The Nineveil had gone their separate ways.
After the heist, after the chaos, after Mael's final order—
"One year. Same place. Don't die before then."
—each member vanished into the world like scattered ashes carried by different winds.
And until they met again, the world moved on without them.
So we move too.
Pull the camera up—past Velith's broken skyline, past the smoke-smudged horizon—and out over the vast green that stretched for miles. Rivers glimmered like silver threads. Mountains rose like sleeping giants. The world breathed in all directions.
Then—
Zoom in.
Far from cities and guild halls, down a thin trail carved between towering trees, four figures walked in uneven formation. Travelers, scavengers, maybe troublemakers depending on the angle. But that wasn't important.
What mattered was the girl adjusting her goggles and muttering at a scanner that beeped like it regretted being born.
Lyra Sen.
The same Lyra who had walked out of the Wild Grid with a suspended license, a bruised ego, and a very firm opinion that the Guild could go eat gravel.
Now, she was the technician for a semi-rogue ruin-hunting crew.
Life came at people fast.
---
The crew moved in a loose line:
Lyra — technician, gadget-hoarder, unofficial leader by volume
Des — 18, too confident, too charming, too amused by everything
Mara — older woman, calm, sharp eyes, had the dignity of a person who'd survived many bad decisions
Jorek — older man, voice like crushed stone, carried experience like a loaded pack
Lyra slapped the side of her scanner. It wheezed in distress.
"Work, you overpriced tin biscuit," she muttered.
Des leaned over her shoulder. "Maybe it just needs encouragement."
"It needs a refund," Lyra said.
"Or love."
"Des, I barely like people. Don't ask me to bond emotionally with hardware."
He grinned, brushing aside a branch. "Still can't believe we talked you into joining us."
"You didn't talk me into anything," Lyra corrected, stepping over a fallen log. "I joined because my other options involved bureaucracy, boredom, and coffee that tasted like regret."
Mara glanced back with a smile. "So Des bribed you with 'better coffee,' didn't he?"
Lyra groaned. "He said—and I quote—'We have premium campsite coffee.' Premium! You know what it was?"
"A miracle?" Des suggested.
"A burnt twig in hot water!"
Mara chuckled. Jorek snorted. Des gasped. "Hey, that twig died for a noble cause."
"No," Lyra said. "It died in vain."
They continued down the path, the humor making the forest feel less oppressive. Even the humidity seemed to tolerate them.
---
Lyra's scanner buzzed again—low, sharp, inconsistent.
Mara raised an eyebrow. "Flux readings?"
Lyra adjusted a dial. "Mirra activity, yes. But not stable. Something's shifting it."
"Like a beast?"
"Like a machine that forgot how to die," Lyra said.
Des visibly perked up. "We love machines that forgot things."
"No," Lyra said. "You love touching things that explode. This is different."
Mara nodded thoughtfully. "We keep eyes open. These forests hide more than claws."
---
Hours passed in slow exploration.
They found small relic litter:
a chipped Mirra lantern
a stone slab carved with unfamiliar symbols
metal fragments twisted into spirals
Enough to be interesting, not enough to be rich.
Des eventually tripped over a root and nearly face-planted.
Lyra caught him by the backpack. "Congratulations. You've discovered gravity."
"It discovered me," Des said, brushing dirt off himself. "Very aggressively."
Jorek grunted. "You fall too much."
"I fall with style."
"No," Lyra said. "You fall like baked bread."
"Bread is majestic."
"No, Des. No it is not."
---
Lyra's scanner beeped again—fast, sharp, urgent.
She stopped mid-step.
"Alright," she murmured. "This is different."
Mara's tone shifted. "How different?"
"Like… Festival-night fireworks different," Lyra said, adjusting the sensitivity. "Or last-wish prayers different. The readings aren't just old—they're alive."
The forest thinned up ahead; sunlight pooled strangely.
"Come on," Lyra said.
They stepped through the brush—
—and froze.
---
In the clearing stood an arch.
Half-swallowed by roots.
Half-buried under sediment.
But unmistakably shaped by intention.
Stone curved in impossible angles.
Carvings crawled along its surface like frozen veins.
Runes rearranged themselves at the edges of their vision, as if politely pretending not to move.
Lyra's breath hitched.
Her scanner screeched and died.
Des stepped back instinctively. "Okay. That's… wow. That's a job. A whole job."
Jorek stared, eyes wide. "Never seen one like this."
Mara spoke softly. "This isn't from any recorded ruin."
Lyra walked closer, goggles down, heart beating louder than reason. The air near the arch was cooler, heavier.
"This isn't in the registry," she whispered. "Meaning we're the first ones to see it."
Des swallowed. "So… what do we do?"
Lyra didn't answer at first.
She felt the faint thrum beneath her boots—the same pulse she'd felt once in the Wild Grid, a lifetime ago.
She touched the arch. The carvings rippled—just slightly, enough to say yes, I see you.
Lyra stepped back.
"We mark it," she said. "We don't touch it. And tomorrow, we bring people who won't scream when things open."
Behind her, the ruin watched. Quiet. Breathing. Waiting.
And the forest held its breath.
They had found it.
---
End of Chapter 51
---