Sunrise drew a long crimson blade across the plateau below, dyeing steam vents the color of hot coals. Kael woke to the sound of anchor ribs groaning beneath the earth—metal complaining in slow, tectonic syllables. He sat up, pulse already matching the distant heartbeat of Anchor Six. One more anchor before the exit sprint, one more chance for the Gate to decide who walked out.
Thorn knelt at the cliff's lip rolling a whetstone over a dagger. He grunted a greeting but kept eyes on the plateau, watchful as ever. No honorifics—just habit-steady silence. Good.
Varin shuffled from the mule's tether, hair wind-mussed. He tapped Kael's boot with a grin. "Morning. Tea?" He offered a canteen steaming faintly.
Kael took a sip—bright, citrus-bitter. "How's the plateau?"
"Loud," Thorn answered without turning. Dust plumes rose where molten fissures spat Essentia into the cold air.
Rei slid from her bedroll, blades already sheathed across her back. "Tracks on the far edge," she said. "Crawler prints—small ones."
"Scouts," Veyra noted, fox mask perched on her head like a crown tilted just so. "The larger packs trail after."
Kael nodded. "We move in thirty. Strip camp." While the others folded canvas, he unwrapped his old red training ribbon, smoothing the frayed silk. The Ashwin crest in corner thread felt steady beneath anxious fingers.
"Does that thing even hold Essence?" Elias asked, stuffing gear into his pack.
"It holds a promise," Varin answered for Kael. He perched on a crate, beckoning the group with two fingers. "All right, story time before we march. Mouths shut until the tea's gone."
Rei plopped beside him, curious. Elias hesitated—every spare minute usually meant recalibrating his cracked lens—but joined anyway. Thorn settled cross-legged, shield over knees like a table. Veyra sat last, fox mask hopping to the ground to curl up.
Varin raised the ribbon like a stage prop. "Four years ago, courtyard behind the Academy's north dorm. Kael here was supposed to lead House Ashwin's golden team—four polished noble heirs, sponsored by professors, remember?"
"The silver-spoon quartet," Rei muttered.
Kael smirked. "I remember."
"They sparred," Varin continued, "and the moment one took a bruise, everyone blamed the healer for bad padding. Kael watched, shook his head, and set the ribbon down in dust." Varin looped the silk around a finger. "Said, 'First five who bleed for this, I'll take through any Gate they open.'"
Elias blinked. "You never told me that part."
"You were busy nose-deep in a kinetic mechanics tome," Rei teased.
Varin pointed at each of them in turn. "Thorn bled first—punched out a bully who mocked Kael's dialect. Rei second—dueling stipend on the line. I bled third, breaking a ledger quill damn near my hand picking Kael's side in an argument. Elias here earned a bloody nose when he tripped on his own scrolls." Laughter rippled. Elias flushed but smiled. "And Veyra?"
Veyra raised a brow. "Fox bit the wrong prefect."
"Exactly." Varin flicked the ribbon. "Five drops on silk formed the pact. Academy board called us 'unbalanced' and 'under-funded,' but Gate monitors saw synergy. So here we are—Spark-Bound misfits stabilizing chain anchors while the silver-spoons quiver behind lecture podiums."
Silence settled, warm despite the wind. Kael tied the ribbon around his forearm, red against dusk-brown coat. "Courtyard pact stands," he said. Thorn rapped shield rim on stone, a muted gong. Rei kissed thumb and forefinger, touching ribbon's edge. Elias simply nodded, eyes shining behind cracked lens. Veyra's fox mask bowed, tail brushing Kael's boot.
A steadier rhythm settled in Kael's pulse, as if remembering the pact stitched his nerves back into place.
They broke camp in silence, each person carrying the fresh weight of shared memory. The descent slope to the plateau began as gravel then hardened into rippled glass cooled from prior eruptions. Thorn led, shield raised. Kael walked second, Nullglaive angled low to test for unstable plates.
Steam vents hissed along the descent. Elias called out temperature spikes; Veyra's fox skirted edges, paw pads glowing faintly whenever they neared a fissure. Rei anchored the mule's lead rope, whispering steady nonsense to keep the beast calm.
Halfway down, Thorn halted. "Crawler spoor. Fresh." He pointed to crescent scratches like thin sickles in cooling glass.
"Small pack test line," Rei murmured. "Probably watching."
Kael scanned red fog drifting between vents. A glimmer—glass limbs skittering just beyond sulfur haze. "Spread," he ordered. "Shield lock. Elias, you with Thorn. Veyra illusions at the rear. Rei and I pin."
They formed a loose crescent around the mule. Kael rolled shoulders, feeling warmth coil along the glaive's seam. "No letting them break our circle."
The first Glass-Crawler burst from a vent, limbs clicking, mirror-eyes reflecting their stances. Thorn slid one step forward, shield absorbing the charge. Sparks flew as shard hooks scraped metal. A second crawler tried to flank. Rei's Stormbind rope shot like lightning from her palm, lashing the creature around mid-section. It convulsed, hitting the ground.
Two more dropped from an overhead ledge. Kael pivoted; his Ghostline Step carried him three meters in a silver blur, echo lingering. A crawler lunged at the after-image, harmlessly; Kael slashed the real blade sideways, severing limbs that shattered into diamond dust.
A fifth crawler raced for Elias. The scholar flinched, lens crack glimmering. Thorn intercepted, shield smashing into mirrored carapace. Emberguard runes pulsed; heat flashed across steel, melting hooks mid-swing. The crawler squealed—an ear-piercing glass squeak—and retreated.
Veyra's fox mask darted beneath a crawler, flickering solid for its three-second window. Illusory jaws clamped a leg, holding the beast just long enough for Kael to drive the glaive downward. Grounded Cut flared white; the crawler disintegrated into glitter.
The remaining creatures scuttled back toward vents, disoriented by heat ripples and shards of their own kind. Kael pressed forward—but Thorn lifted a palm. "Let them run."
"Agreed," Rei said, lightning crackling down her knuckles before fading. "We'll need juice for bigger things."
Breaths gradually settled. Kael wiped condensation from his brow—the steam vents left skin dripping. He checked each teammate: minimal cuts. The System gave no reward; Glass-Crawlers were plateau trash, not trials. But the skirmish proved their cohesion still clicked under stress.
They continued down until the ground leveled into cracked vitrified plates, some glowing red at the seams. Anchor Six's main column jutted half a kilometer ahead: a forest of interlocking ribs, each one venting pulse-timed jets of scarlet steam. The air tasted metallic. Far to the left, Daric Rhal's squad crouched behind a ridge outcrop, evidently pinned by a wide fissure spewing molten Essentia.
Kael lifted a hand for the cohort to halt. "We rest here. Recon first."
He surveyed the field. The anchor's nearest rib glowed brightest—breach point likely on that side. Fissures radiated outward, forming trenches of molten glass too wide to jump. Some hardened into thin crusts; others seethed. Above, chain links thrummed like plucked strings, each vibration sending ripples through red vapor.
Elias crouched, sketching fissure layout on parchment. "If we can vent pressure along two side trenches, flow might reroute around the breach long enough to fuse it."
Rei eyed the molten glass skeptically. "And how do we vent without melting?"
"Direct Essentia break." Kael hefted the Nullglaive. "Grounded Cut can handle a slice if I can reach the rib."
"And I anchor your flank," Thorn rumbled.
Veyra's fox sniffed the air, ears flattening. "Steam ghosts forming," she warned softly.
Mist coalesced into wisps shaped like faint humanoid outlines—heat phantoms that sapped Essentia on contact. One drifted too close to Veyra's figment, drawing energy. The fox popped, re-forming near her ankles. Not hostile yet, but the plateau bristled with layered threats.
Kael exhaled. "We'll plan tonight. At dawn we move."
They retreated into a shallow alcove of gray basalt overlooking the field—close enough to watch fissure patterns, far enough to avoid constant heat glare. Thorn and Rei took first watch; Elias unpacked instrument wires, feeding lens data into scrawled arrays. Veyra closed her eyes, mask dimming as she tested dream-threads for illusions that could survive radiant heat. Varin fed the mule and tallied remaining ballast bombs—two now, straps repaired.
Kael sat at the alcove's edge, Nullglaive across lap. He couldn't unsee the System line from earlier: Higher-Space Affinity 3 %. A seed in dark soil awaiting storm and lightning. Ghostline Step felt restless inside his bones, like a muscle quivering before a sprint.
When the night cooled enough to see breath, Thorn relieved Rei and silently handed Kael a water skin. Kael drank, then said, "The ribbon's fraying."
Thorn shrugged. "So are we."
"Think we can hold till the exit?"
"We'll hold," Thorn said with simple certainty.
Kael found comfort in that single word. He gazed across the plateau: Anchor Six's pulse sent a red halo into the stars. Tomorrow they would step among ribs and fissures, where space itself warped under pressure. If the Gate meant to rewrite his seed then, he would meet the transformation blade-in-hand.
He squeezed the ribbon and felt five old drops of blood woven into silk. Promises cost nothing the day they're made, Dorian once said. They cost everything when the world comes to collect.
Kael breathed deep, savored the cool air, and closed his eyes, ready to pay.