The hum of the fragment deepened, like a second heartbeat hiding in the rafters. Rain drummed on the tin roof above the warehouse, each drop sharp as a pin. The smell of wet rope and rust bled into the room.
Aric still had Lyra's wrist in his hand. Her pulse was steady, almost mocking. In the glow of the echo-lamp, he saw the faint scars of thread-burn along her fingers—marks of a Weaver who'd pushed her art too far.
He let go. "If anyone else followed you…"
"No one did," she said. Her voice carried the easy confidence of someone used to slipping through nets. She tipped her head toward the satchel. "But they'll sense that thing soon. It's loud. Like a harp string plucked too hard."
Aric snapped the buckle shut. "Then we move now."
"Move where?" Lyra asked, eyes glinting. "You have a plan, Vale? Or just a shiny death sentence?"
He slung the satchel over his shoulder and strode to the back door. "The guild's scanners can't reach the sub-ducts under Pier Nine. Echo interference. If we get below the tidal grates, I can buy time to… study it."
Her brows rose. "Study it? You're already thinking like a Sanctum scholar. Those things aren't meant to be understood, Aric. They're meant to be contained."
He stopped at the threshold, looking back at her. Rain hissed down the alley beyond. "Everything's meant to be contained until someone breaks the rules."
For a moment, the only sound was the rain and the hum of the Mirror in the satchel. Then Lyra's smile returned—sharp, foxlike. "Fine. Lead the way, heretic."
They slipped out into the night.
Caldera's Reach at midnight was a maze of swaying bridges and iron catwalks slick with rain. Below, the black ocean heaved against the pylons, its surface broken by occasional glimmers of Echo light rising from the trench far beneath. Resonance Currents twisted above like veins of living color. The air smelled of ozone and fried kelp from the night markets.
Aric moved quickly, every footstep calculated. He'd memorized the guard rotations years ago. Lyra drifted beside him like a wisp of smoke, her cloak shedding rain in sheets. Once, she flicked her fingers and a thread of blue light stitched itself across a watchman's eyes; the man blinked, turned away, forgetting he'd seen them.
"You're burning Thread-Sense on something this small?" Aric murmured.
"Small?" Lyra's voice was soft but sharp. "Vale, whatever's in that bag, it's screaming across half the Reach. My fingers itch."
Aric tightened his grip on the satchel. The Mirror pulsed once, as if in response.
The grate to the sub-ducts crouched at the end of a narrow pier. Barnacles crusted the iron bars. A small shrine of driftwood and rusted coins stood beside it—a scavenger's ward. The air here was colder, carrying the sour-metal scent of the Abyss.
Aric knelt, pried the lock open with a hook knife, and swung the grate inward. "Down," he said.
Lyra wrinkled her nose. "Charming."
She slipped through first, landing lightly on the ladder below. Aric followed, boots splashing into ankle-deep water. The tunnel smelled of brine and oil. Pipes ran along the walls like veins. In the dark, the Mirror's glow leaked through the satchel's seams, silver and restless.
"Here." Aric led her to a side chamber where the water pooled knee-deep. A broken filtration fan hung overhead, blades still. This was where the Guild's scanners faltered; he'd hidden contraband here before, but nothing like this.
He set the satchel on a stone ledge. The hum filled the chamber, low and resonant. Lyra folded her arms. "Well?"
Aric opened the satchel and drew out the Mirror.
Even in the dim light, it shone like liquid mercury, folding and unfolding on itself. Whispers touched his ears—snatches of old laughter, fragments of prayer, someone's dying breath. Lyra stiffened.
"That's not a fragment," she whispered. "That's… a memory knot."
"A what?" Aric asked without looking up.
"A forbidden weave. They're supposed to be impossible. A fragment that records and transmits not just Resonance, but identity. If the Sanctum learns you have it—"
"They won't." He felt the Mirror's cool weight in his hands, the way it seemed to pulse with his heartbeat. "This could be more than a weapon, Lyra. With this, we could map every Path, every Domain. Build chords no one's ever dreamed of."
Her eyes flicked to his. "Or become a phantom before you finish your first chord."
Aric smiled faintly. "Every ascent starts with a risk."
Lyra stared at him for a long moment, then stepped closer, voice low. "If you're truly going to play this game, you'll need someone who can weave the lies to hide it. Someone who knows the Sanctum's rules."
"You volunteering?"
She extended her hand. Blue thread coiled lazily between her fingers. "On one condition. When you reach whatever summit you're climbing, you don't leave me behind."
Aric glanced at the Mirror. For an instant he saw her reflection on its surface—sharp cheekbones, bright eyes, a flicker of something like hunger. Then he clasped her hand.
"Deal," he said.
The hum deepened, echoing off the wet walls like distant thunder. Above them, faint footsteps clanged on the pier—the Guild's patrols closing in.
Lyra released his hand. "They're already hunting."
Aric slid the Mirror back into the satchel and slung it over his shoulder. "Then we move deeper. If the Guild wants to find us, they'll have to descend to where even their maps end."
A faint smile touched Lyra's lips. "You really are going to break the rules."
He started toward the dark end of the tunnel, water rippling around his boots. "No," he said softly. "I'm going to rewrite them."