Pit Beneath the Citadel

A circular chamber carved from black stone, its walls slick with condensation that reflects the flickering torchlight. Delegates stand in uneasy clusters around a central dais, their breath forming visible clouds in the damp chill. The air carries the sharp scent of burnt circuitry from Arcturus' exposed casing, the acrid tang cutting through the room's stifling traditional weight. Torches along the upper rim cast long shadows that crawl across ironwood paneling marked by ancient Peladon runes. The explosion's concussive force slams into the delegates' backs, knocking several to their knees as the chamber reverberates with the metallic crunch of failing technology. Above, the Citadel's throne room looms, its authority now brittle in the face of this new violence below.