Chapter 5 - The Weight of Chains

The ascent from the quarry felt like climbing out of Tartarus itself, each step carrying them further from chambers where stone had learned to think. Sisyphus's legs, conditioned by eternity, moved with mechanical precision. But the others struggled—Alexios stumbling on loose stones, Nikias favoring his left knee, Daedalus climbing with the desperate energy of a man fleeing his own creation.

No one spoke until they crested the ridge.

"That thing," Alexios said, his voice cracking. "It was building. Actually building."

"Yes," Daedalus said simply.

They descended toward the palace through olive groves where workers pruned branches with unhurried care. The normalcy felt obscene. How could men tend trees while below them intelligence was teaching itself architecture through careful study of its prison?

"Master Daedalus," Nikias said as they walked, his tone carrying battlefield weariness. "I've served three kings. Seen plenty of dark projects. But I've never seen stone afraid of what lives inside it."