The Broken Forge

The Soul Forge, pinnacle of our society. The Great Undertaking had taken generations, so long in fact that the creator had been Returned and bound to continue his work. His monotone, emotionless voice had brought me comfort on many a turbulent day. My heart swelled with pride whenever I walked these cold and perfect halls, surrounded by a constant hum of energy. Freshly integrated Forged Ones were scattered in the crowds moving through the facility, their speech still broken and incomplete from the experience of being both Returned and Washed.

I couldn't help but hear my fellow arcanocrafters talking about the open hostilities between the Connected and the Intruder's forces. Shocking that any of their Assisted Machine templates could be destroyed by servants of divinity, but the Connected were delusional savages, rich ones though. Sometimes my stomach churned when the thought of rogue Shapers or an attack from the Connected crossed my mind but those feelings melted away whenever I came back to the tower.

Working at the apex filled me with a giddy excitement every time I was assigned there, the kind that fills one with childlike wonder. Here was were true psykanic mastery was displayed in full. Perfection given physical form. Life controlling death.
The wheeling lights of innumerable wards had once held me in rapt attention, but now I had eyes only for the Bore. A perfectly reflective sphere held aloft in the Apex. Thirteen psions and seven wizards worked to keep it balanced in space and metaphysics, though truth be told the sphere was a symptom of the Bore, not the cause. In it's centre lay an impossibly thin disc which acted as the gateway itself, the sphere some kind of phenomenon caused by the Bore's interaction with the Separation. The Choir of the Forge where close to living gods as far as I was concerned.

"Have you ever heard one of the broken Forged Ones speak? Of the fog sea beyond?" My ears perked up at that, a pair of novices quietly speaking in an alcove was hardly new, but typically their discussions were little more than inane gossip about fall of the Connected capital or the latest biomorphs from the Shapers holds.

"They said they met someone there. A woman with the head and wings of a shadewing." Even from where I worked I could hear the other novice snort derisively.

"Sounds like one of the fairy stories the northerners tell to me. Why would you even bother remembering that?"

The first novice lowered their voice, almost conspiratorially, "They said she read his timeline, that she made comments about his life, but in it's broken voice it said she called the Bore 'a gift misused'."

A gift misused? I couldn't help but turn to face them, fully prepared to tell them to silence their heresy, but the alcove was empty.

I couldn't help but feel like the Bore was more hypnotic than usual today, like the dark silver shifting constantly was about to reveal some great secret of existence to me. The psykanic council had the Apex working at full capacity, the demand for Returned and Washed was at an all-time high, between our own need for defense and the Connected working to jury-rig their Assisted Machines to function without the Hegemon's central control. Tearing my eyes from our people's destiny, I couldn't help but notice that all the Forged Ones were also staring at the Bore. Not just them but a few of my coworkers.

It seemed almost like the Choir of the Forge had become strained but such a thing was impossible, surely. The psykanic council were perfection personified, this magnum opus their legacy. My faith in them was shared by all my countrymen.

It was then that the first psion failed, their soul visibly ripping from their body and into the Bore as it distended and discoloured. It was a moment after that I saw myself, staring at the orb as my soul was ripped away. The moment after that I was back in my room with my heart set to beat out of my chest.

This one couldn't help but shed a tear as it thought about it's life in the tower we loved. It cast the eyes of itself and it's thralls at the tower that loomed on the horizon. This one stretched it's tired body in an attempt to free it's mind from the intermingling thoughts of the thralls connected by thick, red cords as they snuffled about in the dirt and dust for biomatter.

A shudder ran through each of this one as they stepped over the threshold of the tower's detonation, slowing slightly from the change in soul magic saturation. The tower loomed, frozen at the moment of it's detonation. Frozen at the moment of the Forger's destruction.