The pylon bells chimed a brittle tune as first light washed Riser's Rest in bruised lavender. Kael blinked grit from his lashes and tasted last-night smoke in each breath—residual heat from the Ferragore they had slagged only hours ago. He flexed stiff fingers, found the Nullglaive's grip, and pressed his palm against the cool metal. The blade's silver seam lay quiet, almost drowsy after yesterday's Grounded Cut.
Their camp huddled behind Thorn's up-ended shield. Emberguard had bled its last stored warmth to keep frost from bedrolls, leaving a faint ember scent in the crisp air. Rei snored softly, dagger tucked under one cheek; Veyra sat cross-legged, feeding a sliver of Essentia into her fox mask, which stretched like a cat before curling around her neck. Elias lingered beside a guttering lamp polishing the new tri-faceted lens that sat in his gauntlet socket. Resin still smelled faintly sweet, but each facet reflected dawn's pale fire—ready to bend his own power whenever disaster called.
Veilcore 61 % — Status: steady.Good. Enough charge, Kael hoped, for one more anchor and a final sprint for the exit sled.
Bootsteps clattered on stone stairs from the market platform. A stocky man in ash-gray logistics leather appeared, balancing two steaming mugs atop a mahogany clipboard. Crooked nose, familiar Ashwin eyes.
"By every dead god, the little cousin really is alive," he said, grin wide. "Varin Ashwin—your new quartermaster. Your ledger's a crime scene, Kael." He offered a mug; citrus-bark steam curled upward.
Kael accepted, warming sore knuckles around the tin. "Thought Stormfall front conscripted you."
"Logistics never dies—just reroutes." Varin's gaze hopped to Veyra. "Still carting Viscount Lorne's thirdborn around, I see—her father swore you were a terrible influence."
An ear on the fox mask twitched; Veyra only shrugged. Thirdborn daughters of minor Houses collected barbs the way mirrors collected dust.
Rei pushed to a sit, ruffling sleep-mashed hair. "We keeping this one?" she muttered.
"He brings tea," Kael replied.
Thorn rumbled something approving. Elias nodded shyly; fresh lenses had drained his coin but boosted hope.
Varin unrolled a parchment across a crate, anchoring corners with ration tins. Ink lines traced a dotted trail through the Glass Orchard—a grove of mirror-trees that shattered at a whisper—then crossed a single rope bridge to a plateau marked Anchor 5. Crimson hash-marks bled from the rune stamp.
"Ess overflow—no breach yet," Varin said, tapping the plateau. "Malkyre want the bridge. Eastreach are icing a runway from the opposite spur. Silver-Leaf waits for you lot and your lightning ropes."
He flipped the parchment's edge, revealing a sketch of a bulbous craft tethered to anchor bolts. "Ashwin exit sled—balloon skin, anti-shear runes. Needs fifty Essentia to lift. We built it for our support team, but frankly you five burn hotter."
Kael studied the path. Quartz groves, rope span, vapour funnels—a gauntlet designed to punish tired judgement. "House chatter?"
"Taxes, grain shortages, and bets on whether you keep all your fingers." Varin flicked Kael's glove, then nodded toward Elias. "Scholar-born, right? Academy loves a genius they don't have to feed."
Elias blushed—farm dust and scholarship ink never quite scrubbed out. Varin's grin settled on Thorn. "Still body-guarding the heir like you did behind the grain loft? One punch, four teeth. The bully probably needed a diet anyway."
Thorn's shrug was granite.
They broke camp quickly. Rei filled skins from a half-frozen barrel, muttering about selling her soul for fresh coffee. Veyra borrowed one of Varin's pack mules. "Put it on Kael's tab," she said, which earned a theatrical groan that tasted more of fondness than real protest.
Wind tugged Kael's coat as they approached the orchard. He forced breath through tightened lungs. Five anchors down equals winning weight, but slip once and the ledger resets to zero. A childhood phrase from his father surfaced: Honor binds the name; strength binds the chain. The words fit the climb like links underfoot—cold, unforgiving, necessary.
Quartz trunks caught sunlight and threw it in shards. Every leaf was a dagger of glass. Veyra's fox mask padded ahead; when a paw touched a root the illusion chimed, safe, so they followed. Elias walked fourth, counting beats; the new lens glittered with every breath.
Mid-grove, magnet boots clacked—Daric Rhal and a cord-hauling Malkyre squad slicing a path. Crystal leaves rained, tinkling like malice.
"Step aside, Ashwin," Rhal called. "House Rhal reserves the direct lane."
"You'll bring the orchard down," Kael warned, checking the rope connecting his team.
"Acceptable tithe." Daric yanked again; a heavy bough spun toward Elias. Kael pivoted, Nullglaive flat up. The silver seam fizzed; the bough shattered into harmless dust.
Varin exhaled. "Nobles forget patience when they sell iron instead of grain."Rei's blades twitched. "Try eating at House Lorne banquets." The fox mask mimed a yawn; Veyra pressed on with calm that looked a lot like pride.
The rope bridge beyond the grove swayed over fog. Silver-Leaf archers secured planks. Liora Vale lifted a hand. "Anchor Five's howling—we'll need your grounding line."
Kael's cohort clipped in. Wind felt calmer here, but the chain beneath trembled—an unseen resonance traveling the Leviathan's length. Elias's lens pulsed violet.
"Chain-lash incoming," he warned. They braced. A shockwave buckled the cables; deck dropped half a metre. Elias spent a Small Push; Varin's mule brayed but the rope held. Hairline cracks spidered in the lens, yet cohesion held firm.
Liora arched a brow. "New toy?""Second-hand crystal," Elias panted, "worth every biscuit."
Anchor Five vented thick red vapor, painting everyone in rusty light. Thorn planted shield; Residual Blast flared, drawing heat like moths to flame. Rei wove Stormbind ropes; arcs leapt skyward. Kael dug the Nullglaive into stressed metal and opened conductive vents. Elias slammed ballast bombs with a final Push while Veyra's wolf mask braced a seam. Gold replaced crimson, the anchor humming quietly.
Veilcore +4 — Anchor 5 Stable
Kael dropped to one knee, ribs heaving. Varin clasped his shoulder. "Fingers still intact," he joked, but fatigue bracketed his eyes like parentheses.
Fog thickened, barometer runes climbing. Liora pointed. "Storm spike in six hours. Anchor Six or bust."
Kael eyed his battered cohort: Spark-Bound, blistered, alive. One anchor left, then a twenty-four-hour sprint, then open sky. His voice came low. "We finish. We ride the sled. Ledgers wait."
Rei's answering grin was feral. Thorn flexed ember gauntlets, heat rippling. Elias checked his cracked lens—still serviceable. Veyra's fox gave a lazy yip.
Chains overhead groaned like gods rolling in uneasy sleep. Kael lifted the Nullglaive; sunlight caught the silver seam. For a heartbeat it whispered through marrow: climb faster, claim more.
He obeyed, stepping toward the final ascent.