Seraphine's note burned in Lysander's pocket like a smoldering ember, its chalk-scrawled warning a sharp staccato against the triumphant hum of the Crucible. KAEL MET SILAS YESTERDAY. The words looped in his mind, a relentless motif clashing with the fragile alliance they'd forged in the rescue's aftermath. Lira sat huddled by Mira's loom, her bandaged hands trembling as she wove a simple bandage into a banner—SCRAP AND SKY in ragged threads—her eyes distant but alive with gratitude. The Collective buzzed around them: Elara tapping her drum in soft, celebratory rhythms; Jax reciting improvised verses to the newcomers, his voice a gravelly baritone weaving propaganda into poetry; Remy tinkering with the Bone, reinforcing burst veins with fresh copper coils. Brynn stood sentinel by the door, pipes at the ready, her gaze flicking to Lysander with unspoken concern.
And Kael—Kael lingered near the frame, his alabaster fingers tracing a strut as if testing a piano key, his expression a mask of calculated calm. The equinox dawn crept through the Crucible's cracks, painting the space in bruised purples and golds, the air thick with the scent of rust, dye, and the faint, acrid tang of adrenaline-soaked sweat. Horns blared from the Conservatory tower, a martial fanfare announcing the "Spring Renewal"—Silas's purge disguised as festivity. Time constricted like a tightening string, the city's veins pulsing with impending storm.
Lysander approached Kael, the note's weight pulling at him. "We compose now," he said, voice low and edged, like a bow scraping rosined strings. "The Anthem. Something to shatter his subsonics, wake Veridia from its stupor. You say you can fuse our worlds—prove it. But know this: one false note, and the Collective will end you."
Kael's blue eyes met his, fracturing slightly under the scrutiny. "I understand the stakes, brother. Silas's amplifiers are tuned to compliance—low frequencies that numb the spirit, make rebellion feel like folly. We counter with highs and lows untamed: your raw chaos, my structure. A harmony that's dissonant, alive. Like our parents' final piece."
The mention stirred a flash in Lysander's mind: Elara's violin keening through Alistair's thunderous chords, a storm of sound that had shattered complacency—and sealed their doom. He nodded curtly, gesturing to the Bone. "Start with the core. Heartbeat as foundation, but build it higher. Infuse it with the city's scars."
The Collective gathered, instruments poised like weapons in a symphony of defiance. Brynn took her place with pipes, Jax with rod, Remy file in hand, Seraphine banging scrap metal for punctuation, Elara on drum. Mira cranked her loom slowly, adding a clacking rhythm like bones knitting. The newcomers—smiths, weavers, urchins—formed a outer circle, humming fragments of the Cantata, their voices a choral undercurrent.
Lysander struck the central bracket—THUMP-THUMP—a steady pulse, the Bone vibrating it outward through the veins. Kael joined seamlessly, tapping a high strut with precise flicks—TING-TING—layering grace notes that elevated the beat without taming it. Brynn blew a winding melody on her pipes, WHIRL-WHIRL, evoking wind through tenement cracks. Jax added grinding CLANGS, irregular as factory hammers; Remy's SKRITCHES sliced through like rat claws on stone; Elara's drum pounded a fierce, accelerating rhythm, like hearts racing toward freedom.
The sounds intertwined, the Bone amplifying them into something visceral—a living entity coiling in the air. Lysander felt it pull at his scars, the stitches itching as if the music sought to unravel him anew. "Higher," he directed, mallet sweeping. "Make it scream the truth: Silas's 'renewal' is rot disguised as bloom."
Kael adjusted, his taps quickening into a flurry—TING-TING-TANG—infusing a Conservatory flourish that twisted into discord, clashing beautifully against Brynn's raw whirl. The Anthem began to take shape: Scrap and Sky reborn, not as chant but as opus. Low rumbles for the slums' buried rage, high shrieks for the elite's fragile spires. Feedback looped from the veins—distant echoes of the Crescent responding, workers' hammers syncing, children's voices piercing.
Seraphine scratched on her slate: ANTHEM BITES BACK. She passed it around, eyes sharp on Kael.
As the piece built to a crescendo, Lysander leaned in close to his "brother." "You met Silas yesterday. Spies saw it. Explain, or this ends now."
Kael's rhythm faltered for a breath, a subtle slip like a cracked key. He recovered, but his voice dropped to a murmur beneath the din. "Not betrayal. Insurance. I fed him false leads—said the Bone was dismantled, the Collective scattered. Bought us time. But he's unraveling, Lys. Paranoid. He suspects me now, after the duel. If I didn't report, he'd send assassins, not guards."
Brynn overheard, her pipes dipping. "Convenient. Like the opium you planted."
Kael's face tightened, a chord straining. "I was his puppet then. Now... I'm cutting the strings. The Anthem proves it. Let me retune the Orpheum's crystals tonight—feed this through his amplifiers. Turn the gala into our stage."
Doubt thrummed in Lysander's chest, a counter-melody to the growing harmony. But the music swelling around them felt right—fused, powerful. He nodded. "We infiltrate at midnight. You lead. But Brynn watches your every move."
The rehearsal peaked—BOOM-WHIRL-CLANG-SKRITCH-THUMP—a city-shaking roar that shook dust from the rafters. The Bone trembled, veins glowing faintly as the Anthem seeped outward, whispers of rebellion carried to the streets. The newcomers cheered, fists raised, the Crucible alive with purpose.
But as they dispersed to prepare, a vibration hummed through the alley vein—not their doing. Urgent, erratic. Remy dashed to it, ear pressed to the coil. "Message from the docks. Ironclads massing. Silas is sealing the Crescent—barricades rising."
Panic rippled through the group. Elara clutched her drum. "What about the Anthem? We can't finish if we're trapped."
Lysander gripped his mallet, scars burning. "We break through. Use the veins to coordinate—spread the Anthem fragments now. Let the slums sing it back at the barricades."
Kael stepped forward. "I know a weak point in the annex vein—from the rescue. We can slip a team out, sabotage the barricades while the main force distracts."
Jax grunted approval, rod hefted. "If it's a trap, you'll be the first to fall."
Midnight cloaked Veridia in shadows, the equinox moon a sickle blade over the spires. The team—Lysander, Brynn, Kael, Jax, Remy—slipped through the service vein, the Anthem's core hummed softly to muffle their steps. The air grew colder, damper, the scent of sewage mingling with the distant roar of patrols. Kael led, lantern dimmed, his knowledge guiding them past wards with precise hums.
They emerged near the annex, barricades looming: iron spikes topped with acoustic emitters, humming Silas's compliance frequency—a dull drone that pressed on the mind like fog. Slum dwellers gathered beyond, chanting faintly, their voices wavering under the subsonics.
"Retune them," Lysander whispered, uncoiling a Bone wire.
Kael nodded, wrapping it around an emitter. Together, they struck—DING-BOOM—the Anthem fragment overriding the drone. The barricade vibrated, spikes groaning as the sound warped metal.
Guards charged, batons raised. Jax clashed with one—CLANG—while Brynn blasted her pipes—SCREE!—scattering others. Remy filed a lock, SKRITCH-SNAP, opening a path.
But as they pushed through, a figure emerged from the shadows: Lady Eleanor D'Arcy, cloaked but unmistakable, her jeweled hand raised in halt. "Thorne," she hissed, eyes gleaming. "Silas knows of your 'anthem.' He sent me to negotiate—or crush you."
Kael froze, his face paling. "Eleanor? What—"
She smiled coldly. "Your 'brother' has been playing both sides longer than you think. The meeting yesterday? He begged for mercy, offered your head."
Lysander whirled on Kael, mallet raised, the Anthem's harmony fracturing in his ears. Betrayal's hook sank deep, the storm breaking as guards closed in. The equinox gala awaited, but first, this dissonant truth threatened to silence them all.