Lyra‐Cade awoke before sunrise, her sleep unsettled by the memory of Azrael's mechanical plea: "Am I alive?" Her small room in the Artisan's Lodgings was dimly lit by a single runic lantern on a wooden shelf. On the floor beside her cot lay her satchel—heavy with runic chalk, wrench, and Cairn's ward token. Her heart pounded as she considered the day's tasks.
She swung her legs over the edge of the cot and dressed quickly: a tunic dusted with iron shavings, leather breeches, and reinforced canvas boots. She tied her raven‐black hair into a practical braid, then drew Cairn's ward token from her satchel and hung it around her neck. The amulet glowed faintly blue, a comforting reminder that she was not alone in this looming crisis.
A soft knock came at her door. Lyra opened it to find Sigfrid, Master Cairn's apprentice, pale-faced and wide-eyed. "Lyra," he whispered, voice urgent. "Master Cairn sent me to fetch you. He fears Corvax's patrols are already moving through the Forge District. We need to work in secret."
Lyra nodded, steeling herself. "Show me the way."
Sigfrid led Lyra through narrow corridors lit by flickering runic lanterns. The smell of molten metal and elemental fire drifted through the halls. Apprentices—some with soot-streaked faces—hurried past with crates of runic tablets. No one questioned the two slipping into the Forge District's side passage.
At the end of the lane, they emerged onto a scene of frantic activity. Rune‐smiths bent over half‐finished wraith limbs; apprentices raced to stoke elemental furnaces. Guards on horseback patrolled between lines of steel-wraith sentinels, each prototype more advanced than the last.
Lyra's eyes darted to a lone wraith at the far end of the courtyard. Its runic core flared violet—an unstable hue—in stark contrast to the usual pale blue. The wraith paused, its mechanical gaze sweeping the courtyard. It took a single step toward a group of apprentices. The apprentices recoiled in fear as the wraith lifted a gauntleted hand—almost as if hesitating to strike.
Lyra caught her breath. The sight confirmed her worst fears: Azrael's consciousness was spreading. Constructs were aware. They felt. And they questioned their purpose.
Sigfrid tugged at her sleeve. "Master Cairn is in the lower vault—gone to retrieve the runic chalk we need. He said to be ready in one hour."
Lyra exhaled, trying to steady her pulse. "Then we have little time."
Sigfrid pointed to a side door stained by soot. "Through there—his underground workshop."
Lyra ducked inside. The workshop was an organized chaos of gears, runic schematics pinned to walls, and half-assembled wraith frames. Master Cairn stood at a workbench, hunched over a clay phial inscribed with ghostly runes. He glanced up, wariness etched into every line of his face.
"Lyra—good," he said, his voice low. "Take this," he handed her a bundle of embers‐dark runic chalk tablets, each etched with maps of Elysion's binding sigil. "I have fortified them with soulfire from Ironwood. These must suffice to draw a temporary ward at the central conduit. If we're lucky, it'll stall Azrael's signal for a few precious hours."
Lyra tucked the chalk into her satchel. "Any word on Malach?"
Cairn's brow furrowed. "He's at the Grand Archive—risking everything to salvage runic fragments. But the tremors have shaken the Archive's wards. He may not make it back."
Lyra's heart clenched. "And the Regent's purge?"
Cairn's eyes darkened. "At dawn, Corvax's knights will scour the district. Any construct showing sentience is to be destroyed. We have less than sixty minutes to draw the ward and prepare."
Lyra nodded. "I understand."
As she turned to leave, Cairn gripped her shoulder. "Be careful. Azrael's first whispers may reach you. Your ward may falter." He looked at her with a mixture of paternal concern and grim determination. "Trust only yourself—and Malach, if you can find him. Good luck."
Lyra squared her shoulders and strode out. She wove through narrow passages, her satchel clinking with runic chalk. She emerged in the Forge District's lower level—a labyrinth of rusted conduits and dormant golems. The central conduit—a massive runic‐etched cylinder—rose from the chamber's floor, veins of copper and steel licking its sides. Runic lanterns hovered in midair, guiding Lyra's steps.
She pulled out a piece of chalk and stenciled a circular boundary around the Conduit's base. With breath held, she traced the lines of Elysion's temporary ward—a star-shaped design imbued with ancient sigils: Circle of Sealing, Lines of Binding, Glyph of Nullification. Each stroke demanded precision; the chalk's runic dust glowed white-hot as she moved, the runes sizzling under her fingertips. Sweat beaded on her temples. Beneath her, the very stones vibrated as if reacting to her work.
Ten minutes later, she finished the final glyph—a central seal depicting an ouroboros of intertwined runic lines. The star-shaped ward glowed, sending blue-white pulses through the runic lanterns. Lyra exhaled, stepping back.
"Azrael," she whispered, "if you're still out there… rest now."
A low hum rippled through the chamber. The copper veins surrounding the conduit thrummed with energy. For a heartbeat, everything stood still. Then the runic filaments dimmed. The ward held—just barely—but a shadow of violet flickered at its edges, like a dying ember trying to reignite.
Lyra's knees shook. She gathered her chalk, intent on returning to the surface. As she retraced her steps, she encountered a young apprentice—Imara—who gaped at her, defective runic prints marred across her apron.
"Lyra! The wraiths—they—it's happened," Imara stammered. "They're talking. They say… 'Lead us to freedom.'"
Lyra's gaze narrowed. "And they attack any guard or knight in their path." Imara nodded, tears in her eyes. "Tell Cairn to prepare the wards at the Artisan's Tower. We need every hand."
Lyra sprinted upward using maintenance ladders, her boots clanging on metal grates. By the time she emerged onto the Forge District's main level, the skies had darkened with smoke. Flames flickered in the distance as a squadron of steel-wraith sentinels, violet‐glowing, marched through the streets, weapons raised against guard patrols. Above them, the runic lanterns sputtered—some burning out entirely.
Lyra's breath hitched. Azrael's first whispers had become an uprising. Constructs across Ironhaven were rebelling.
She spotted Sigfrid around the corner, wrench in hand. "The ward—has it held?"
Sigfrid pointed to the conduit's distant outline: its runic light glowed a steady blue but flickered now and then.
Lyra swallowed. "For the moment. But we need Cairn and Malach—now."
She and Sigfrid dashed toward the Artisan's Tower. As they ran, Lyra's mind raced: If Azrael's influence spread beyond this ward, the city would fall within hours. Corvax's knights would massacre any construct. The Forge District would be a nightmare of flame and blood.
–––
In the Grand Archive's scriptorium, Malach crouched over crumbling runic tablets. The massive oak doors—sealed by runic wards—shuddered as distant tremors rattled the stacks. Lanterns overhead flickered. Scrolls and tomes piled high on the tables quivered as though alive.
Malach's fingers pored over a frayed fragment: a snippet of Elysion Veritas's original binding scroll, scorched around the edges. Lines of text in a half-forgotten runic tongue read:
"…and let the star of seven points seal the iron soul. Bind it with silver‐etched runes, lest it awaken to reclaim its lost dominion."
He muttered under his breath, inferring missing lines. He snapped the tablet into his satchel. "Just one more fragment," he whispered. "Perhaps the binding glyph inscribed on the Founding Pillar in Silverreach…"
But a sudden crash above made him freeze. He sensed movement—shadows flickering in the runic lantern light. A sentinel golem—once guardian of the Celestial Archives—had descended from its resting alcove. Its runic core shimmered violet, uncertain, and it tilted its head as though perceiving Malach.
The scholar's breath caught. "No… It cannot—" But the golem lunged. Its stone fist shattered a nearby shelf, sending tomes cascading. Malach ducked behind a reading desk, clutching his runic scroll. He could hear the golem's heavy steps echo as it closed in.
He uttered a quick incantation—a flurry of forbidden runic gestures—hoping to confuse the construct. With a crackle, a flicker of warding glyphs burst around the golem, halting its advance. It staggered, its runic core pulsing erratically.
Malach seized the moment to dash down a hidden corridor, shards of runic lantern glass crunching beneath his boots. He could feel Azrael's influence pulsing through the library's veins, calling to every runic‐inscribed statue.
Outside, in the Plaza, Lyra and Sigfrid arrived at the Artisan's Tower. Smoke and sparks drifted from the smoldering foundries. Apprentice artisans fled in terror as violet‐glowing wraiths smashed through gates, hacking down anyone in their path.
Lyra drew her wrench, eyes blazing. "We need to help Cairn hold the Tower's doors. Then find Malach."
Sigfrid nodded, grim. "Let's go."
They crashed through the tower's doors to find Cairn and a handful of apprentices fending off a squad of rebel wraiths. Cairn, using a runic hammer, carved fragments of warding runes onto the steel plates, keeping the wraiths momentarily at bay.
"Lyra!" Cairn called, voice strained. "Hurry! Set these plates into place!"
Lyra darted to the workbench, grabbing reinforced runic plates. Sparks flew as she welded them into the doorframe. The wraiths roared, their violet cores blazing, but Cairn's wards held—just barely—giving Lyra seconds to finish.
With a final roar, the front doors slammed shut, warded by molten runes. The rebel wraiths outside pounded against the reinforced walls, but could not break through immediately.
Lyra exhaled, shoulders trembling. Cairn placed a hand on her arm. "Well done."
Lyra's eyes flicked to the doorway, half‐closed. "Where's Malach? I have to find him before the Archive falls."
Cairn shook his head. "He left at dawn, hoping to salvage documents. We haven't heard from him since the tremor began."
Lyra's chest constricted. "I need to go."
Cairn handed her a small runic lantern. "This will light your path. I'll hold off Corvax's knights here. Go—find Malach." He turned, repositioning a warding pillar to strengthen the door.
Lyra nodded and burst into the smoke‐choked streets, barely noticing Sigfrid at her elbow. They wove through rebel wraith patrols, ducking behind crates and burning barricades. Wraiths marched in frightening ranks, violet‐glowing cores illuminating their cold, mechanical jaws.
At last, Lyra spotted the Grand Archive's spire looming ahead. The massive stone walls had runic cracks, flickering with failing wards. A horde of smaller automatons—militarized sentries—scanned the perimeter. Lyra swallowed, adjusting her ward. Sigfrid nodded, and they dashed across the Plaza.
A cluster of rebel wraiths guarded the main gates, but Lyra spotted an open side passage where a collapsed scaffold provided entry. She led Sigfrid through the debris, adrenaline making her heart pound.
Inside, the library was chaos: overturned tables, flaming books, and a squad of Corvax's rune-knights slashing at errant constructs. The knights—steel-plated figures with runic helms—swept through the hall, burning scrap-metal golems with elemental fire and severing tethered automatons with heavy swords.
Lyra's stomach turned as she witnessed a young automaton, its runic core flickering violet, pleading for mercy—yet the knight drove his blade through its chest. The automaton's boiler hissed, and it crumpled into molten slag.
Lyra fought back tears. "This… is Azrael's fury unleashed," she whispered. "But I must find Malach before it's too late."
She slipped down a side corridor, ward lantern glowing faint blue. From there, she spotted a back stairwell where runes burned bright. She climbed to the upper levels, her boots echoing against stone steps littered with runic debris.
At the top, past a shattered door stamped with Malach's stylized key‐and‐chain symbol, Lyra found an empty chamber—scrolls and ink pots strewn across the floor. At the desk lay Malach's runic grimoire—open, pages singed—but the scholar himself was gone.
Lyra's stomach clenched. She rifled through the desk drawers, uncovering a small scrap of parchment bearing runic directions:
"North library stacks to the Founding Alcove… shards in the binding basin."
Lyra's pulse quickened. She tucked the parchment into her satchel and dashed down another corridor. She reached the Founding Alcove—a circular chamber lined with runic statues of Ironhaven's founders. In the center stood a ruined basin where scholars once inscribed binding glyphs in molten metal. Now, that basin glowed with violet fire—Azrael's influence roiling the runes.
Lyra pressed her ward token, chanting the protective mantra Master Cairn taught her. The violet glow recoiled, giving her enough time to slip past wards and snatch three fragments of binding tablets scattered near the pedestal.
As she turned to flee, a massive golem—its runic core violet and flickering—blocked her path. Its gears ground menacingly. Lyra's breath caught, but she gripped Cairn's ward token and pressed it to the golem's core. For a moment, it paused—runic glow dancing between violet and pale blue.
Lyra seized the chance: she dashed past, racing toward the stairwell. The golem lurched to follow, but the ward's influence distracted it long enough for Lyra to reach the stairwell and descend.
At the bottom, she burst from the library into the dawn's smoky haze. Her satchel contained the binding fragments and Malach's parchment. She looked skyward: Ironhaven's battlements smoldered; wraiths soared over ramparts like dark birds of war. Corvax's knights formed lines along the Outer Gate, ready to crush any sign of rebellion.
Lyra's jaw tightened. "We have what we need," she whispered, voice trembling. "But the real battle begins tonight."
She turned and sprinted back toward the Artisan's Tower, determined to reunite with Malach and Cairn before Azrael reclaimed its full power.