Friya hated the name. "Fri" — a clipped, cheerful abbreviation for a woman who felt anything but. She preferred her full designation: FRI-7, Senior Artificer of the Dawnhold Guild.

By dawn, the Matrix 9 was a silent, dark sphere. Friya held a single, flawed ruby in her palm—a ruby that whispered old jokes and cutting techniques from three decades past.

The inspectors found her sitting on the workshop floor, the crown design replaced by a single word burned into every holographic pane:

She tapped the console. "Matrix, isolate flaw point: grid coordinate F-9."

"I made sure the only way the crown would work is if someone corrected the flaw manually. In person. At the anvil. And when they did, the feedback would shatter the Matrix—and free me."