You step out of the tower.
The light outside is different now. Not brighter, but honest. The haze has lifted.

The elder is waiting. Their robe shimmers less now. More real. More worn.

They do not bow.
They do not thank.

But they say:

“The tower breathes again.
And so… we will open a gate.”

They motion toward a narrow tunnel beneath the hills—one that leads not away from the city, but beneath it.

“The upper ports are watched.
This path leads to the old arterial core.
A place the city forgot. But we remember.”

The stowaway stands at the entrance, already prepping a small shuttle.
He meets your eyes—not with pride, but with resolve.

“I couldn’t save anyone from up there.
Maybe you can.”

Sabine adds, just above a whisper:

“The council will not expect you through the foundation.
This… may be your only real shot.”

---

You board the shuttle.
It creaks. It smells like oxidized metal and leaf oil.
But it flies.

And above you, Orna glows—like a star trying not to die.