The Smugglers of the South operated from the outskirts of Ironwood—a sprawling, lawless industrial zone known as the Oil Slicks. This area was far removed from Kaelen's revolutionary influence and the Sky-Guard's patrols, making it the perfect place to secure a discrete, long-distance Aether-powered transport: a Sand-Skiff suitable for crossing the Shifting Sands.
Elias and Lyra, now clad in dark, functional, Aether-dampening clothes, approached the Smuggler's main depot. The air here was thick with oil residue and the buzzing whine of illicit Aether-Crystal energy converters.
The smell is less offensive than the waste chute, but the hostility is palpable, Lyra projected, walking tightly beside Elias, adopting the mannerisms of a weary, subservient partner.
Stick to the cover story, Elias reminded her mentally. You are my mute apprentice, bonded to me by a life debt. Speak only if I am incapacitated.
Their cover required that their closeness appear functional, but their psychic bond ensured it was fiercely intimate. They moved as one organism, Elias's hand resting subtly on the small of Lyra's back, guiding her through the crowded docks.
Elias approached the most imposing figure in the yard: Silas, the leader of the Smugglers, a massive man with scarred hands and eyes that perpetually scanned for profit.
"Silas," Elias greeted, placing a small, heavy sack of Solstus coin—part of Lyra's emergency stash—on a barrel. "I need a Sand-Skiff. Fast. Discreet. And I need a pilot who doesn't ask questions about the destination."
Silas barely glanced at the gold. His eyes were fixed on Lyra. "The Ghost doesn't usually travel with baggage, Vane. What's the mute one for? Insurance?"
"She's a necessary tool," Elias stated, keeping his tone even. "Her life is tied to mine. We are bound by a unique Aether-pact, a family inheritance. Her arcane knowledge is my navigation."
To prove the point, Lyra—guided by Elias's silent mental cue—reached out and touched a malfunctioning Aether-converter nearby. She focused her mind, pushing a tiny, stabilizing pulse of their shared Aether energy into the machine. The converter immediately quieted and began humming smoothly.
Silas's eyes widened with greedy interest. "A live Aether-anchor. Valuable. And the bond explains the shared look of constant exhaustion. It must be draining."
He suspects nothing of the Memory-Crystal, Lyra projected, relieved. He sees only power and utility.
Silas offered them a Sand-Skiff and a pilot named Joran—a thin, nervous man with fast eyes and faster reflexes. The price was steep, but the necessity was absolute.
"You pay Joran half now, half when you reach the Shifting Sands," Silas commanded. "The Skiff is powered by a high-grade, black-market Aether engine—it'll outrun anything the Spire has. But, Vane, you carry too much heat. Kaelen's men were here an hour ago. They're paying a fortune for information on your movement. They know you betrayed them."
"They know nothing," Elias dismissed, though he felt a sharp wave of annoyance—and Lyra's immediate stress—at Kaelen's persistence.
As they finalized the deal, Lyra's physical exhaustion briefly overcame her. She stumbled slightly, her weight briefly shifting onto Elias. The sigils flared, and a sudden, sharp spike of physical hunger slammed into Elias. He was used to ignoring his own needs, but he couldn't ignore hers.
He steered her toward the Skiff, his arm tight around her waist.
"She needs sustenance," Elias said to Silas, his voice clipped. "High-calorie rations, now."
Silas smirked. "The bond is a demanding master, eh, Ghost? Fine. Joran will load the supplies."
As Lyra climbed onto the Skiff, she felt a strong, predatory gaze from the shadows—a feeling far colder than Kaelen's rage. Lyra gasped mentally: Not Kaelen! Solstus Sky-Guard!
She couldn't speak, but she focused the image of the golden, winged insignia of the Sky-Guard directly into Elias's mind.
Elias saw the image and reacted instantly, pushing Lyra down into the cockpit. He drew his crossbow, but the shadows were already retreating. They had been spotted, not by Kaelen's brute force, but by the quiet, surgical eyes of House Solstus.
"Joran! Engage!" Elias yelled, jumping into the co-pilot seat. "Full power! If they track the Skiff, we kill you first!"
Joran didn't argue. The powerful Aether engine roared to life, and the Sand-Skiff lifted off the ground, rocketing away from the Oil Slicks and into the desolate, dark periphery of Aerthos.
As they tore across the barren landscape, Elias gripped the controls, his mind racing. Lyra, strapped in beside him, had her hand hovering over the controls, her immense focus on the Skiff's output readings.
They saw us, Elias, she projected, her mental voice a blend of fear and resolve. My father's hunt is official. They will send airships.
Then we outrun them, Elias projected back. Your knowledge of this engine's limits is critical. Keep it running, Lyra. We don't stop until the Shifting Sands are beneath us.
He looked back at the receding lights of Ironwood, a city that had been his prison and his purpose. Now, it was a danger. He felt the weight of the Memory-Crystal in his pack, the weight of the new name he had chosen for himself, and the binding warmth of Lyra's mind sharing his every frantic, tactical thought. He was no longer the Ghost—he was the protector of the truth, bound to the woman who loved him.