Chapter 1: Heart of Stone
Lyra awoke long before the dim glow of Baragon's single solar lamp had faded. The air was cold and hard, like the stone walls of her modest room, and the only sound was the soft hiss of the colony's water recycler cycling through its nightly purge. She sat up on her brittle cot, swung her legs over the edge, and pressed her bare feet to the cool floor. Dawn was still hours away, but she could feel it coming—an electric stirring beneath the horizon, like the first tremor of a distant quake.
She dressed in the faded gray coveralls she wore every day, tugging them over her slender frame until the fabric clung to her arms and legs. In the cracked mirror above the washbasin, her reflection stared back: wide blue eyes rimmed with sleep, dark hair knotting at her shoulders, and that unmistakable heirloom pendant hanging at her collarbone. Despite its star-shaped glow, Lyra kept it hidden beneath her shirt. No one in Baragon knew what it was, and she intended to keep it that way.
Stepping quietly through the narrow hallway, Lyra paused outside her parents' door. From within came the soft rasp of Marta Aelson's voice, giving tomorrow's schedule to Thom in low, patient tones. She pressed a finger to her lips and slipped past them, careful not to wake her family. In the small kitchen, she found the chipped basin where her father soaked the dishes each night. The sink's pump gurgled as she filled it with recycled water, rinsed away yesterday's meal scraps, and set the metal plates to dry. The bright blue of her mother's favorite bowl—an impossibly cheerful color for Baragon—gleamed against the dull steel.
By the time the plates were stacked, the horizon had shifted from ink-black to a bruised purple. She stepped outside onto the rutted dirt road, inhaling the acrid tang of smoldering slag from the nearby refinery. Beyond the colony's squat buildings, the raw, blood-red sky promised another oppressive day of drills and diesel fumes. Lyra exhaled slowly, her pulse already thrumming with anticipation.
She made her way to the edge of the settlement, where the land gave way to a cluster of rocky outcrops that miners called the "Stone Teeth." Here, the world fell away into a shallow valley of discarded slag and rusted machinery. Lyra climbed up a low boulder, its surface scoured smooth by centuries of wind and sand, and sat nestled in a crevice. From this vantage, she could see the faint pinpricks of city-lights on the distant planets—beacons of life far beyond the dusty confines of Baragon.
With a trembling hand, she withdrew a small fragment of quartz from her pocket, scuffed gray with grit. She held it lightly between thumb and forefinger, closed her eyes, and reached inward. At first, nothing happened. Then, beneath her skin, she felt the familiar hum of power—the same impulse that had saved lives in Shaft C weeks ago. Her heart pounded as she summoned it, willing the stone to levitate.
The quartz quivered. A thin crack formed along its edge, but it rose, inch by inch, as if pulled by an invisible thread. Lyra's breath caught in her throat; she clenched her jaw to steady herself. Higher it floated, then wobbled, threatening to shatter. With a whisper of effort, she lowered it gently back to her palm. The fragment landed with a soft tap against her fingertips. She exhaled, her relief palpable in the still air.
For a moment, she let herself marvel at what she could do—how, with just her will, she had commanded the laws of gravity. Then she remembered where she was. She bent to collect several pebbles, arranging them in a shallow circle on the stone. One by one, she lifted them, practicing until she could lift three at once, then five. The stones hovered in a half–moon arc above her hand, trembling like frightened birds. Sweat beaded on her brow, but she kept her focus, murmuring encouragement until the stones settled back into their ring.
A sudden breeze rattled loose a handful of pebbles beyond her rocks, sending them skittering down the slope with a dry clatter. Lyra froze, every sense straining for sound. Behind her, a lone figure emerged from the shadows: Jorin Ridley, his wiry frame silhouetted against the dawn. His breath caught in his throat as he spotted the floating stones.
"Lyra?" he whispered, awestruck. "How—?"
She dropped her hand, letting the stones fall. They struck the ground with sharp clicks. Heart racing, she whirled to face him, ready to flee, to warp away before he could react. But Jorin's expression was not fear—it was wonder.
"I thought you were just talking to rocks," he said, half-smiling. "Turns out you really were." His voice trembled with excitement. "That was incredible."
Lyra's chest tightened. The secret she had guarded so fiercely stood exposed in the purple dawn. She opened her mouth to deny it—"It's nothing," she wanted to say—but no words came. Instead, she felt the weight of her pendant against her chest, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Before she could answer, the clamor of a metal bucket hitting the generator platform echoed from below. Marta's voice called out, firm and welcoming: "Lyra! Breakfast's ready!"
Lyra's blood ran cold. She cast a quick, frightened glance at Jorin, whose eyes shone not with betrayal but with compassion. She slipped the pendant beneath her shirt, squared her shoulders, and forced a calm smile.
"Come on," she said, voice steady. "Let's go eat."
As they made their way back toward the colony, Lyra's mind spun with questions—about her powers, about Jorin, and about what would happen when the others learned her truth. Behind them, the Stone Teeth stood silent and watchful, as though they, too, waited for the sun to rise on her new reality.
Chapter 2: Silent Whispers
The first light of Baragon Colony filtered weakly through the narrow window above the breakfast table, turning the rough-hewn wood a washed-out ochre. Lyra sat between her parents, spoon poised above a steaming bowl of algae stew that smelled of salt and metal. The water reclamator's hiss and the steady thrum of the refinery beyond their walls formed a low, inescapable drone—the colony's heartbeat at dawn.
Marta Aelson ladled another portion onto Lyra's plate, her warm brown eyes both gentle and reproving. "You slipped out again last night," she said softly, pressing the rim of her own bowl with a dish rag. "I know the chores aren't glamorous, but I worry you'll be hurt."
Lyra lowered her gaze to the greenish broth, the humble meal she'd eaten a thousand times before. She lifted the spoon, paused. "I'm fine, Mother," she whispered, voice hushed. "I—needed some air."
Thom Aelson, broad-shouldered and forbearingly kind, cleared his throat between bites. "Air's good," he rumbled, "but there are safer ways to get it than climbing the Stone Teeth in the dark."
Across from her, Jorin Ridley leaned forward, elbows on the table. He grinned, eyes bright with mischief. "So," he teased, lifting an eyebrow, "talking to rocks again? You must have told them all your secrets by now, Lyra."
Lyra's cheeks warmed. She set her spoon down too firmly; the bowl winked as it slid across the table. "It wasn't talking," she muttered, casting a quick glance at Jorin. He caught her eye and winked back.
Marta frowned, but her tone softened. "Jorin's right that you shouldn't wander off. If something happened—"
"It won't," Lyra insisted before the words fully formed, too defensive. She pushed the stew aside and rose, despite her father's gentle protest. "I'll be at the shaft in time for my shift," she said, smoothing the front of her coveralls. In the cramped light, she saw the worry etched on her mother's face.
Marta reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind Lyra's ear. "Just… be careful," she murmured.
Lyra nodded and slipped from the table. The plank floor creaked beneath her boots as she wove between bunks and tool racks toward the door. Outside, the air was brisk, stinging her cheeks. The sky had lightened to a bruise-purple, and overhead the colony's searchlights pivoted in their slow, mechanical vigil.
Jorin fell into step beside her, shoulders brushing hers. He held out a small chunk of quartz—one she had dropped at their secret outcrop the night before. "Lost this," he said, offering it. "Figured you'd want it."
Lyra accepted the stone, tucking it into her pocket. "Thanks," she said, and something in her tone made Jorin's grin soften.
They walked in silence down the dusty trail that led toward the mine entrance. Behind them, the squat shapes of storage sheds and processing towers receded into shadow; ahead, the gaping maw of Shaft C yawned, its rim ringed with scaffolding and dangling lights.
Jorin glanced at her. "You ever wonder what's beyond the refinery walls? Not just the rimworlds, but the real glittering worlds—full of oceans and forests and cities made of glass?"
She stared at the distant horizon, hazy and filmed with dust. "Every night," she confessed. "I dream I'm standing on some Court of Stars, with the whole galaxy spread out before me like a tapestry."
His smile turned wistful. "Don't lose that dream."
She nodded, fingers brushing the pendant hidden beneath her shirt. It lay warm against her skin, as if it shared her longing.
A shrill clang came from the mine entrance—a signal that the next shift was calling. Lyra squared her shoulders. "That's us," she said, stepping past Jorin into the pool of dim light beneath the scaffold.
He hesitated at the threshold. "See you tonight?" he asked.
She offered him a small, genuine smile. "At sunset."
Inside, the tunnel's stale air wrapped around her like a blanket. Lyra took a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of stone and coolant steady her racing heart. As she joined the other workers filing into the shaft, she promised herself she would find a moment later—stolen from her duties—to return to the outcrop. There, away from prying eyes, she would test the pendant again. Tonight, the stars would not wait.
And in the hush before the drills began, Lyra allowed herself a single, hopeful thought: soon, she would learn if her place among those stars was more than a dream.
Chapter 3: Hidden Sparks
Lyra paused at the mouth of the mine's eastern tunnel, where the morning sun had not yet reached the steel doors. A fine dust hung in the air like suspended ash, and the distant clang of pickaxes echoed through the shafts. She slipped behind a row of abandoned crates, heart hammering in her chest. No one must see this.
With trembling fingers, she drew the star-shaped pendant from beneath her coveralls. Its metal edges were worn smooth, and faint grooves—etched long ago—traced a pattern of constellations she didn't recognize. Lyra held it up to the dim light filtering through a narrow window high in the shaft wall. She waited, breath held, willing the relic to pulse with its secret power. But for several endless seconds, it remained cold and still—nothing but a pale silver disc.
She let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. A pang of disappointment wrenched through her. Every night, she had dreamed the pendant would guide her, reveal something extraordinary beyond this rock-scarred world. Yet here it lay inert, a mystery she could not unravel.
A sudden rattling—metal-on-metal—snapped her attention back to the tunnel entrance. Two miners emerged in stained coveralls, hauling a crate of drilling rods between them. One of them, a lanky youth named Del, stumbled over a stray cable. The rods shifted in his grip, rattling dangerously.
Instinct surged through Lyra. Before she could question the impulse, she thrust out a silent command of will. A soft hum thrummed along her spine as she focused on the crate. The moment it teetered over the edge of the loading platform, an unseen force caught it, halting its fall mid-air. Lyra's fingertips tingled with the effort, and her eyes widened in disbelief as she guided the crate back upright with a gentle tug.
Del and his companion froze. Del rubbed his arms as if shivering, staring at the unmoving crate. "Did you see that?" he whispered, voice trembling.
His partner shook his head. "Maybe it was the wind."
Lyra ducked behind the crates, heart pounding so fiercely she was certain they could hear it. Her mind reeled—did she really just lift an entire wooden box full of steel rods? She hadn't meant to reveal herself; she'd only wanted to practice in private. The pendant hadn't glowed at all. It was as though her own mind had summoned the power directly.
The miners' boots scraped on the concrete floor as they shuffled forward. Lyra flattened herself against the cold wood, willing her breathing to slow. The miners exchanged puzzled glances at the crate, then shrugged and moved on, chattering nervously about "mining ghosts." Lyra pressed her back against the crate's rough plank, sweat beading at her hairline.
When the tunnel fell silent again, she risked a peek around the edge. The space was empty—save for a single dropped wrench, gleaming in the dim light. She crept forward and knelt beside it. The cool metal felt reassuring against her fingertips. A mix of elation and fear swirled in her stomach.
Gingerly, Lyra set the pendant atop the wrench. Quietly, she willed the relic to respond. It throbbed softly, a heartbeat of silver light that pulsed once… and then faded. She let the pendant slip back inside her coveralls, clutching it against her chest. It was more powerful than she had ever imagined—capable of moving objects far heavier than herself. But why had it remained silent until now? And why had her own mind acted unbidden?
A distant clang from deeper in the shaft warned her that the day shift was about to begin. She rose to her feet, brushing dust from her knees, and slipped toward the iron door that led back to the colony. Dawn was not far off; she could already see a sliver of pale pink bleeding into the sky.
Outside, the yard was stirring. Workers carried buckets of coolant and fired up machinery for another twelve-hour shift. Lyra wove through the crowd, head bowed, her pulse still fluttering with adrenaline. She felt both exhilarated and terrified—the first secret of her power had burst forth without warning, and now she had to reconcile what it meant.
At the edge of the yard, beyond the last row of storage silos, she caught sight of the low ridgeline known locally as the Stone Teeth. The perfect vantage point for stargazing—and the only place she could truly be alone. If she hurried, she might slip away before anyone noticed.
Lyra's legs carried her in long, purposeful strides across the crushed gravel. Each footfall rang in her ears, a drumbeat urging her onward. She did not stop until the refinery's roar was a distant rumble behind her and the first shafts of sunlight painted the ground golden.
Panting, she reached the base of the rocky slope and looked up at the jagged silhouettes jutting into the dawn. Her heart still trembled, but beneath it lay a new resolve: she would master this gift, mysterious and frightening though it was. And tonight—tonight, under the full tapestry of stars—she would seek the answers the pendant refused to give by day.
Climbing began with sure, deliberate pulls on the rough stone. As she gained height, Lyra allowed herself a single, steadying breath of the cool morning air. Above her, the sky was already lightening, and behind her, the refinery glinted in the sunrise. Between those two worlds—home and the heavens—Lyra Aelson felt the first spark of destiny ignite in her chest.
Soon, she told herself, the stars would speak. And this time, she would listen.
Chapter 4: The Night Sky's Call
Lyra's muscles ached from the day's long shift, but exhaustion was a small price to pay for this moment. Night had fallen over Baragon Colony like a curtain of soot, yet the sky above shimmered with a million pinpricks of light—stars she had only ever glimpsed through grainy data feeds in the mine's break room. Now, free of clanging drills and bitter coolant fumes, she stood at the base of the ridge miners called the Stone Teeth.
The first step onto the rocky slope was jagged under her boots, each foothold a sharp reminder that Baragon was no gentle world. She rose on tiptoe, careful to avoid the loose scree, and pressed her palm against the cool surface of a weathered boulder. Tiny fissures wedged full of rust-colored sand marked the stone's age, worn smooth only where centuries of wind had swept away the edges. Lyra inhaled, tasting the metallic-sweet tang of charged particles in the air, as though the planet itself crackled with quiet energy.
Higher she climbed, her coveralls dusted with powdery grit. Above, the colony's dim floodlights glowed like mute sentinels, their halos framing the squat buildings and the distant plume of the refinery's exhaust. Beyond them lay the endless sprawl of desert plains, cut by veins of molten rock and scarred by the scars of corporate mining. Yet Lyra's eyes were fixed upward, where the heavens opened into a vast dome of indigo.
Here, the stars did not twinkle—they blazed. Nebulae bled pastel hues across the firmament: rose-pink clouds of hydrogen, sapphire tendrils of ionized gas, and ribbons of silver light that danced like ethereal ribbons. A single constellation—a cluster of five runaway suns in a delicate pentagon—seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. She halted on a broad ledge, her legs trembling with effort and anticipation.
Gently, Lyra pressed her hand to the pendant hidden beneath her shirt. It lay warm against her chest, its metal surface faintly aglow in sympathy with the cosmic display above. Tonight, she would speak to the stars as if they were old friends, and she would make her promise audible even to the void.
She closed her eyes. The wind—dry and whisper-thin—fluttered through her hair, carrying the distant echo of the refinery's drone. For a moment, the galaxy felt close enough to touch, as if the stones beneath her and the pendant at her throat formed a bridge between two worlds. She drew a slow breath, letting the cool night fill her lungs.
"I'll find you," she whispered, voice trembling on the breeze. "One day, I will stand among your worlds. I will soar past the red skies and glass cities I've only dreamed of."
The words hung in the silent air. Lyra opened her eyes to see a lone shooting star trace a thin arc across the velvet canopy. At its tail, she imagined her promise taking shape—a comet of her own destiny, lighting the way out of Baragon's iron grip.
Suddenly, the ridge trembled beneath her boots, a faint shudder rolling through the stone. She steadied herself against a jagged outcrop, heart leaping. Far below, the rhythmic clang of the mine's emergency alarm cut through the night: low, urgent, and terrifyingly close. In the darkness, that sound could mean anything—a gas leak, a collapse, a reactor fault.
Lyra's breath hitched. The stars might wait, but duty would not. Clutching her pendant, she pivoted toward the slope's steep descent, each step an echo of the vow she carried in her chest. She had whispered to the heavens, but now the world beneath her feet demanded her answer.
As Lyra slipped from the ridge into the colony's faint lights, she knew the path ahead would test her every secret strength. And when the next tremor struck—when Baragon's heart truly cracked open—she would be ready to meet it.
Chapter 5: Shadows in the Tunnel
Lyra stepped into Shaft C before the shift began, the tunnel's mouth yawning like a dark wound in the rock face. Electric lamps mounted along the ceiling cast pools of sickly yellow light, illuminating swirling clouds of dust and the tangled web of support struts that kept the cavern from collapsing. The air was thick with the tang of metallic ore and the faint hiss of steam from the drilling rigs. Each breath tasted of iron and grit.
A chorus of clanks and whines filled the shaft as miners readied their tools. Steel-toed boots scraped on concrete walkways; pneumatic drills buzzed to life. Lyra slipped past a row of cargo carts piled high with freshly excavated stone, her heart fluttering with nerves. She'd worked Shaft C countless times—its narrow corridors and hidden pockets of precious lithium were as familiar to her as the lines on her palms—but tonight something felt off, as if the tunnel itself were holding its breath.
"Morning, Aelson," came Garrick Voss's gravelly voice at her shoulder. The foreman's broad frame was draped in a leather harness, and his helmet's lamp cut a sharp beam through the gloom. Deep-set lines etched his face, proof of decades spent carving Baragon's secrets from its stony crust. "You ready for a deeper cut tonight?"
Lyra nodded, hefting her pickaxe. Its weight was comforting in her gloved hands. "Always," she murmured, though a tingle of unease danced along her spine.
Garrick's lamp fixed on the far wall where fresh cracks spidered through the rock. He frowned. "These veins are getting restless. The last scan showed unstable strata two meters ahead. Keep your eyes peeled—and your distance."
She swallowed. "Understood, Garrick." Around them, miners exchanged uneasy glances. Kerri, the newest recruit, winced as she adjusted her respirator. Del cracked his knuckles and let out a low whistle. "Unstable strata," he repeated. "Great."
The first blast shook the tunnel floor. Two charges detonated in rapid succession, sending stones and dust plummeting from the ceiling. Lyra shielded her visor as the echoing booms rattled her bones. When the shrapnel settled, a fresh section of wall lay exposed, veins of glittering ore promising weeks of harvest.
She advanced with the others, each swing of her pick sending chips of rock clattering over the rails. The rhythmic scrape of metal on stone felt almost hypnotic. Yet beneath the thrum of drills, Lyra sensed a deeper vibration—an undercurrent that hummed through her bones like a distant drum.
Garrick gestured to a narrow side passage. "We'll follow this spur for twenty meters. Be ready to shore it up if the walls shift."
Lyra stepped into the side passage, her headlamp sweeping over struts reinforced with steel plates. The air here was colder, damper: groundwater seeped through tiny fissures, forming rivulets that pooled at her boots. She knelt to examine the grain of the stone. Fine cracks radiated outward, like tiny lightning bolts etched in gray.
A sudden shudder coursed through the tunnel. Lyra's heart lurched as the lamps overhead flickered. She steadied herself against a strut, knuckles whitening on the cold metal. Around her, the other miners froze mid-swing, pickaxes poised above the ore.
"Easy now," Garrick called, voice taut. He rubbed a hand over the strut. "That's not just the drills warming up. Something's shifting up there."
A low rumble echoed down the corridor, growing in intensity. Dust cascaded from the ceiling in curtains of fine ash. Lyra's pulse thundered in her ears. She pressed a hand to her pendant beneath her coveralls, and felt it vibrate—an urgent, pulsing thrumming that mirrored the quaking rock.
The sound intensified, becoming a growl that reverberated through the steel supports. Tiny pebbles skittered across the floor. Kerri yelped as a shard of stone dropped at her feet. "What—?"
Garrick raised a hand. "Back up! Brace the struts!"
Miners scrambled to secure jacks and beams, hammering reinforcement plates into place. Lyra crouched beside the trembling strut, fingers brushing the steel to steady herself. Her pendant's vibration sharpened, a rapid heartbeat against her chest.
Above them, the ceiling groaned. A jagged crack snaked into view, widening by the heartbeat. Lyra's breath caught. The moment hung suspended between the ear-splitting rumbles—an instant before everything came crashing down.
And then the tunnel fell eerily silent, as if the world itself held its breath.
Lyra's eyes darted upward, pendant trembling against her heart. In the hush, she knew the real test was only beginning.
Chapter 6: Rumble Beneath
The tremor erupted without warning, shaking the very bones of Shaft C. One moment Lyra was wedged between two support struts, pickaxe in hand; the next, a thunderous roar filled the tunnel. The ground bucked beneath her boots as if the planet itself had come alive. Dust cascaded from the ceiling in choking clouds, stinging her eyes and throat.
"Down!" Garrick Voss bellowed, his lamp swinging wildly across the fractured walls. His voice was swallowed by the quake, but miners around her dropped to their knees, scrambling for cover beneath girders and workspace carts. Lyra's heart thundered as the air vibrated with the roar of collapsing rock.
Above her, a massive ceiling beam split with a sharp crack like a rifle shot. Timber and steel groaned under the strain, then gave way. A jagged slab of ore-laden stone, easily two meters wide, plunged toward the workers below. Lyra's breath caught in her throat. Instinct roared in her veins: protect them, no matter the cost.
She lunged forward, arms outstretched. In the space of a heartbeat, something inside her snapped open—a chord of raw power she barely understood. A shivering haze of energy rippled from her fingertips, fluid and shimmering like mercury in moonlight. Without conscious thought, she thrust her hands upward, sending a translucent wave of force against the falling rock.
The slab slammed into the invisible barrier, grinding to a resounding halt mere centimeters above the huddled miners. Cracks spidered across the suspended stone, fragments of rock chipping off and raining down in harmless showers. Lyra's arms shook with the effort, every muscle screaming, but still she held it aloft, a living column of will.
Around her, dust settled. Garrick's lamp found her midair tableau, illuminating her pale face contorted with strain. His jaw hung open in astonishment. "What in the—?"
Lyra exhaled raggedly, sweat and grime streaking her cheeks. She willed her power to push the slab against the ceiling, buying precious seconds. Behind her, Del and Kerri scrambled to reinforce the weakened support struts, hammering steel props into place. Each thud of their tools echoed like a pulse in the hushed tunnel.
The suspended stone quivered and teetered as the new props locked into position. Lyra's vision blurred; the world tilted. She felt the beam's weight lessen fraction by fraction. With a final, shuddering effort, she guided the rock into the newly braced struts. A thunderous crack followed as the slab settled onto the supports, and the tremor subsided into rattles and groans.
Lyra's arms collapsed at her sides. She crumpled to her knees on the dusty floor, gasping for air. The tunnel now lay eerily still, the droning of drills replaced by a trembling hush. Around her, miners stirred, eyes wide with a mixture of relief and terror. Garrick knelt beside her, concern etched in every line of his face.
"Lyra…you saved us," he whispered, voice thick with awe. He reached out, but she flinched, pressing a hand to her pounding chest where the pendant lay hidden, its pulse now echoing her own.
All at once, Lyra was overcome by the enormity of what she had done—and feared what it meant. Her breath shuddered as she stared at the beam she had held at bay, then down at her trembling hands. The tunnel loomed around her, silent and watchful, as though expecting her next move.
Somehow, she would have to explain this. But for now, the only certainty was that nothing in Shaft C—or in Lyra's life—would ever be the same again.
Chapter 7: Power Unbound
The tunnel lay in uneasy quiet after the quake, shafts of pale lamp-light cutting swaths through the drifting dust. Lyra hunched against a steel support, her chest heaving as she fought to steady her breath. The air tasted of crushed stone and panic. All around, miners tested their tools and muttered prayers to gods she didn't believe in.
A sudden, anguished cry shattered the momentary calm. "Help—me!" A man's voice, raw with terror, echoed from deeper in the shaft. Against the far wall, a section of ceiling support had given way—a twisted tangle of girders and shattered rock lay like a fallen beast. Beneath the debris, the man's boot kicked feebly, sending up a small cloud of dust.
"By the cores…" Garrick Voss cursed, sprinting toward the collapse with two other miners at his heels. Lyra's heart lurched: the man trapped beneath was Carlo Maren, a veteran with three decades of shifts behind him and a family waiting on the surface. If they pulled at that rubble, it would crush Carlo like a tin can.
Lyra sprang forward, every instinct screaming at her to step back—but she only had one choice. Grit and sweat stung her eyes as she pushed through the converging miners. Garrick reached the edge of the debris, hammer in hand, and knelt beside Carlo's trembling form. "Hold on," he said, voice tight. He struck a reinforced strut with his hammer; the echo rang hollow.
Lyra's pulse thundered. She could not watch them risk their lives on chance and brute force. Kneeling beside Garrick, she placed a trembling hand on the dusty floor plate and closed her eyes. In her mind, a ripple formed—an eddy of empty space waiting to be molded. Her fingers burned with power she scarcely understood.
The world around her shimmered. The dull clang of metal and keening of Carlo's voice receded into a muffled hum, as if reality itself bent to her will. Lyra guided the warp—a thin corridor of altered space that formed between herself and the trapped miner. It pulsed like living glass, distorting the falling dust into slow spirals.
With a silent plea, she drew the debris into that corridor: a chunk of concrete, a steel girder, jagged rocks—all slipped through the invisible seam and reemerged beyond Carlo, tumbling harmlessly into a cleared patch of tunnel. The effect lasted only a heartbeat, but it was enough.
Garrick gasped as Carlo slid free, coughing and shaking but alive. Lyra's eyes flew open. The warp snapped shut with a soft pop, and the tunnel's sounds rushed back in—a gust of displaced air, the scrape of hammer on metal.
For a moment, no one moved. Then Carlo scrambled upright, cradling his shattered respirator. "What… how?" His voice trembled. His eyes darted to the rubble lying innocuous at his feet.
Lyra's heart raced as the full weight of her action crashed over her. She looked down at her hands—hands that still tingled with residual power. She met Garrick's wide-eyed stare. Next to him, Del and Kerri gaped, mouths slack. Somewhere behind them, boots clattered as other miners pressed forward to see what had happened.
Garrick's jaw worked, but he said nothing. The miners' collective breath caught in their throats. Carlo, rubbing dust from his uniform, climbed to his feet and looked at Lyra with a mix of gratitude and awe. "Thank you," he whispered, voice hoarse.
Lyra did not trust her voice. She forced herself to stand, backing away from the trembling circle of light. The pendant at her throat—quiet until now—beat against her sternum like a drum. The miners stared, uncertain whether to cheer her as a savior or recoil at the unnatural.
Before anyone could speak again, Lyra turned and fled. Claws of panic closed around her ribs. She darted past Garrick, whose raised hand wavered in indecision, and plunged into the thickening gloom of the side passage. The tunnel walls seemed to contract around her as she ran, each pounding step kicking up clouds of dust that flickered in the harsh lamp-light.
Behind her, voices called out—urgent shouts of astonishment and alarm—but she did not stop. The warp had taught her one lesson above all: her power was both gift and curse, and she could not let it bind her to this place.
Lyra rounded the final bend and slowed only when the tunnel opened onto the dimly lit corridor that led back to the surface elevators. She pressed her back against the cool concrete, sliding down until her knees hit the floor. Her chest heaved as she fought to tame her racing pulse.
Above her, the distant clang of warning bells signaled a return to normal operations—but nothing would be the same. In the tunnel's quiet, Lyra closed her eyes and let her mind drift to the pendant at her throat. It glowed faintly, as though acknowledging her choice.
Soon, she told herself, the truth of what she was—and what she could do—would surface. But tonight, she needed only one thing: to vanish into the shadows and plead the darkness to keep her secret.
With one last breath of cold, recycled air, Lyra slipped from view, swallowed by the corridor's shadows—and by the weight of a power that could no longer remain hidden.