The "Foundry Veins" were a labyrinth of industry and rot, a place where the air was thick with the smell of molten lead and the desperate sweat of the "Gear-Grinders"—the lowest class of laborers who kept the city's heart beating. Silas moved through the steam-tunnels like a shadow, the "Infiltrator's Garment" responding to his refined will, making him almost invisible to the exhausted workers.
He needed a guide. Even with Kaelen's memories, the path to the "Grey Gate"—the boundary between the slums and the Spires—was a shifting puzzle of security checkpoints and Aether-dampeners.
There's a man, Kaelen's voice suggested, projecting a memory of a cramped workshop filled with ticking clocks and salvaged Aether-cores. They call him "The Tinker." He's a failed Weaver who fled the Spires twenty years ago. He knows the secret conduits that the Wardens have forgotten.
He's a rat, Drax added. But rats know where the holes are.
Silas found the workshop in a derelict corner of the district, hidden behind a false wall in a decommissioned steam-vent. The entrance was guarded by a simple Aether-lock, which Silas unraveled with a mere thought, the dark filaments of his palms making short work of the security.
The interior of the workshop was a testament to a mind that had been broken and then glued back together with genius. Hundreds of mechanical limbs hung from the ceiling, their fingers twitching in a rhythmic, uncanny dance. In the center of the room sat a man who looked like he was made of parchment and wire.
The Tinker didn't look up from the Aetheric engine he was dismantling. "The lock was a Grade-Four weave, boy. You didn't just pick it; you ate it."
Silas stepped into the light, his charcoal cloak fluttering. "I'm looking for a way to the Grey Gate. And I was told you're the only man who can find a thread the Wardens can't see."
The Tinker finally looked up. His eyes were not human; they were a complex arrangement of brass lenses that whirred as they focused on Silas. He paused, his mechanical fingers freezing over the engine.
"You... you're the Void-Soul," the Tinker whispered, his voice a dry rasp. "The boy they say unspooled a Needle-Master in the open street. I expected a monster. Instead, I see a patchwork."
"I am whatever I need to be to survive," Silas said, his double-toned voice filling the small room.
He walked toward the workbench, his presence causing the hanging mechanical limbs to twitch with a sudden, agitated energy. He placed a pouch of the gold sovereigns he had looted from Kaelen's stash on the table.
"I don't want your gold, Stitcher," the Tinker said, his brass eyes Dilating. "I want to see the scars. I want to see the way the Aether bonds with the vacuum."
Silas hesitated, then pulled back his sleeves. The elegant, geometric patterns on his palms glowed with a soft, tri-color light. The Tinker leaned in, his lenses clicking rapidly as he recorded every detail.
"Magnificent," the old man breathed. "You haven't just stolen power; you've refined the nothingness. You're a new kind of weaver, Silas Thorne. A Weaver of the End."
"Can you get me through the Gate?" Silas asked, his patience wearing thin.
The Tinker pulled back, his expression turning serious. "The Grey Gate isn't just a wall, boy. It's a filtration system. It scans for Aether-frequency. If your soul doesn't match the signature of the Spires, the gate-mechanism will rip the threads from your body before you can take a step."
"I have Kaelen's memory. I know the frequency."
"Kaelen was a gutter-broker," the Tinker scoffed. "His frequency is like a muddy puddle compared to the Spires. To pass the Gate, you need a 'Vassal-Thread'—a high-grade Aetheric signature from a noble house."
Silas thought of the name in the Ledger. "Lord Valerius. House of the Unbroken Thread."
The Tinker's lenses whirred with a sudden, fearful intensity. "Valerius? You want to jump directly into the dragon's maw? He's the one who's been funding the 'Unweaving' research. He's looking for a way to use the Void to stabilize his family's failing cores."
"He's also the one who sent the Unspun to kill me," Silas said, his voice cold. "I'm going to his estate. I'm going to show him exactly what a Void-Soul can do when it's been 'refined'."
The Tinker was silent for a long moment, the ticking of the mechanical limbs the only sound in the room. Finally, he reached into a hidden compartment in his workbench and pulled out a small, silver needle.
"This is a 'Siphon-Needle'," the Tinker explained. "If you can find one of Valerius's agents—someone with a direct link to the House's Aether-pool—you can use this to steal a fragment of their signature. Stitch that into your cloak, and the Gate will think you're a servant of the House."
"And where do I find such an agent?"
"The Spires are holding a 'Thread-Gala' tonight at the boundary," the Tinker smiled, a grim, toothless expression. "A celebration of the new god-harvest. Valerius's personal tailor, a man named Corvin, will be there to showcase the new soul-garments. He's the link you need."
Silas took the silver needle, feeling its cold, predatory weight. "And what do you want in return, Tinker? If not gold?"
The old man looked at Silas, his brass eyes reflecting the tri-color glow of the scars. "When you reach the top, Silas... when you stand before the Loom and the gods... I want you to pull one thread for me. Just one. Tell them the Tinker remembers the light."
Silas nodded, a silent pact formed in the darkness of the workshop.
He turned and slipped back into the steam-tunnels, the "Infiltrator's Garment" hiding his path. He had a target. He had a plan. And he had a silver needle that was ready to drink the blood of a noble house.
The ascent was no longer a hope; it was a countdown. And the Grey Gate was waiting to see if he was a ghost or a god.