The walk home was quiet. The weight of the extra work, and the Soladorns' visit, pressed down on them.
"She's right, you know," Valentine finally said. "Speculation is a luxury. It doesn't purify water or charge a generator."
"Understanding might," Sage countered softly. "What if the fractures aren't from age? What if they're from something the Syndicate is doing with the Vitae? Something they don't want us to understand?"
"And what if the sky rains lemonade tomorrow?" Valentine stopped, turning to him. Her discipline was fraying into frustration. "Sage, your curiosity is going to get our rations cut. Or worse. We have a routine. It keeps us alive. Stick to it."
She marched ahead, leaving him in the dim, Vitae-powered streetlight.
Sage reached into his pocket, feeling the folded paper with the dust-rubbing. He looked up at the Spire, a needle of obsidian glass piercing the sky, glowing with an inner, liquid light. The source of all rules. The center of the puzzle.
He thought of Roxana's sarcasm, Charlotte's domination, Rex's forced optimism, Regina's stark facts. They were all pieces, too.
A man emerged from an alley, nearly colliding with him. He was tall, with an air of quiet authority that made even the dusty air around him seem still.
"My apologies," the man said. His eyes, a startling shade of Vitae-blue, met Sage's. They held no apology, only a sharp, assessing look.
"It's fine," Sage mumbled, stepping aside.
The man's gaze flickered to Sage's pocket, where the corner of the rubbing peeked out. A faint, unreadable smile touched his lips.
"The first crack is always the most important one, son," he said, his voice low. "It shows where the pressure is. And where to apply leverage."
Before Sage could respond, the man gave a decisive nod and melted back into the shadows, heading purposefully toward the abandoned industrial sector.
Sage stood frozen, his heart pounding. He didn't know the man's name, but he recognized the type from old, forbidden stories.
A decider. A mover.
Someone like Lysander Chrismont.