Fallow's Reach did not see a failed mage. It saw a pair of oddly-skilled newcomers who asked for work. Elara, with her technical genius, was an obvious asset. Lyra was a harder sell until the first pump failed.
It was the main water-lifter for the settlement's eastern tier, a groaning assembly of pre-Ascent pistons and newer leather seals. It had seized solid, its central shaft fused to its bearing by a century of mineral calcification. The settlement's head mechanic, a grizzled woman named Kael, had already written it off. "Scrap," she'd spat. "We'll have to cannibalize it. Takes weeks."
"Let us look," Elara had said, her tone all polite confidence.
While Elara diagnosed the mechanics, Lyra placed her hands on the seized joint. The calcification wasn't just physical; it had a kind of stubborn, mineral will, a song of relentless, crystalline growth. The ancient metal beneath sang its low dirge of endurance. She closed her eyes, listening to the dissonance—the screeching, static cling of the lime-scale against the metal's slow lament.
She didn't try to force the shaft to turn. Instead, she poured her attention into the boundary where the two materials met. She agreed with the metal's fatigue. She whispered to the calcification that its work was done, its grip could relent. She didn't command decay; she encouraged a specific, localized dissolution—not of the strong shaft, but of the bond holding it.
A fine, white powder began to weep from the joint. It wasn't rust, but something akin to accelerated weathering. The calcification lost its cohesion, becoming brittle chalk. With a final, resonant crack, the bond gave way. Elara, ready with a wrench, gave the shaft a half-turn. It moved with a smooth, oiled sigh.
Kael stared, her skepticism replaced by shrewd assessment. "How'd you do that?"
"Applied chemistry," Elara said smoothly, before Lyra could speak. "Specialized solvent. Very rare. We'd be happy to consult on other… stubborn problems."
Word spread. The "stubborn problems" of Fallow's Reach were legion. A fungus-lamp array whose conductive veins were clogged with organic growth. A section of the perimeter fence where aggressive, metallic-vined creepers had bonded with the posts. A salvaged energy cell from the ruins that held a dangerous, erratic charge no one dared to handle.
Lyra dealt with them all. Each task was a lesson. The clogged veins required a precise, surgical decay of the clogging matter without harming the delicate glass-and-copper pathways—a lesson in finesse. The metallic vines required her to convince the living metal that it wished to retract, to sever its own connection—a terrifying lesson in affecting will, not just matter. The erratic energy cell was the hardest; she had to feel for the unstable, sputtering song of the contained power and introduce a counter-resonance of utter stillness, coaxing the energy into a dormant, safe state.
It was exhausting, visceral work. After calming the energy cell, she slept for fourteen hours, her dreams full of silent, dead batteries.
But the currency they earned was more than barter—dried travel rations, cured leather, a pair of rugged terrain boots for Lyra, and most importantly, information. In the smoky, fungal-ale haze of the settlement's lone tavern, "The Toppled Spire," old scavengers and ruin-runners traded tales.
Lyra and Elara listened, buying drinks with their growing reputation. They heard of the "Glowing Chasms" to the east, where the very air tasted of lightning and old steel. They heard whispers of "The Rust-Wind," a seasonal weather phenomenon that could strip a man's gear to powder in minutes. And they heard, in the rasping voice of a one-eyed old runner named Hob, about the "Silent Foundry."
"Aye, mark't on my map, I did," Hob wheezed, tapping a yellowed nail on their copy. "Twenty year back. Never got inside. Place ain't just silent. It's… hushing. Your tools go dead. Your compass spins. The very want to go forward drains out of ya, like water from a cracked cup. Turned back three expeditions, I did. Lost good folk to the malaise before we even saw a door."
"What causes it?" Elara asked, leaning forward.
Hob shrugged, his one eye gleaming. "Old stories say it's the Foundry's last defense. A field of… anti-will. Saps intention. Makes you forget why you came." He took a long pull of his ale. "You two thinkin' of goin' that way? You fix pumps good. But that place… it don't need fixin'. It needs rememberin'. Or maybe it needs to be forgotten for good."
That night, in their pump-house, Lyra felt the weight of the journey ahead. It wasn't just distance or monsters. It was a psychological siege.
"Anti-will," she murmured, looking at her hands. "A field that drains intention. How do you fight that?"
"You don't fight a river," Elara said, polishing a component of her Key. "You build a boat. Or you learn to swim." She looked at Lyra. "Your magic… it works on states of being. On wanting to change. What if this 'malaise' is just another state? A pervasive, external suggestion of apathy. Could you… convince yourself to resist it? Could you rust the chains of that influence?"
The idea was terrifying. To use her power on her own mind, on her own will. The potential for catastrophic error was absolute.
"I don't know," Lyra admitted, the fear stark in her voice.
"Then we find another way," Elara said, her tone practical. "We find the source of the field and break it. Or we find a path around it. Hob said they never got inside. That means we need more than a map. We need a key."
She held up the Keeper's Key, its brass gleaming. "This works on principles. On systems. The Foundry is the biggest system of all. We just need to learn its language."
Lyra nodded, but the seed of an idea, dark and compelling, had been planted. Could you rust the chains of that influence?
She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer. But the Silent Foundry, and the ghost of a melody within it, was waiting.