Lady Eleanor's words sliced through the midnight air like a razor-sharp glissando, cutting the Anthem's lingering fragment to silence. The barricade's retuned emitter hummed faintly behind her, its warped metal groaning under the strain of conflicting frequencies—Silas's drone clashing with their defiant pulse. Guards flanked her, batons glinting in the equinox moonlight, their armored forms a rigid chorus line poised for violence. The Crescent's chant echoed distantly beyond the spikes, a ragged counter-melody of "Scrap and Sky!" that now felt perilously fragile.
Lysander's mallet hung mid-air, his grip iron-tight, the accusation reverberating in his chest like a struck gong. Kael's pallor deepened to ghostly white, his blue eyes widening in a fracture of shock—or feigned horror? Brynn's pipes whipped up, aimed at Eleanor's jeweled throat, while Jax hefted his rod with a low growl, Remy filing a quick edge on a spare wire, ready to turn it into a makeshift blade. The air thickened with tension, scented by the vein's sewage tang and the acrid smoke of nearby factory vents—a symphony of urban decay on the brink of eruption.
"You lie," Kael hissed, his voice a cracked note, stepping forward with baton still clutched from the earlier skirmish. "I never offered his head. Silas sent you to sow discord, Eleanor. To fracture us before the gala."
The lady patron's lips curled in a cold, aristocratic smile, her powdered face a mask of bored superiority amid the grime. Her cloak, embroidered with gold thread that caught the moonlight like frozen arpeggios, billowed slightly in the biting wind off the Veridian Sea. "Oh, darling Kael. Always the perfect performer. But I heard you plead in Silas's study—yesterday, as the spies say. 'Spare me, Maestro. I'll deliver Thorne's rebellion on a platter.' Pathetic, really. For Veridia's golden child to grovel like a slum rat."
Lysander whirled on Kael, the mallet descending in a swift arc that stopped inches from his brother's chest. Pain flared in his scars, a hot counter-rhythm to his pounding heart, but he held steady. Flash: The opium pouch slipped into his coat by pale hands, the flogging's lashes biting deep, Silas's cold gaze approving it all. "Is it true?" he demanded, voice low and visceral, like a bass string plucked too hard. "Did you sell us out again? For what—a return to your gilded cage?"
Kael's baton clattered to the ground, his hands rising in surrender. "No! Lys, listen—the meeting was a ruse. I fed him lies about the Bone's destruction, delayed the purge. Eleanor twists it. She's Silas's lapdog, funding his amplifiers for her own gain. Control the masses, secure her estates." His eyes darted to the lady, pleading turning to accusation. "Why else would you be here, skulking in the shadows like a failed overture?"
Eleanor's laugh was a brittle trill, echoing off the barricade. "Funding? Darling, I withdrew my patronage after your little duel. Silas's 'renewal' bores me now. Too predictable. But he offered something better: a front-row seat to the fall of rebels. And you, Kael—you're the intermission entertainment." She gestured sharply, and the guards advanced, boots crunching on gravel in synchronized menace—march-march-CLANG—like a mechanical dirge.
Brynn blew a sharp blast on her pipes—SCREE!—a high, piercing wail that shattered the nearest emitter's crystal in a spray of shards. The barricade shuddered, spikes bending with a metallic groan as the Anthem fragment surged through, slicking the ground with vibrational force. One guard slipped, armor clashing as he fell. Jax charged the next, rod swinging in a wide arc—CLASH!—connecting with a helmet in a spark of iron fury. "Not tonight, tin-cans!"
Remy tossed Lysander a coiled wire from the Bone bundle. "Tune 'em, Lys! Make the barriers sing our tune!"
Lysander caught it, wrapping the wire around his mallet like an improvised bow. He struck the barricade's base—BOOM-TWANG—a deep thrum that resonated through the iron, amplifying the chant from beyond. The spikes vibrated, humming the Filth Flow movement, filth-water bubbling up from cracks to mire the guards' advance. Eleanor staggered back, her cloak snagging on a spike, jewels scattering like discordant notes.
Kael lunged for a fallen baton, swinging it at a guard's knees—CRACK!—toppling the man. "Believe me or not, Lys—we fight now!" His strikes were precise, Conservatory-trained, each impact a calculated accent in the chaos.
Lysander hesitated, the doubt a dissonant chord unresolved. But the guards pressed on, batons whistling through the air like whips. He dodged a blow, mallet countering with a solid THUD against armored ribs. Pain lanced through his side, blood seeping anew, but the adrenaline fueled him, turning agony into rhythm. Brynn's pipes wove a protective melody, high shrills disorienting the foes, while Jax and Remy formed a brutal percussion line—CLANG-SKRITCH—driving back the line.
Eleanor retreated further, her composure cracking like thin ice. "Fools! Silas's subsonics will crush your little uprising. The gala begins at dawn—your 'anthem' will be a whimper under his boot." She turned to flee, but Lysander plucked the wire hard—TWANG!—sending a focused vibration her way. It hit like a physical wave, knocking her to her knees in the muck.
"Take her," Lysander ordered Jax, who bound her wrists with scrap cloth, gagging her protests. "She'll be our leverage. Or our proof."
The last guard fell under Remy's file-strike, the barricade now a twisted gateway humming with their music. Beyond, slum dwellers surged forward, tools and makeshift instruments raised, the chant swelling to a roar. "Scrap and Sky! Break the chains!"
Kael panted, baton dripping grime, his eyes locked on Lysander. "I swear on our parents' graves—I'm with you. Eleanor lies to divide us. Silas pitted us against each other from the start."
Lysander lowered his mallet, the wire still thrumming in his hand. The city's pulse echoed through it—veins alive with rebellion. Seraphine's spies could be wrong; shadows played tricks in Veridia. Or Kael could be the perfect spy, his precision a blade in disguise. "Prove it at the Orpheum," he said finally, voice gravelly. "Lead us in. Sabotage the amplifiers. One slip, and Brynn ends you."
Brynn nodded, pipes at Kael's back like a loaded threat. "Move, golden boy."
They pressed on through the breached barricade, the Collective's fragments joining them—workers humming Rat Song, children banging pots in Weeping Walls rhythm. The Anthem grew in the streets, a living entity seeping into cracks, countering Silas's distant horns with raw defiance.
Dawn's first light bled over the horizon as they approached the Orpheum's grand facade, its gilded arches mocking the slums' grit. Kael guided them to a side vein— a forgotten service tunnel beneath the stage, its entrance hidden by ivy like tangled sheet music. "The amplifiers are in the chandeliers and floor resonators," he whispered, prying open the grate. "Retune them to our frequency. Feed the Anthem through—turn the gala into our crescendo."
Inside, the tunnel echoed with muffled rehearsals above: Kael's concerto fragments, polished and soulless, amplified subtly with subsonics that pressed on the mind like a dulling fog. Lysander felt it tug at his will, whispering compliance, but the Bone's wire in his hand vibrated resistance, grounding him.
They emerged into the understage catacombs, a labyrinth of ropes, pulleys, and crystal nodes glowing faintly. Guards patrolled sporadically, but Kael's knowledge evaded them—hums neutralizing wards, shadows concealing their advance.
Remy wired the first node, Lysander striking it softly—DING—the Anthem seeping in like poison reversed. One by one, they retuned: Filth Flow into the floor, Rat Song into the balconies, Weeping Walls into the boxes. The Orpheum began to hum subtly, a beast awakening under Silas's nose.
But as they reached the central chandelier access, a figure stepped from the shadows: Silas himself, immaculate in tails, his obsidian eyes gleaming. "Predictable, nephews. Eleanor warned me of your little infiltration. Welcome to the finale."
Guards swarmed, batons raised. Kael froze, face ashen. Lysander gripped his mallet, the Anthem's heart beating in his veins. Betrayal or setup? The hook twisted deeper, the equinox sun rising on a stage set for blood.
Silas smiled coldly. "Play your dissonance. It ends here."