The women's barracks of Cinder were known as "The Hive," not because of the layout, but because of the sound. It was a low, constant thrum of two thousand voices whispering in the dark, weaving rumors like silk.
And at the center of the web sat Isolde.
She sat on a crate in the corner of the long, damp dormitory, sharpening a piece of rusted metal against a stone. She looked different than she had in the golden days of the Kingdom. Her blonde hair was chopped short, jagged and practical. Her face was gaunt, smeared with grease to hide her features from the wandering eyes of the night guards.
But her eyes were the same. Calculating. Cold.
"My Lady," a voice murmured.
Isolde didn't look up. "I am no Lady here, Mara. I am Unit 892."
Mara, a young woman with a bruised cheek and a hacking cough, knelt beside the crate. "The guards are doing a sweep. They're looking for contraband. They heard someone was hoarding rations."
Isolde stopped sharpening. She tested the edge of the shiv against her thumb. A thin line of red appeared. "Let them come. The rations are already distributed. Eaten. There is nothing to find."
"They might take the Lantern," Mara whispered, her voice trembling.
At that, the whispering in the immediate vicinity stopped. Heads turned in the gloom.
In a makeshift crib behind Isolde—fashioned from an old mining cart lined with stolen wool—slept a child. Lucius. He was small for a one-year-old, pale and quiet. He didn't cry. He rarely made a sound.
But everyone knew what happened when you got too close to him with ill intent.
Last month, a guard had tried to snatch him, thinking the baby would make good leverage against the women. The guard's steam-armor had simply... stopped. The pressure dropped to zero. The heat vanished. He had frozen in place, terrified, until Isolde calmly walked over and took the child back.
They called him "The Lantern" because in the spiritual dark of the Iron Sultanate, he was the only thing that felt like the old world.
"They won't touch him," Isolde said softly. "They are superstitious cowards. They think he is cursed. We know he is blessed."
She stood up, tucking the shiv into her sleeve. "Gather the Section Leaders. The Engineer sent word."
Ten minutes later, five women huddled around Isolde's crate. They were the toughest of the lot—former soldiers, thieves, mothers who had lost everything but their rage.
"The Anvil breaks in five days," Isolde told them, her voice barely audible over the distant grinding of the refinery gears.
"Five days?" One of the women, a scarred welder named Jessa, hissed. "We aren't ready. We haven't secured the path to the docks."
"We don't need to secure it," Isolde said. "We just need to survive it. When the main vent blows, the guards will panic. They will move to protect the assets—the machinery. That leaves the corridors to the South Gate exposed."
"The Iron-Spiders guard the South Gate," Jessa countered. "Mechanical horrors. They'll cut us to ribbons."
Isolde reached into the mining cart and gently brushed Lucius's cheek. The baby stirred, and for a second, a faint, golden ripple distorted the air—like heat rising off pavement.
"The Spiders run on steam and void-coils," Isolde said. "And my son... he disrupts the flow. He is our shield. We move in a phalanx around him. As long as he is with us, their machines will stutter. Their aim will falter."
She looked at the women, her gaze hard. This wasn't the gentle healing magic she used to practice. This was weaponized hope. She was using her own child as a tactical asset, and the weight of that sin sat heavy in her gut. But she would carry it. She would carry a mountain if it meant getting them off this rock.
"What about the Big Man?" Mara asked. "Adam?"
"He has his own part to play," Isolde said. "He is the hammer. We are the knife. He breaks the walls; we cut the throat."
Suddenly, the heavy iron doors at the far end of the barracks groaned open.
"Inspection!" a guard bellowed, banging his truncheon against the metal frame. "Line up! Everyone out of your bunks!"
The Hive went silent.
Isolde didn't flinch. She picked up Lucius, wrapping him in a grey shawl so only his eyes were visible. She stepped forward, the sea of women parting for her.
The guard captain, a brute named Kegan, marched down the aisle. He stopped in front of Isolde. He sneered, looking at the bundle in her arms.
"That thing still breathing?" Kegan spat.
"He is strong," Isolde said evenly. "Stronger than he looks."
Kegan reached out, his gauntleted hand hovering near the baby. Then, he hesitated. He remembered the stories. He remembered the guard whose armor had frozen.
He pulled his hand back, spitting on the floor near Isolde's bare feet.
"Keep it quiet," Kegan growled. "One cry, and I throw it in the furnace."
"He never cries," Isolde replied.
Kegan moved on, kicking a sleeping mat as he went.
Isolde watched him go. She felt the shiv cold against her wrist. Five days, she thought. In five days, I won't have to hide my claws anymore.
She looked down at Lucius. The baby looked up at her, his eyes deep and knowing, far too old for an infant. He reached out a tiny hand and patted her arm, as if comforting her.
"Sleep now, little light," she whispered. "Soon, we set the world on fire."