Silas's words echoed through the Orpheum's understage catacombs like a final, inexorable cadence, the guards closing in a tightening ring of iron and malice. The crystal nodes they'd retuned hummed faintly around them, a subversive undercurrent to the subsonic drone seeping from above—Silas's compliance frequency, dulling the edges of thought like fog over strings. Lysander's mallet felt heavy in his grip, slick with sweat and the vein's damp residue, his scars throbbing in sync with the Bone's distant pulse back in the Crucible. The equinox sun filtered through unseen grates, casting elongated shadows that danced like fractured notes across the ropes and pulleys, turning the space into a labyrinthine score of betrayal and defiance.
Kael stood rigid beside him, his retrieved baton trembling slightly, the alabaster mask of his face cracking under Silas's gaze. Brynn's pipes hovered at her lips, ready to unleash a blast; Jax hefted his rod with a low growl; Remy filed a quick edge on a loose wire, turning it into an impromptu shiv. The air was thick with the scent of oiled machinery, dust, and the faint, acrid tang of crystal resonance—a mechanical perfume clashing with the raw, salty wind Lysander craved from the Crescent's streets.
"Uncle," Lysander said, his voice a low thrum that cut through the hum, "your 'finale' is as hollow as your concertos. We've retuned your toys. The Anthem flows through them now. Play your purge—Veridia will answer with our storm."
Silas's obsidian eyes narrowed, a conductor assessing a flawed orchestra. His tails were immaculate, silver hair sleek as always, but a subtle twitch at his jaw betrayed the unraveling beneath. "Arrogant pup. You think these slum scribbles can unseat architecture built on centuries? Your parents tried chaos; it buried them. Now it buries you." He raised a hand, gloved in black leather, and the guards surged—batons whistling like descending scales.
Lysander struck first, mallet connecting with the nearest crystal node—BOOM—a deep resonance that amplified through the retuned system. The sound wasn't clean; it carried the Filth Flow's grit, vibrating the floorboards above and sending a shudder through the catacombs. A guard staggered, clutching his helmet as the subsonics warped, compliance turning to confusion. Brynn blew her pipes in a sharp WHIRL, the wind-through-cracks melody slicing the air, disorienting two more enforcers who collided in a clang of armor.
Jax charged with a roar, rod clashing against a baton—CLANG-CLASH—like factory hammers forging rebellion. "For the Crescent!" he bellowed, shoving one guard into a pulley mechanism that tangled his limbs in ropes. Remy darted low, file slashing at boot straps—SKRITCH-SNAP—toppling another with surgical precision.
Kael hesitated, baton raised, his eyes flicking between Silas and Lysander. "Father—Maestro—stop this. The city's waking. Your control cracks."
Silas's laugh was a dry, precise staccato. "Father? You were always a tool, Kael. Polished, yes, but disposable. Eleanor's message was clear: you begged for mercy, offered this rabble. Now witness true harmony." He snapped his fingers, and a hidden mechanism whirred—crystal chandeliers above beginning to lower slightly, their resonators glowing brighter, pumping out intensified subsonics. The drone pressed heavier, a fog on Lysander's mind whispering surrender, obedience, the allure of the gilded cage.
Lysander shook it off, the Bone's wire in his pocket vibrating resistance—a fragment of Heartbeat pulsing like his own defiant rhythm. "Kael—if you're with us, prove it now!" He dodged a baton swing, mallet countering with a THUD to the guard's knee, bone cracking like a snapped string.
Kael's face twisted, the fracture complete. He turned on Silas, baton whipping toward a nearby node—TING!—retuning it mid-motion to amplify Rat Song. The sound scurried through the crystals, high and erratic SKRITCHES echoing, as if rodents gnawed at the Orpheum's foundations. Guards winced, hands clapping to ears, the subsonics faltering under the assault.
Silas's composure slipped, his hand clenching. "Traitor! Like your blood kin." He lunged forward himself, a concealed dagger glinting from his sleeve—precise as a conductor's cue—aimed at Kael's chest.
Lysander intercepted, mallet blocking the blade with a resonant CLANG that vibrated up his arm, pain flaring in his scars. "Not today, Uncle." They grappled, Silas's strength surprising, fueled by years of suppressed fury. The dagger nicked Lysander's side, fresh blood seeping, but he twisted, shoving Silas back into a pulley. Ropes tangled the Maestro's legs, crystals shattering nearby in a cascade of shards like broken scales.
Above, the gala's prelude filtered down—polite applause, muffled announcements—as patrons filed in, unaware of the storm brewing beneath. But the retuned amplifiers began to leak the Anthem: faint Weeping Walls seeping into the auditorium, condensation forming on gilded walls, patrons shifting uncomfortably as the air thickened with unease.
Brynn blasted her pipes again—SCREE!—felling the last guard, who crumpled with a groan. Jax bound Silas with ropes, the Maestro spitting venom. "You can't contain this. The subsonics will drown your noise. Veridia kneels to order!"
Remy grinned, wiring a node directly to Silas's dagger hilt—TWANG—as a makeshift conductor. "Order? We're rewriting the score."
Kael knelt beside Lysander, pressing cloth to his wound. "He's right about one thing—I met him. But to steal these." From his cloak, he produced schematics—blueprints of the amplifiers, stolen from Silas's study. "Proof of the purge. And the axle sabotage on our parents' carriage. I couldn't say earlier; Eleanor's spies were everywhere."
Lysander winced, pushing upright. The doubt lingered, a dissonant undertone, but the blueprints felt real, ink smudged from hurried theft. "Then we end it above. The open-air performance—our Anthem versus his renewal."
They dragged Silas upward, emerging onto the stage wings as the gala commenced. Patrons in jewels and silks filled the seats, Lady Eleanor—freed somehow?—sitting center box, her expression a mix of triumph and fear. Kael's concerto was announced, but the amplifiers hummed with their sabotage, subtle cracks in the crystal sending Anthem fragments into the mix.
Silas broke free momentarily, staggering to the podium. "Ladies and gentlemen! Witness the traitors!" Guards rushed the stage, but the Collective burst from the slums' entrances—Seraphine leading with slate banners, Mira's weavers unfurling "Scrap and Sky," Elara banging her drum in Heartbeat rhythm. The audience gasped, the subsonics warring with rising chants.
Lysander seized the grand piano, hands slamming keys in the Anthem's opening—DOOM-THUMP—a thunder that resonated through the retuned chandeliers. Crystals vibrated, amplifying the Filth Flow city-wide, veins carrying it to the Crescent, where workers hammered in sync.
Brynn joined with pipes, Jax on makeshift percussion, Remy filing edges for SKRITCHES, Kael at a secondary keyboard, his precision fusing with the raw chaos. The music swelled, a living storm: Rat Song scurrying through boxes, Weeping Walls dripping from ceilings, Heartbeat pounding in every chest.
Silas grabbed a conductor's baton, attempting to reclaim control—waving it to restart the subsonics. But the amplifiers betrayed him, twisting his gestures into dissonant feedback—SCREE-BOOM—that shattered a chandelier, shards raining like glass rain.
Patrons rose, some fleeing, others entranced—the subsonics failing under the Anthem's assault. Lady Eleanor stood, shouting for order, but a weaver's banner tangled her, jewels scattering.
The climax built: Lysander's fingers flying, scars bleeding onto keys, the music visceral, alive, pulling Veridia's scars into sound. Silas lunged again, dagger raised, but Kael intercepted—baton cracking against wrist—SNAP. "For our parents!"
Silas fell, the baton clattering. The Anthem peaked, a city-shaking roar that cracked the Orpheum's foundations, walls weeping literal tears of mortar. Outside, the Crescent roared back, barricades falling as the veins broadcast revolution.
But as the last note hung, a new vibration hummed—deeper, darker—from Silas's hidden pocket. A failsafe crystal, glowing ominously. "If I fall," he rasped, crushing it, "Veridia burns with me."
The ground trembled, subsonics inverting to destructive resonance—cracks spiderwebbing the stage. The open-air performance had begun, but Silas's legacy threatened to bury them all in rubble. Lysander's hands hovered over the keys, the hook sinking: compose or crumble? The storm raged on.