The ropes hauled them from the abyss with a groaning strain, the Crucible's fungi-light piercing the darkness like a hesitant dawn chorus, illuminating their sodden forms as they emerged one by one. Lysander's boots hit the mended floor first, water sluicing from his coat in rivulets that pooled around him like spilled ink on a score. His mallet hung limp in his hand, the brass dulled by the Depths' frost, his scars a dull ache now that the flame's voracious pull had snapped like a broken string. The air above felt thinner, ordinary—scented with rust and dye, devoid of the mineral tang that had cloaked the cavern below. The Bone stood silent, its crystal struts dimmed to lifeless quartz, vein-coils limp and cold, the hybrid instrument reduced to scrap once more.
Brynn collapsed beside him, pipes clattering against the floor, her breath ragged as she pushed damp hair from her eyes. The shared flame—once a blue spark bridging them all—had extinguished, leaving only echoes in their gazes: a faint warmth, like the afterimage of a struck chord. "We... severed it," she murmured, voice a hoarse cello rasp, her hand finding his in the gloom. "The monolith cracked. The whisper's gone."
Jax hauled himself up next, rod slung over his shoulder, his graffiti-poet's frame heaving with exertion. "Gone? Felt like we smashed the beast's heart. But Veridia stands—no floods, no winds. Power lost, but souls kept."
Remy limped into view, file tucked in his belt, inspecting the Bone's inert form with a maker's critical eye. "Severed clean. No backlash surge. Alistair's rupture sequence worked— the pact's broken."
Kael emerged last, blueprints clutched like a lifeline, his alabaster face ashen but resolute. The infusion—his father's legacy—had faded with the flame, leaving him unburdened yet hollow, like a key without its concerto. "The visions... stopped. No more hunger. We're unbound again."
Seraphine rushed forward, her scrap metal discarded, slate thrust out: PACT GONE? CITY SAFE?
Elara leaped from her crate, drum abandoned, throwing her arms around Lysander's legs. "You came back! The music went quiet—inside and out."
The volunteers clustered nearby, hammers and shuttles lowered, their integrated sparks now mere memories—zeal dimmed to confusion. The smith rubbed his temple, hammer heavy in his grip. "The glow's faded. Visions of forges... gone. What did you do down there?"
Lysander straightened, the weight of the descent pressing on him like a unresolved cadence. The cavern's collapse replayed in his mind: the monolith shattering under their symphony, tendrils retracting in agonized silence, the abyss sealing with a final, echoing CRACK. They'd chosen rupture over tribute, freedom over power's cost. But as the adrenaline ebbed, a hollow resonated in his chest—the flame's absence a void where creation had burned. Music, once alive with elemental fury, now felt grounded, human: raw but limited, unbound yet fragile.
"We ended it," he said, voice low, the words tasting of ash. "The Depths' alliance demanded too much. One soul for balance—we refused. Severed the bridge. Veridia's safe, but... ordinary again."
Murmurs rippled through the group, a dissonant chorus of relief and regret. A weaver twisted her shuttle, threads hanging limp. "Ordinary? The Anthem woke us. Now... back to the gutters?"
Jax clapped the smith on the back, rod leaning like a staff. "Gutters we know. Better our own chains than the Depths' feast."
But Silas's voice cut through, a dry rasp from his chained corner, his silver hair matted, obsidian eyes gleaming with vindictive glee. "Safe? Oh, nephews, you've merely postponed the dirge. The flame lingered—echoes in your sparks. Sever the heart, and the body convulses. Listen."
The Crucible fell silent, the group's breaths a soft ostinato. At first, nothing—then a faint rumble, not from below, but above: distant chants filtering through the walls, volunteers in the streets, their voices a ragged melody. "Flame for freedom! Sparks unite!" Hammers clanged in rhythm, shuttles whirred, flutes whistled gusts that rattled the door.
Seraphine erased her slate, chalk flying: THEY CALL IT BACK.
The smith's eyes widened, his hammer glowing faintly—no, a trick of the light? He gripped it tighter, a blue spark flickering in his palm. "The visions... returning. The power—it's still there. Weak, but calling."
Urchins piped tentative notes, small winds stirring dust, their faces alight with craving. "We felt it! The flame wants more!"
Lysander's heart stuttered, the void in his chest stirring—a residual echo, the severance incomplete. The visions crept back: not the monolith's hunger, but the volunteers' own, the pact's fragments lingering in their essences like unresolved dissonances. The rupture had broken the bridge, but sparks scattered, igniting zeal into frenzy.
Brynn snatched her pipes, blowing a sharp WHISTLE to cut the growing hum. "It's echoes—dangerous ones. The flame's addiction, unbound now. We severed to stop the feast, not spread it."
But the door burst open, more volunteers flooding in—factory workers, beggars, artists from the Crescent's underbelly—their eyes wild with the lingering spark's call. "The music lives! Rekindle the flame! For Veridia!"
The smith raised his hammer, blue fire flaring truly now—a remnant unbound, feeding on collective craving. "The unbound composer led us here. Now lead us back—descend again, offer the tribute!"
Chants swelled, a chaotic symphony clashing against the Crucible's walls: hammers CLANGING, shuttles TWIRLing gusts, flutes WHISTLEing tempests that scattered looms and scraps. Seraphine banged her scrap—CLANK—in warning, but the noise drowned her, the zeal turning to mania.
Jax barred the way with his rod, but the press shoved him back. "They're mad with it! The severance sparked a riot!"
Kael's flame—dimmed but not gone—flared in his eyes, the infusion reacting to the echoes. "The rupture scattered the power. Without the monolith's heart, it's wild—addiction without source."
Lysander backed toward the Bone, mallet raised, the hollow in his chest filling with dread. The visions sharpened: volunteers as a new hunger, their sparks igniting class warfare anew—not against Silas, but for the flame's return. The unbound legacy twisted, redemption slipping into ruin.
Elara's drum thumped frantically from her crate—THUMP-THUMP—a child's plea for order, but the chants overpowered it, the crowd surging forward.
Silas's laugh rose above the din, chains rattling. "See? The Depths claim their due, one way or another. Your 'severance' unbound the beast in them."
Brynn positioned beside Lysander, pipes ready. "We play—counter the echoes. Restrain them before they tear us apart."
Lysander struck the Bone—BOOM—a desperate low to ground the mania, but the echoes amplified it, the crowd's hammers syncing into a thunderous rhythm. The Crucible shook, not from below, but from within—the flame's remnants turning ally to adversary.
As the first volunteer lunged, hammer raised in zealous fury, Lysander realized the hook's final twist: severance had freed them from the Depths, but ignited a hunger in the hearts above. The unbound composer, torn between mastery and feral creativity, now faced his creation's rebellion—a symphony of sparks, poised to consume its conductor.
The chants crescendoed, the Crucible on the brink of fracture, Veridia's legacy hanging by a broken string.