It wasn't until the sun had started sinking that second bell sounded.
The dull clang rolled in from the direction of the ridge, thin through the mud walls but unmistakable. End of shift. That meant Lyra would be coming home soon—shoulders aching, hands raw, pretending she wasn't as tired as she was.
There wasn't much to do in this small hut but wait and keep his mother company. He didn't mind that part. It was the helplessness that gnawed at him—the sense that his hands should be doing more than just sitting idle while her breath scraped in and out on its stubborn, shallow rhythm.
Earlier, when his headache had finally dulled to a manageable throb, he'd sunk inward again, back into that space where his core floated.
It still unnerved him how easily that space came now.
Iron core, and around it the woven light of his spirit veins—his Vein Tapestry.
Again, his brain had turned it into something familiar, lines snapping into neat rows and columns until it looked like a slab of woven light he could read.
Radiance: 36%
The number beside Radiance had dropped.
It had been higher this morning, before he'd stared into his mother's tangled tapestry.
Every use costs something, he'd realized. Seismic Sight didn't twist his muscles or tear his skin, but it burned through Radiance all the same.
He'd backed away before the headache became a spike again. There was no sense in blinding himself for the sake of staring at the same problem over and over. For now, it was enough to know: his mother wasn't empty. She was stuck.
The sun had slanted halfway down the sky when the latch finally rattled.
Zaric looked up from the dirt sketches he'd been doodling near the door—crude circles and crossing lines, half memory of his tapestry, half mental map of his mother's. He scrambled to his feet as the door creaked open.
Lyra stepped through first, ducking her head out of habit. Dust streaked her cheeks. Her clay-brown hair clung to her forehead in damp strands. The basket over her shoulder sagged with weight.
She wasn't alone.
A man followed her in, broad-shouldered and solid, carrying a small woven sack in one hand. He had the look of someone the earth liked—a certain groundedness in the way he stood, feet planted wide, like each heel belonged exactly where it was. His clothes were patched, but clean. Old scars crossed his forearms like pale, twisting roots.
"Zac," Lyra said, breathing a little harder than she tried to let on. "You're up."
He tried to ignore the way her eyes scanned him quickly, searching for signs of collapse the way someone might check a cracked beam for shifting.
"I'm fine," he said. "Didn't even fall over once."
Her shoulders loosened slightly at the weak joke. Then she remembered the man behind her and stepped aside.
"Come in," she said to him. "Thanks again, Uncle Rane."
"Bah." The man snorted, waving her gratitude away even as he ducked through the doorway. "You call me 'uncle,' I'm already paid back double."
He set the woven sack on the table with a soft thump that made the clay cups rattle.
Lyra shot Zaric a quick look, then turned back to the man. "Zac, you remember Rane, right? From three doors down. His wife does the washing on rest days. His girl, Pelly—you used to chase chickens with her."
Zaric's mind rifled frantically through Zac's leftover memories.
He found a blur of impressions: a smaller Lyra scolding him for tearing a shirt, a girl with two missing front teeth laughing as she ran after a squawking bird, a man's voice muttering about "stone-headed kids" but with no real heat to it.
Pieces. Enough to fake familiarity.
"Of course," Zaric said, trying a tentative smile. "Hi, Uncle Rane."
The man's brows, thick as caterpillars, drew together as he studied Zaric's face. For a moment, Zaric wondered if he'd overplayed it.
Then Rane's expression softened.
"You seem to be doing fine, for someone who almost died."
"Head's still… fuzzy," Zaric admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Can't remember everything that happened before the collapse."
That, at least, wasn't entirely a lie.
Lyra flinched almost imperceptibly at the word collapse. Her fingers twitched toward him, then curled into her palm.
Rane clicked his tongue. "Can't blame you, boy. Tunnel comes down on your skull, it shakes things loose. Hells, it might even be a kindness if you don't recall all of it." He jerked his chin toward the back of the hut. "How's your Ma?"
Lyra's mouth tightened. "The same," she said. "Sleeping."
Rane's gaze softened. "Mm."
He reached down, opened the woven sack, and pulled out a small clay pot, carefully sealed with wax and wrapped in cloth.
"Here," he said, setting it on the table. "Meera had extra stew on. Plenty of root and marrow. It'll sit in your bellies better than that thin water you call porridge."
Lyra made a protesting sound. "Uncle Rane, you shouldn't—"
"I shouldn't be walking around breathing either, if your Ma hadn't meddled with my Pelly's veins when she was burning up." He snorted. "But here I am, fat and loud, so I'm going to keep bringing you extra stew, and you're going to keep taking it. Or I'll tell Meera you refused and let her come scream at you herself."
Lyra shut her mouth on whatever she was going to say. The mental image of a furious washerwoman descending on the hut seemed to sap her will to argue.
"Thank you," she said instead, quietly. "Tell Aunt Meera thank you too."
Rane grunted, satisfied.
Zaric blinked.
"She… helped Pelly?" he asked.
The memory surfaced more clearly now: a much younger girl, cheeks flushed with fever, eyes glassy; Lyra sobbing quietly in a corner while a woman knelt over the child; a drip of blue light flowing from the woman's hands into the small body, settling over her like cool water.
His mother's face, set in tired concentration.
Rane nodded, his expression going far away for a moment. "Aye. Healer from the lower village wanted silver just to look at her. Your Ma came instead." He lifted his big hand, fingers spreading as if shaping something invisible. "She wove some water-threads into my girl's twisted veins. Said it might not hold long. Might only buy us a season." His mouth twitched. "Pelly's fourteen now and yelling at me every morning, so I'd say her little fix took."
Water-threads. Wove.
Zaric's thoughts jumped to the sight he'd seen earlier: his mother's golden core wrapped in a tapestry of bright blue veins, a wrong knot of pattern welded onto the side.
If he'd had any doubt she'd done that to herself, this blew it apart. She knew how to meddle with weaves. She'd done it for others. Probably did it one too many times for herself.
Rane's gaze drifted back to Zaric, brow furrowing again.
"He really doesn't remember much?"
He scratched at his beard, studying Zaric openly now. "Still. You're standing, you're talking, and you look much better. It's like you've awakened already."
Lyra's shoulders tensed. "We haven't awakened his core yet," she said quickly. "We don't have—"
"I know." Rane raised a hand, palm out, stopping her apology before it could fully form. "If I had beast cores to spare or Radiance to push into every kid on the lane, none of you would be carrying ore in your bare hands anymore. As it is, I barely keep my own veins lit."
His fingers twitched absently at his chest.
Zaric felt his pulse jump.
Radiance. Awakening. The things he needed to understand but couldn't admit he already had.
He swallowed. "Uncle Rane… can you…" He groped for words that weren't too eager. "Can you show me? Just… a little? What it looks like. When someone uses their core."
Lyra's head snapped around. "Zac—"
"What?" he said quickly. "If I ever do get awakened, I should know what I'm trying to do, right? If I can't remember the stories…"
Rane's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He looked between the siblings, taking in Lyra's worry and Zaric's attempt at casual curiosity.
"Hm." He rolled his shoulders. "No harm in a demonstration. A small one."
He jerked his head toward the door. "Come on. Don't want to crack your Ma's floor."
Lyra hesitated. Looked toward the curtain where their mother lay. Then back to Zaric.
"You shouldn't be outside long," she said. "If you start feeling lightheaded—"
"I'll sit," he promised. "Or lie down. Or scream dramatically. You can scold me later."
That earned him a reluctant huff that was almost a laugh.
The three of them stepped into the late afternoon light.
The air outside carried a mix of smells: dust, smoke, sour sweat, something frying somewhere down the lane that made Zaric's stomach cramp in longing. The sky was a pale, washed-out blue, streaked with thin clouds. Further down, the mine ridge loomed dark against the horizon, a jagged scar on the land.
Rane led them a little way behind the hut, to a patch of bare ground between a leaning fence and a pile of discarded stone.
"Good enough," he said. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, flexing his fingers.
Zaric watched closely.
He'd seen Radiance move inside people with Seismic Sight, but this was different. He wanted to understand what it looked like from the outside—how it started, how it changed them.
Rane took a slow breath. The lines in his weathered face eased into focus, not tight, but intent.
"Listen," he said, not looking at them. "Most of the books and big-city tutors will tell you awakening is all ceremony. Beast cores on pedestals, elders chanting, carved arrays on the floor." His mouth twitched. "Maybe that's how the rich do it. Out here, we're simpler. At twelve, if your family can scrape together a core or find someone stupid enough to risk sharing their Radiance, you sit, you breathe, and you try not to scream when the power wakes up your veins."
Zaric's skin prickled. Lyra fixed her gaze on the ground, jaw tight.
"Once your Spirit Vein lights," Rane went on, "it's all the same. You've got a core in your chest—iron, if you're like the rest of us—and a set of spirit veins stitched through you. Radiance flows from core along the veins to your limbs. Every time you use a skill—" he lifted one hand, palm down "—you're just nudging that flow into a pattern."
He stomped his heel lightly.
The packed dirt at his feet darkened, as if it had suddenly gotten wet.
Zaric's heart jumped.
Thin, faintly yellow lines of light flickered along Rane's forearms, up into his neck—visible even without Seismic Sight now that he knew to look. It was subtle, like watching fire glow under a layer of ash, but it was there.
Rane curled his fingers.
The ground answered.
A low shudder ran through the earth. At Rane's feet, the dirt bulged up in a shallow ridge, rising to knee-height in a heartbeat. It wasn't a towering wall, not some heroic-scale barrier—more like a thick, sturdy curb. But it was undeniably earth, moved and reshaped.
Lyra's breath caught.
Zaric stared.
It was one thing to feel the ground go soft under his own fingers. Another to watch someone else make it stand up.
Rane let out his breath and relaxed his hand. The glow in his veins dimmed. The bulge of earth settled—but didn't completely fall. Instead, it slumped into a low, hardened hump, as if it had been stomped flat and left to dry.
"Basic raise," he said, a little breathless but not bad for a man his age. "Every earthweaver from here to the city learns some version of it. Good for bracing carts, blocking loose rock, or tripping idiots who can't keep their mouths shut."
"Earthweaver?" Zaric repeated softly.
Rane shrugged. "Old name. Some folks still use 'earth-vein' or just 'mudweaver,' if they feel like being rude." His mouth twisted. "The city types love their fire and wind. Water weavers they'll tolerate if they need healing. Earth?" He snorted. "Earth is for holding up their houses and their lands. They like us solid and quiet and out of the way."
Something in Zaric's chest tightened. He thought of the man whose tiny raise-wall had just created a sturdier barrier than any timber brace. Of the way the ground itself had responded.
"Seems important," he said.
Rane barked a laugh. "Don't tell them that. They start getting nervous if they remember who really keeps the ground under their feet." The laughter faded to a small, wry smile. "Anyway. That's what awakening buys you. A core. Veins. Tricks like this. More if you're clever and live long enough."
Zaric's fingers itched.
He wanted—desperately—to know how the pattern inside Rane lined up to make that wall. How the Radiance shifted, where the weave tightened, where it loosened.
His heart hammered.
For a moment, he flirted with opening Seismic Sight fully, just to trace the pattern. Instead, he forced himself to watch with ordinary eyes, memorizing the rhythm: the breath, the stomp, the curl of fingers, the way the earth swelled then settled.
Lyra exhaled slowly. "I'll never get tired of seeing that," she said, half under her breath.
Rane snorted. "You will once you've done it a hundred times in a morning and your legs feel like someone took a pick to them."
"Still," Zaric said quietly. "It's… something worth getting tired for."
Rane clapped him on the shoulder, jarring him a step.
"You'll get there," the man said. "For now, eat that stew, listen to your sister, and don't scare her by wandering near the mines. There's rumors of a spirit beast in the area."
Lyra rolled her eyes. "He's not going near the mines."
Zaric wisely kept his mouth shut.
Rane tipped two fingers in a casual salute. "I'll come by in a few days. Meera wants to try a new spice mix on the stew. She'll use you as an excuse."
He trudged away down the lane, shoulders looming solid against the light.
Lyra watched him go with a complicated look—gratitude, guilt, stubborn pride all tangled together.
"She told him he was more than a walking brace," she murmured. "Everyone else just saw a big boy with earth veins. She saw a man who could hold a whole street together."
Zaric stored that away too.
He hadn't needed anyone to tell him earth mattered. He'd buried enough men to know what happened when you took it for granted.
They went back inside.
The smell of stew filled the hut when Lyra warmed it, rich and savory, the scent of real meat and root vegetables making Zaric's stomach growl loud enough to make her snort.
They ate in relative silence, both more focused on not spilling than talking. The stew was thick enough to chew, heavy on his tongue in a way the porridge hadn't been. Warmth spread outward from his belly, sinking into his limbs.
After, Lyra rinsed the cups with care and set them aside.
Her shoulders drooped.
"How was the mine?" he asked quietly.
She shrugged one shoulder, like it weighed more than the basket she'd carried. "Dark. Loud. Same as always." Her fingers twisted in the hem of her blouse. "They've sealed off the collapsed shaft. Said it'll take weeks to clear. Maybe longer."
He thought of the grave mound on the ridge. Of his own hands clawing through it.
"They say anything about… about what happened?" he asked.
Her jaw clenched. "They said it was bad luck." Bitterness crept into her voice. "Said we should be grateful no one died."
Zaric's chest tightened.
"No one," he repeated, hollow. "Right."
Lyra flinched. "I didn't mean—"
"No," he said quickly. "I know. It's just… a familiar song."
Different world, same excuses.
She pressed her lips together. Then forced herself to breathe.
"You should rest," she said. "I'll sit with Mom."
He hesitated, then nodded. For now, food and sleep were the only problems he knew how to solve.
Outside, the last light leaked away from the lane, and night settled over the village of mud and stone.