The air in the Shattered Zenith was not composed of oxygen and nitrogen, but of pressurized, ancient sorrow. Every breath Livius took felt like inhaling pulverized glass. He stood before the first of the four massive, black-iron chains—the Chain of Conquest. It was this link that bound the Dragon God's wings, a metaphysical anchor forged from the screams of the nations the First Emperor had trampled to build the Argentine throne.
Livius reached out, his fingers trembling. The moment his skin touched the cold, oily surface of the iron, the world of the palace above vanished. He wasn't standing in a vortex anymore; he was standing in a field of white ash. He saw the First Emperor, Aurelius, not as a shadow, but as a young man, standing over the cooling corpse of a Primal Dragon.
"It was for the people," Aurelius's voice echoed, distorted and hollow. "Without this fire, we would have been sheep to the wolves of the West. I stole the sun to keep my children warm."
"You didn't steal it for them," Livius countered, his voice a silver blade cutting through the memory. "You stole it because you couldn't stand the thought of a world that didn't bow to you."
Livius gripped the chain with both hands. He didn't pull with muscle; he pulled with Empathy. He allowed the "Conquest" to flow into him—the terror of the conquered, the grief of the widows, and the silent rage of the enslaved. His Golden fire roared, trying to incinerate the pain, but he forced it to subside. He allowed the Silver Dragon's "Reflective Void" to swallow the history.
The chain didn't snap; it dissolved. It turned into a thousand black butterflies that fluttered upward and vanished into the ceiling of the Zenith. Above, in the physical palace, the golden arteries on the walls turned to gray stone and crumbled. The "Heartbeat" of the building skipped a beat.