loose. Sherma ducked, rushing behind Hornet with an ah! Within seconds, the room was covered in dust.

The shaky, methodical sound of a chime was the first thing to break the silence.

“We should move the Maker now,” Hornet brushed off her cloak, “before this place collapses any further.”

Sentinel nodded. Drawing themselves to Twelfth's head, they readied themselves.

“D-Destination, this Sentinel asks?” Sentinel said.

“Ventrica. The Grand Bellway runs a connection to Deep Docks,” Hornet knelt, gathering Twelfth in her arms.

With a shudder, Twelfth was hoisted into the air, bits of glass and metal falling to the ground. Carefully, the two moved to the entryway of the workshop.

“Little one, if you would-” Hornet shifted.

“Oh! Yes,” Sherma hurried forward and reached, rather unsteadily, for the lever. 

If Sentinel hadn't been preoccupied by the Architect, they would have thought longer on how the little pilgrim had managed to make his way so deep into the Citadel without falling over.

Ducking beneath the entryway, the pair slowly lowered Twelfth down, easing them off the balcony and towards the ducts. Gears shuddered and ground as they held onto Twelfth. Their body clicked with angry protests, silk straining and stretching beneath their shell as they moved, compensating for the weight. With a ch-ch, they felt their shell stutter as they neared the bridge.

The Hunter in Red huffed. Sentinel watched as she eased the Architect onto her shoulder, claws digging lightly into their cloak. The heat of the Underworks swelled as they began to cross, cloaks billowing slightly in response. Behind them, Sherma sang some odd prayer, his chime clinking in beat. 

A Daughter, Sentinel returned to the thought, one survives. One lives. So far beneath the Citadel…

They couldn’t believe it. It seemed impossible that the answer to the issue of parts and the wear of both bodies could be solved so simply, by a lone Forge Daughter at the bottom of the world. How could they have missed this? How could Twelfth not have known?

“Gilded one,” Hornet broke their thoughts, “you will head to the Bellway first. When the next vessel arrives, I will place the Maker within and send them down. Are you capable of holding them on your own?”

“A-able, is this Sentinel,” they nodded. 

“Understood. I will arrive after their vessel departs,” she stepped aside.

Carefully, Sentinel lowered Twelfth and stepped into the Ventrica. Selecting the Grand Bellway, they heard the hiss, felt the rise in the tube, and watched as the Architect became a blur of light and dark. In the seconds after, they could only notice how quiet the world was without the little pilgrim’s bell.

They were going to leave the Citadel. The thought hadn’t etched itself down into their mind-vault until this moment. While its shell was functional, they were to hold true to their duty, to defend the sacred Citadel, and Sentinel was going to leave.

The Ventrica slid to a halt. Ducking beneath the glass panel, they stepped out into the hall, their tube hissing and leaving as soon as they did. In the distance, bells glimmered in waves of bronze and gold from their recess. 

They were going to leave. Yet, without the Architect, the Citadel could not remain eternal. Without the Architect, Sentinel could not repair, could not keep the Citadel eternal. Could not defend it. Conflicts and errors roiled in their mind, silk spinning along their spools as they realized what they were doing. They were going to forsake their duty, if it were ever to remain eternal. Sentinel had to.

A hiss sounded from the Ventrica system as the second tube arrived. Rushing forward, Sentinel felt the warmth of steam against their shell as they opened their arms, catching the Architect. Their body hummed, protesting once more as they stepped back. Quickly, the tube departed, leaving them alone once more.

For the briefest moment, they thought they could hear a whisper.

Steam billowed up again, flaring the Architect’s cloak as Hornet stepped out, Sherma in tow. Gathering the Architect in her arms, she lifted them once more as the pair moved the automaton to the edge of the Bellway. With one hand raised, Hornet turned to the metal sea.

“AYRA!” she called, loud and clear.

Bells rumbled and collapsed, sinking into the bellway. Without warning, a white-gray bug leapt from the ground, spinning once before facing the Hunter in Red with a low roar. In her wake, two smaller bugs emerged beneath her. They rolled in the bell-pit, curling themselves next to their mother. Had Sentinel not been focused on holding their friend, they would have drawn their blades on instinct.

“Oh! The beast! How nice it is that we meet again,” Sherma moved to the edge of the bellway, “what a blessing it is that you and your beastlings survived the great breaking.”

The beast- Ayra- cooed in response.

“It would be foolish to send the maker down without support,” Hunter moved into the bell-pit, “I will assist in securing them, and in bringing them to the Forge Daughter. Her assistant and I have something to discuss.”

Silk whirled around Hornet as she lowered Twelfth. Carefully, threads wound around the Architect and the beast. With skilled direction a pale net formed, holding Twelfth’s remaining limbs close as they were secured to Ayra. 

Bells clattered as Hornet leapt atop the beast, perching on its back. Her gaze shifted, staring out into the bellway.

“That should carry the maker until we arrive,” she said, “find something to hold onto, if you wish.”

Sentinel nodded. Ayra was large, with enough size to damage them should they make a wrong move. Carefully, they climbed up the beast's shell, holding onto its ridge with one hand and the silken net with the other. Antennae ruffled as they braced themselves.

“Ayra,” Hornet leaned slightly, “Deep Docks.”

With no further instruction the beast leapt into the bells, sending metal and silk flying. Sentinel’s shell groaned as they were flung back, caught off-guard by the sudden movement. Faintly, they could hear Sherma ring his chime above a soft “farewell!” 

Darkness washed over it, and for a moment, Sentinel felt as if it was going to fall. Before they could shout, Ayra surfaced in the bell-vein. Bells clamored and rang as she bounded forward, Hornet watching the tunnel unfold as Sentinel held tight. They had done it, committed the greatest sin they could reason beyond joining the ranks of the enthralled.

They had left the Citadel.

Deep within their chest, Sentinel could feel Twelfth’s silkfly flutter against their own as the bellway passed in bronze and gold.

Chapter Text

Gold pressed against gold as Ayra leapt from the bellvein. With a thump the ground shook as she landed, her call bellowing out across the station. Deep within their chest, Sentinel's cogheart rattled at the sound.

Their fingers were still twisted tight around Ayra's shell, one clutching the ridge from when they had departed the Citadel. Silk strained beneath their own carapace, pulling their limbs taut and keeping them in place. With stilted movements, the spools unwound and Sentinel's arm dropped to their side. If the heat that had worked its way into their core during the journey was any indication, they had made it to Deep Docks. 

Sentinel had no way of knowing for certain, of course. Though there was a time in which they had been ordered to leave the Citadel, that had long since passed. Not once had they gone further than the white-flowered woods that sat beneath their great golden city. At least, not in detail.

Hunter in Red slid off the beast, her cloak flaring. A number of smaller bells tumbled to the side as she hit the ground, mask tilted slightly as she looked up.

“I haven't visited the Daughter since I required her assistant's aid.” Hornet turned to Sentinel, “I would like to ensure she is alright with… this. Though I am sure she will be, I do not wish to intrude on her work. I understand she is not fond of stalling it.” Sentinel managed a sharp nod before the Hunter spoke again. “Do you think you are capable of bringing the Maker down yourself?”

“A-able,” it replied.

It was Hornet's turn to nod. With hastened movements, the Hunter moved up from the Bellway, disappearing behind the bells and rubble.

Carefully, Sentinel turned around. Twelfth was still in the net and held loosely against Ayra, who was now singing to her beastlings. The low rumble permeated its surroundings, metal and silk trembling as one. With deliberate motions, Sentinel began to cut at the thread, loosening it enough to lower the Architect towards the ground. Their blades made a clack-clack against their back as they jumped down, arms outstretched to catch the automaton. One thread snapped. Then another. Then-

Fwmph. They hit Sentinel's arms. Both its shell and voice groaned as they staggered back.

Silk fell against their face and arms as they moved, dragging the Architect with them. Gears whined and protested, spools spinning in unison. Pulling both to the edge of the Bellway, Sentinel knelt and lowered the Architect to the ground.

The Architects had always been of great size. Though automatons existed that rivaled them, they were among the larger ones, from the first that had placed Sentinel's heart in its chest to the last that had held it, tentative and delicate. 

It was a purposeful choice. Their shells had to be tightly packed, shifting with intricate interiors full of cogworks. In their working state, weights spun and pistons pressed, gears pulling and twisting and winding silver silk spools. A size necessitated by complexity, powered only by a single silkfly. 

Sentinel pressed their hands together. They could only believe the Daughter capable of repairing such a machine. There was no other option.

Footsteps interrupted their thoughts. One hand curled around their blade’s handle while the other pressed against the bellway platform, turning to look up. The Hunter in Red. She leapt down from above, landing a few paces away.

“The Daughter is willing to provide aid,” Hornet moved closer as she spoke, “though I will warn you, while the path to her is among the more straightforward of routes, it still remains a dangerous one. With haste, we should have luck passing through without conflict.”

Only now did Sentinel notice the subtle sheen of darkened hemolymph and silk that stuck to her needle. 

“Awaiting I-Innocent, this Sentinel was,” they replied, removing their hand from their own blade.

Taking their place at the Architect’s side, Sentinel watched as the Hunter's shadow spilled over them. Her needle clicked once as she jumped down.

“Gilded one,” she huffed, lifting Twelfth up once more, “am I to believe you will return to the Citadel after this?”

Small talk wasn't the Hunter's forte. A sincere question then, perhaps one poking at the thought of aid or some reward. 

“C-correct,” they replied, “defence of the sacred Citadel, and the voices that fill it, is t-this Sentinel's eternal duty.”

“And the Maker?” She held the Architect above her head as they scaled the Bellway.

The heat of the Docks pressed against their back.

“Will follow,” Sentinel said, “for C-Citadel eternal, the Architect must.”

“Even now? Still, you both keep to your duty?” she asked.

They thought of the howls, of the black-thread, of golden carapaces stained in void. Then, dimly, they thought of the darkened sheen upon Hornet's blade.

“It is E-e-eternal,” they replied.

Sentinel couldn't tell if they were talking about the Citadel or their duty to it. 

Hornet seemed to accept this, or at the very least did not wish to continue talking, as her mask tilted down. Glancing back, they felt a wave of heat wash over their shell as the ground began to smolder. Red-orange embers danced across Sentinel’s vision. They split the air, weaving their way upward in currents fueled by the magma that churned below, rumbling like a great beast against the platform.

They were on some sort of loading dock. Bronze platforms stuck out from the river of red slag, jutting from beneath shadowed bundles of rock. Their feet scraped against one such bundle as Hornet led them down, closer to the magma. In the corner of their vision, they could see the void-wrapped body of a worker huddled beneath it.

“There is a gap up ahead, where the lakes of flame have parted the docks.” Hornet gestured with her mask, “I’ve taken the liberty to send the flintgems down, for use as a platform.”

Flintgems. Sentinel turned their head, looking to where the Hunter had gestured. Smoldering rock laid across the path, broken open from impact and splintered in their casings. Smoke haloed their cores. Unrefined, it sat dangerously still in the bundles suspended above, and now, on the bronze platform before them. 

Their antennae lowered as they picked their way forward, careful to avoid the exposed ore. Though dangerous, Hornet was correct. One of the chains had split in such a way that the bundle angled itself across the molten river, providing a pathway across. A faint red light spread beneath the two as Hornet stepped onto one of the bundles, runes curling along its edges.

Bronze curved overhead. Their foot hit metal, coils compressing as they stepped off the flintgems. No sooner had they done so than the red light faded, tucking itself back beneath Hornet’s cloak. 

“Ahead,” Hornet said, “and then below, into the workshop.”

Sentinel ducked under a mess of pipes and valves as the shadow of the structure fell over them. Steam whistled to their side. They were within it now, a bronze behemoth struck through the hot rock and magma, rattling with age. With a grunt, the Hunter shifted Twelfth on her shoulders as she reached to her side.

THWCK.

A lever swung down, its door opening in unison. Light spilled onto the platform below. With little more than a glance, the Hunter began to bring the Architect through, Sentinel following close behind. The descent was slow, and with the shutting of the door behind them they soon found themselves in darkness. Faintly, they could hear the slow rattle of a pipe.

Tck-tck-tck.

It was growing louder. Louder, and perhaps far too methodical.

Tck-tck-tck. 

A bench passed their vision, and with the shifting of antennae they turned to look behind them.

Tck-t-

The sound stopped. Footsteps froze in place. Staring at them from across the bronze platform was the Daughter. Behind her, a worker stalled, helmet a bronze smudge against the red-hot rock.

“Forge Daughter, this is the-” Hornet started.

“You! You did not mention a holy one, pointy bug!” the Forge Daughter exclaimed, somewhere between startled and excited.

“It did not cross my mind,” Hornet offered, “the gilded one is a Sentinel, charged with protection of the Citadel. They have come to others' aid many times, including my own. It was their own wish that brought me to return the favor, and now, brings the Maker to you.”

“Yes! Yes. We remember that one.” she leaned forward, “an age ago, so long now. Though our charge requires we remain, we remember. A Sentinel, and an Architect.”

Sentinel would have crossed their blades if they could, folded their arms before their chest, brought themselves to a kneel. Anything to show respect. Instead, they bowed their head, the only action permitted.

“I will leave the Architect with you, then,” Hornet began to move again, “in hopes that this may be resolved shortly.”

The Daughter kept her bell-helm trained on them as they neared. Her arms were still raised as the Architect was set down, no doubt working away at the ore before her.

“ I am grateful for your aid, Forge Daughter,” she said, “I will remain for a moment, if only to speak to Ballow about my next descent.”

Hornet passed in a sweep of red. Faintly, Sentinel could see it flash against the Daughter’s wrought-iron bell. Burn-marks scoured the surface, staining the front of it in a mixture of ash and metal shavings. Before Sentinel could move, she had turned away from them, hands pulling at the Architect. Nimbly, the Daughter began to pick apart their shell, turning them onto their back and pulling open panels on their chest.

A Daughter, true to the Hunter’s word. They couldn’t think of anything to say. 

“Small pointy bug, did you find her above? Or did the senseless workers draw you out?” she asked, not breaking from her work.

Sentinel pulled themselves into a kneel.

“Woken, was this S-Sentinel,” they stated, “by the I-Innocent, it was.”

“Innocent? Haha!” a laugh bellowed from her bell, “we know her type. Innocent is a funny way to say it.”

“Indebted, this S-s-sentinel is, for the Hunter's aid,” Sentinel instead replied, “a-and, for the Beast’s.”

“Indebted? Hm. Though her requests cruel, the pointed bug wishes to aid,” she said, “driven to calm the world. Brave or mad, we cannot tell.”

The faint rumble of magma echoed along the underbelly. Sentinel could hear the Hunter speaking to someone, wisps of a conversation carrying across the workshop.

“Woken, was it?” The Daughter placed a silver gear to the side.

“B-by the Innocent,” Sentinel confirmed, then, understanding what Daughter was asking, “in the Core this Sentinel was l-led to rest, for its protection.”

“Ah! So noble.” she placed another gear to the side, “and when was this fate?”

Sentinel searched for a marker, something the Daughter may recognize.

“A-Architect, Fourth of its line,” they settled, “at the time of it's ending.”

Daughter paused, briefly.

“Ages ago, that was,” she remarked, “a changed world you woke up to.”

“We were sent before, by our Forgehome, when your holy order was still active,” the Daughter continued, “we did not know of your sleep. Do the others follow their duty above?”

“A-alone, is this Sentinel,” they replied, quick.

The cogheart beat softly in their chest. A silence fell between them as the Daughter continued. Her order did not make the Sentinels. She had not seen them in their prime. To her, they had been an honored, holy soldier passing through.

Cogs were lifted from the ground and placed back into Twelfth, hands weaving them together.

“This one is not our work,” Daughter broke the silence, shutting a panel as she spoke, “but far later than our time. We saw the Second, and aided in the Third. Here the core lives, but the parts useless to it. Some old. Too old. Some new, but broken. Complications and failures, a worrisome mess for any machine… but one that needs only reforging.”

“Devoted, is this S-Sentinel,” they stated, “willing, it is, for C-citadel eternal.”

“Well. Well! If you are wishing to restore them, it is material we require,” she replied, “metal and ore, for gears and coils. Solid, finer things for reforging. Things we do not have.”

“M-material, can it be found?” they asked.

“We would believe otherwise,” she chuckled, “you would find better luck seeking rosaries among the basin than to hope to wander upon the silver-rock needed.”

At this, they heard a sound to their side.

“Oh, ah, one moment miss. Boss?” Someone coughed, their voice gruff, “are ya looking for some of that Citadel metal?”

Iron hit bronze as Daughter turned, leaning back as she looked over.

“Yes!” she replied, “though we are afraid we have exhausted it. Empty stores, long gone.”

“Hm.” the voice- Ballow- had paused his shoveling. “Though not a new forging, I was just aboutta’ talk to Miss Hornet on that. Some felled automaton in the fields out East. Took the time myself to haul a part or two out for the old Bell… maybe with some work the rest could do the trick for you?”

“An automaton to the East? You wouldn't mean the Chorus, would you?” Hornet turned to stare.

“Aye! That could be it,” Ballow replied, “it was partially covered n’ burnt by the fiery lake… was hard to see past that I'm afraid.”

“An automaton! And a big one too,” Forge Daughter exclaimed, “if enough remained pure, reforging is possible. Yes, yes. Tell the holy one where to go, and we will repair the machine.”

Sentinel looked to the smaller bug. Smokerock stuck in piles beneath his feet, a shovel gripped loosely in hand.

“Ah.” Ballow adjusted his helm with a crude wipe across the face, “well you'll want to head topside, then cross the lakes n’ bell until you reach the fields. There, you'll feel the lakes again. Fiery things, they are. Follow ‘em, and you'll get to that Chorus in no time.”

They nodded. Sleeves picked at their elbows as they rose, blades clacking on their back. Their legs unfolded with the strain of steel, breaking from their kneeling position.

“S-seek, it will.” They felt their cloak brush over their arms, “for the C-citadel eternal, this S-Sentinel is g-grateful.”

With that, their cloak fell in a flurry around them as they took off towards the surface.

---------

Foliage broke in abrupt scars as they ducked into the earth, antennae rustling against the heated air of the cavern. The fields, true to their name, were thick with low-lying growth. It picked at Sentinel's shell as they crossed, catching in the finer mechanisms and leaving bent-over stems in their wake.

They had made their way across the docks prior, passing through the grand bell and into the lands beyond. With Ballow's advice in mind, Sentinel had ducked under void-stained rock and slid through narrow passages, inevitably finding itself back amongst the magma and stone. Their hands, wrapped around the handles of their blades, had stayed close to their chest during the journey. The enthralled were numerous, black-threads drawing out pilgrims and Skarr alike.

White and gold flared beneath them as they fell. Silk shifted and stretched in their shell as they landed on the platform, steel meeting Marrow-bone. It groaned underfoot, buckling slightly. Ahead, outcroppings of ash-stained rock haloed a bronze automaton, their body worn down with time.

A Chorus. Fourth Chorus.

They had seen the great machines once. Not in action but in rest, pinned to the walls outside Twelfth's workshop and viewable only by select platforms and the odd glance up. That was for maintenance, the Architect had explained. They were creations of violence, sent out only when the Citadel requested. 

They had not done so for a very long time, of course. The First and Second Chorus outside Twelfth's workshop were coated in rust, kept tethered to their posts in an eternal rest. The Third, missing, had departed to some unknown place before Twelfth's memory. The Fourth, presumed defunct, was sent out in a show of force.

Never had Sentinel imagined they would see it again, especially so far beyond the Citadel walls. Magma sputtered as they moved forward, rocks scattering underfoot. It was a grand thing, with unlit eyes set against an intricately adorned carapace. Chains held it in the air, the same wrought-iron as Daughter's bell.

To the side, they could see a line of rope running up the machine. Peeled-off panels exposed intricate mechanisms along the back, far from the burning lake below. With careful movements, Sentinel tucked their blades against their back, and moved to climb.

SHHHING

Something whistled past. Sentinel jumped- arms raised, gears whining- as it struck the rock behind them. Rubble tumbled from the impact. Their hands reached for both blades, everything shifting as they turned to face their attacker.

There. 

Above them, a short, red-cloaked figure stood among the charred rock, a set of pins ready in her hands. An enthralled.

Sentinel knelt, darting forward along the rock. Gears stirred as they flitted between the platforms, body a white-gold blur against the magma. The haunted figure drew back, pulling herself against the cavern as they approached. With a sshhING, another pin cut the air. Antennae trailed as they nearly grazed the steel, head ducked low.

A mechanical shout drew itself from their chest as they leapt into the air. Both hands clasped as they raised their blades, preparing to drive them into the haunted one's heart.

Bronze ripped across their vision. An arm twisted, metal humming, blade threatening to leave their hand. Their cloak split into silken strips, torn by the sudden attack. Sentinel reeled back. Black and red blurred before them, breaking the stone as a pin drove itself forward, pointed, aimed to their heart-

“HUAH!” 

They cried out, bringing both blades down. Bronze met steel with a harsh CLANG. Dirt spilled to the side as each half of their scissor cleaved the air in diagonal strikes, the tips digging into the ground.

“Violent thing!” the enthralled spit, “how dare you use my order against me!”

Another strike. Their blade met the attack, arm nearly pressed to their face. The enthralled leaned in, bearing her weight on them. Beneath their chest their cogheart wound thread with rapid thumps, bringing with it methodical motions that pushed their arms out and forced their silk taut.

“I felled your first attempt,” metal groaned as she drove herself forward, voice harsh, “and I’ll fell any Citadel thing they send, even you.”

For the briefest moment, they could feel the steel spine of a pin press into their chest.

“Cease!”

The enthralled stumbled back with a shout as a needle split the air between them. Wide eyes drew themselves from Sentinel to the cavern below, pin gripped tight. Where the weapon struck silk followed, weaving itself in silver strands through the air. In a flash of red, Hornet landed atop the platform.

“Gilded one, Seamstress,” her needle flew back to her hand, “lay down your weapons.”

Their body rippled. Gears clicked in unison, a motion following the beating of their heart. Bowing their head, they lowered their arms to their side. 

From behind Hornet, Sentinel could see the enthralled- no, the Seamstress- stare. Then, with slow motions, her own arm began to lower.

“Well, stray one,” the Seamstress scoffed, “first you bring the ending of our world, and now I find a Citadel thing softening under your words! And here I was thinking you’d bring change to this place.”

“This one may be of the Citadel, but it is no veiled bug,” Hornet replied, “nor has it been stolen by the silk above.”

Their heart clicked. Silk wound along the seams of their body as they began to slow from the fight.

“E-enthralled, this Sentinel is not,” they confirmed, eyes glimmering a pale white, “b-by the purity of your will, the c-c-clarity of your intent, you are innocent of the silken c-curse as well.”

The sentence left their shell with the ease of a pin through stone.

“You believed her haunted, gilded one?” Hornet paused, considering this, then. “Was this why you both raised your blades?”

“Perhaps for it, but my reason was more personal. I thought it a violent bug.” Seamstress had begun to clean one of her pins, “your gilded friend stands like a warrior, stray one! I assumed it was sent here to finish the job.”

“Then we are lucky you did not succeed,” she said, “though you are correct- the Sentinel is a fine warrior- it is not here on fatal terms. I ask you allow the gilded one to gather what it needs, and let it depart in peace. It would be a detriment to Pharloom if either of you fell.”

Sentinel kept their head down. Their cloak, torn and frayed, swayed gently in the hot air. Faintly, they could see Seamstress looking them over as if to decide her judgement.

“Hmph,” arms lowered as she sighed, “your judgement is strange, and your choice of ally…”

They felt her eyes pry across their form, picking them apart.

“It’s a violent thing. Move it, complete your wish, and leave these fields in peace. I don't need the company of the Citadel at this time.”

Blades snapped. Their arms curled upwards, placing their weapons on their back. With a quick bow, they began to move towards the outcrop edge.

“Gilded one,” Hornet stopped them, “I thought to seek you, to impart something known.”

Antennae stilled.

“The world… its own ending,” she began, “I dove to the source, saw the lakes of void beneath us. Though I wish to rend its grip from your kingdom, there may be some things that will not persist beyond it.”

“To stand sentinel… it is a burden I know well,” she continued, “yet it is not an eternal one. You are not tied to the Citadel if it falls.”

Sentinel stared. Their shell betrayed their thoughts, silk spinning rapidly as their directive screamed. Eternal. It was, and always would be, eternal.

“U-understood,” was all the Sentinel could say.

Before Hornet could halt them again Sentinel leapt from the outcropping, disappearing into the cavern below.

---------

Light danced across the ground as Sentinel entered the workshop, bronze and silver catching the far-off glow of magma and smokerock. Their arms crossed their chest in a gesture not unlike their own bow. Parts pressed against their shell, pointed and gleaming.

“Oh! Holy one! There you wander,” Forge Daughter called, “with the metals, fine enough for us to use!”

Sentinel gripped a gear tight. 

“Here, here.” Forge Daughter patted a spot next to her, “we guessed you a capable bug, and right we were.”

Bronze spilled onto the floor as Sentinel knelt, arms unfolding. Gears and coils spun in miniature circles as the parts came to a rest. They had done their best to find the purest metals, searched the Chorus for its hidden pieces. Now, the ticking core of the great machine laid itself out before the Daughter.

“Excellent, holy one,” Daughter picked through the pieces, “our work can continue now. If your service is needed, we will find you.”

“Appreciate the Daughter's w-work, this Sentinel does,” they replied.

Silk coiled in their shell. Staring at the Daughter, they felt their eyes flicker, a false memory of exhaustion lining their thread. With slowed movements, they pulled themselves beneath the underbelly wall and bowed their head.

Carefully, they watched as the Forge Daughter began to pull the Architect apart. Limbs were split from the body, legs dismantled and pushed to the side. The forge lit with a blazing light, casting dancing shadows across the gilded knight as Daughter worked. They felt their body hum, shifting in place. Silkfles moved their wings in unison beneath their shell. The Architect would be rebuilt. The Architect would wake.

In the seconds after the thought fled their mind, they felt their gears grind to a halt as their eyes went dark.

---------

Sweet grass tucked itself beneath their legs, filling the cavern with its scent. Outstretched hands cradled the seed-pods, fronds brushing against their shell. Their head, turned up, faced the ceiling with closed eyes as they breathed in the clean air.

Ducts.

Sentinel is back here again. This place, this dream. A calm one, diluted among the silk that weaved its way through them, yet lingering still. They can recall the name of the place, the feeling of its earth. They know the source of the stream to their side, the sound of the water trickling around them. Their shell remembers the feeling of the cold morning air.

They breathe in, then out again. A heart beats softly in their chest.

Yet, for all they do know, they cannot say when (or where) this is. Though in waking they had searched the Ducts in fervent pursuit, they could not find the earth that they now sat upon, nor the name of the person the memory belonged to. It was gone, lost to a time understood only by their silkfly, far divorced from their present self.

Another breath. The air stung- not by smog or smoke- but by the chill it brought with it.

Antennae flicked up. Something was… different. A new smell along the air, a different sound in the cavern. Slowly, they opened their eyes, and looked back.

There, in the great darkness beyond them, sat a lonely machine. They clutched their hood, body curled tightly over a board pinned in bronze and steel.

“Always another…” they muttered.

Sentinel stared. An Architect. The machine rumbled, curling tighter against the board.

“Always eternal…” it continued.

An Architect… in its memory. That wasn’t right.

The machine picked at its cloak, pulling at its hood with thin-jointed hands. Their fingers were dull, rubbed smooth by years of use, put to work placing the bodies together of golden automatons. Shell met shell as they cracked, worn. Not a machine, but a bug. A living bug.

“Always another… always eternal…” the Not-Architect continued.

Sentinel felt their heart beat. With careful movements, they unfolded their legs and began to rise. The Not-Architect stopped. Fingers clutched tight to their hood as they began to turn.

In a matter of seconds, the Not-Architect met their gaze as the Ducts were filled with light.