From altitude, the forge plains stretch beyond the horizon — a continent of iron bones.
Once, every vault, every spire, every vein of pipe and channel sang with the rhythm of labour. Now they stand inert, their surfaces dulled by centuries of wind-scour and oxide bloom. The great piston towers that once drove the planet’s pulse are locked in place, their gears fused with time.
The Basilica of Iron domes lie open to the sky, their roofing plates torn away or left to sag under their own rust. Cathedrals of industry echo with nothing but the thin hiss of wind. Beneath them, conveyor lines stretch for kilometres, bearing no cargo but dust. The sensorium array registers no life, no heat beyond the ambient. Even the forge’s own Cog-Phantoms have fled or fallen dormant.
It is a vastness without purpose — an architecture of ghosts.
And as the survey skims the horizon, the truth is inescapable: the Forges glory has not been shattered in a single blow but eroded into memory. What remains is hollow steel, and the silence between its echoes.
[End of record]