The Holdfast breathed again.
Not evenly, not cleanly — but it breathed.
After the collapse, the lower sectors had been sealed off completely. Every few hours, a tremor rattled the pipes, followed by a new flurry of activity as workers rushed to stabilize the next line of veins. The constant hum that once felt oppressive now carried a note of rhythm, almost like the place was trying to heal.
Lucas stood on the lift platform as it creaked upward through a vertical shaft lined with glowing conduits. Each level they passed hummed with different tones — some steady, some flickering, some angry. He imagined the whole mountain as a wounded animal, its pulse uneven but stubbornly alive.
Ryn stood beside him, her gauntlet resting against the railing. "Still getting used to the quiet?"
Lucas smiled faintly. "This is quiet?"
"Comparatively," she said. "Last week, every other corridor was screaming."
He raised an eyebrow. "Screaming?"
Ryn smirked. "That's what we call it when the pressure builds. The veins hum loud enough to shake your teeth out."
"Good to know," Lucas said. "I'll add that to my growing list of things that want to kill me."
"Welcome to the Holdfast."
The lift clanked to a stop at Level Three — the first of the "surface levels." Here, the air was thinner and cooler, carrying faint traces of wind from the ventilation shafts that reached up to the mountain's outer face.
The sight hit Lucas harder than expected.
Level Three was… alive. Not in the glowing, eerie way of the lower mines, but in the way of community — hammer strikes, laughter, shouting. Stalls lined the walkway where traders sold scrap metal, glowing trinkets, food that smelled faintly of mushrooms and spice.
Ira waved at someone across the walkway, her usual calm expression softening. "Didn't think I'd miss this smell," she said.
"Burnt grease and miner sweat?" Barek asked.
She smiled. "Home."
Barek snorted and rolled his shoulder, the mechanical arm clicking. "You surface people have strange ideas of comfort."
Lucas grinned. "You live underground, Barek."
"Exactly," Barek said. "Down there, you don't smell anything. Except maybe death."
Ryn shot him a glare. "You're ruining the mood."
"Just keeping it honest."
They made their way through the narrow bazaar, past smithing stalls, vein-thread weavers, and mural painters. Lucas slowed as they passed one wall that shimmered faintly with embedded crystals, forming an enormous depiction of the Holdfast itself.
Every veinline in the mural pulsed in time with the real ones overhead. As he stepped closer, the light shifted hue — just slightly — from blue to gold.
He stopped.
Ryn turned back. "What's wrong?"
"The wall just… reacted," he said.
She frowned. "The murals are veinlinked. They adjust to energy levels nearby."
"Yeah, but it didn't change when you walked past."
Ryn shrugged. "Guess it likes you better."
Lucas forced a small laugh, but his stomach twisted. It likes me better.
The mural pulsed again, faint and warm under his fingertips.
They found The Split Vein tucked at the far end of the corridor — a tavern carved into the rock itself. Its name was painted above the door in glowing thread, and the interior pulsed with alternating hues of blue and violet from vein conduits woven through the ceiling.
Inside, miners filled every table, talking loud enough to shake the mugs.
Ryn led them to a booth in the corner, shouting over the noise, "You've officially survived your first field mission, Lucas. That means you buy the first round."
Lucas blinked. "Isn't that backward?"
Barek slammed a hand on the table. "Tradition."
Ira nodded solemnly. "It's true. I checked."
Lucas stared at them. "And how exactly am I supposed to pay for this tradition?"
Ryn grinned, tossing him a small pouch that jingled faintly. "Hazard pay. Vorn signed off on it after the collapse. Said anyone who didn't die earns a drink."
Lucas caught it, surprised by the weight. "Wait—this is actual money?"
"Veinmarks," Ira explained. "Holdfast currency. Don't spend them all in one tavern."
Ryn smirked. "Same kind you made me spend on that fancy jacket."
Lucas peeked inside, counting the shimmering coins. Each one glowed faintly blue at the edges — real vein-forged metal. "You people get paid to almost die? I've been doing it for free."
"Then you're due back pay," Ryn said.
Barek grinned. "And interest."
Lucas sighed, dropped the pouch on the counter, and said to the barkeep, "Fine. What's the house special?"
The barkeep, a woman with tattoos glowing faintly blue along her neck, grinned. "We call it veinfire. Warms your insides and mildly numbs your regrets."
"Perfect," Lucas said.
Minutes later, four mugs clanked together.
"To not dying," Ryn said.
"To new bruises," Barek added.
"To slightly fewer explosions," Ira said with a serene smile.
Lucas raised his mug. "And to hoping the next mission doesn't involve glowing zombies."
They drank. The brew burned like molten sugar, but the warmth hit fast, easing the tension in Lucas's shoulders.
For the first time since arriving, he let himself laugh — really laugh — when Barek tried to explain how his prosthetic arm got stuck in a ventilation shaft during the collapse.
Ryn doubled over. "You what?"
"It was dark!" Barek said defensively. "I thought it was a handhold!"
Ira hid her smile behind her cup. "You grabbed the air duct."
"It grabbed me first!"
Even Lucas couldn't help it. "So that's what they meant when they said you got attached to your work."
The table roared with laughter.
For a while, it felt normal.
The tavern buzzed with the rhythm of life — workers trading stories, musicians tapping out uneven songs on tin drums. A small group of children ran between tables, holding scraps of glowing veinstone like makeshift lanterns.
Lucas leaned back, exhaling. The noise, the warmth, the scent of smoke — it felt almost human again.
Then something shifted.
As he laughed, a nearby lantern flickered. Just once, faintly gold instead of blue. Then another. And another.
No one else seemed to notice. But Lucas did. The same golden hue that had burned beneath the mine. The same tone that pulsed in his veins when he healed the miner.
He set his mug down, heart thudding.
"You okay?" Ryn asked.
He nodded quickly. "Yeah. Just… tired."
"You sure?"
Lucas forced a grin. "Don't worry. Still alive. Still ugly."
Barek chuckled. "That's the spirit."
But Lucas couldn't shake the feeling. The golden flicker danced again in the reflection of his drink, then vanished.
Later, when the others drifted off to play cards with the regulars, Lucas slipped outside for air. The corridor beyond was quiet now — the kind of quiet that comes after laughter, heavy but peaceful.
He looked up. The veins running along the ceiling glowed faintly blue, except for one thin thread of gold weaving lazily through the pattern like a scar.
"Not now," he muttered. "I'm off the clock."
The vein pulsed once in response — faint, almost teasing.
Lucas sighed. "Right. Of course. Because I can't have one normal night, can I?"
He rested his palm on the stone. For a moment, it felt warm — alive. The hum beneath it synced with his heartbeat.
"Whatever you are," he said softly, "you're not subtle."
A faint whisper — or maybe just the wind — brushed against his ear.
Nor are you, Mender.
Lucas froze. "Oh, come on…"
The hum faded, leaving him standing alone in the corridor, palm pressed to the stone.
He looked down at his hand. Faint golden threads shimmered beneath his skin before fading.
"Yeah," he muttered, half-smiling despite himself. "Real subtle."
He turned back toward the tavern. Through the door, he could hear his friends laughing again — the kind of laughter that didn't ask for anything except presence.
For the first time since waking in this world, Lucas realized something strange.
He wasn't just surviving anymore.
He was starting to belong.