The march-march-march pulsed through the Bone like a foreign heartbeat, intrusive and mechanical, clashing against the lingering vibrations of their rehearsal. Lysander's grip tightened on the brass mallet, its cool weight grounding him as the rhythm grew louder, transmitted through the alley vein's copper coil. It wasn't thunder; it was boots—heavy, synchronized, the kind worn by Silas's enforcers, the Ironclad Guard. The city's watchdogs, bred in the Conservatory's shadow, trained to sniff out dissonance.
"Hide the score," Lysander whispered, his voice a low thrum that cut through the Crucible's tense air. Seraphine nodded sharply, stuffing her slate into a hidden compartment beneath a loom, chalk dust smudging her fingers. Jax hefted his iron rod, eyes narrowing toward the reinforced door. Mira killed the dye pots' flames with a swift kick, plunging the space into dimmer shadows lit only by the faint glow of bioluminescent fungi clinging to the walls. Remy limped to the frame's base, file in hand, ready to sever a vein if needed. Brynn positioned herself beside Lysander, pipes raised like a sentinel's rifle, her breath steady but her knuckles white.
Elara, the youngest among them, froze with her drum, wide eyes darting to Lysander. "What if they hear us?" she murmured, voice barely audible over the approaching cadence.
"They already have," Lysander replied, his mind racing. The Bone had amplified their Cantata fragments outward—Filth Flow and Rat Song seeping into Veridia's underbelly. Had a vein leaked too far? A slum dweller turned informant for a crust of bread? Or worse—Kael's hand, subtle as a poisoned arpeggio, guiding Silas's blade. The thought twisted in his gut, a dissonant chord unresolved. He scanned the Crucible: looms tangled with half-woven banners proclaiming "Scrap and Sky," instrument scraps piled like bones, the air thick with rust and rebellion. This was their sanctuary, forged from the Dump's refuse. He wouldn't let it fall without a fight.
The marching halted outside, replaced by a heavy pounding on the door—THUD-THUD-THUD—like a metronome set to allegro furioso. "By order of the Aurelian Conservatory!" a voice bellowed, muffled but authoritative. "Open in the name of Maestro Silas Vaincre! We have reports of unlicensed assembly and sonic disturbance!"
Jax snorted, low and derisive. "Sonic disturbance. Fancy words for our music biting their asses."
Brynn shot him a warning glance. "Not the time, poet." She turned to Lysander. "We run? Or play?"
Lysander's scars itched, the fresh stitches from his flogging pulling taut—a reminder of Silas's "justice." Running meant abandoning the Bone, their heart. Playing... that could turn the veins against the intruders. He met Brynn's gaze, seeing the fire there, the same feral creativity that had drawn him to her cello in the Crescent's chaos. "We play," he decided, voice firm. "Third movement: Weeping Walls. But twist it—make it a weapon."
The Collective moved as one, a improvised ensemble honed by weeks of fusion. Remy anchored a new wire to the frame, tightening it with a twist of his file. Mira cranked her loom slowly, building a low, grinding rhythm—clack-creak-clack—like walls groaning under pressure. Jax positioned his rod at a high strut, ready for sharp strikes. Seraphine, unarmed but unyielding, grabbed a scrap of metal to bang against a vein pipe. Elara thumped her drum softly, a heartbeat underscoring the tension.
The door shuddered under another assault—CRACK—as the guards rammed it. Wood splintered, but Remy's reinforcements held, buying time.
Lysander struck the Bone's central bracket—DOOM—a deep, resonant toll that vibrated through the veins, echoing outward and inward. The sound wasn't pure; it carried the Crucible's grit, the faint wail of wind through cracks. Brynn layered her pipes over it, a keening WHINE that rose like moisture seeping from stone, high and piercing. Jax added staccato CLANGS, irregular as tears falling from a fractured facade. The ensemble built: Mira's loom accelerating, Remy's file rasping SKRITCHES like cracks spreading, Elara's drum pounding a relentless drip-drip-drip.
The Bone amplified it all, channeling the movement through the walls. Feedback looped back—faint moans from the alley vein, as if the city's tenements themselves wept. Lysander felt it in his bones, the music alive, visceral, pulling at his scars like threads in a tapestry unraveling.
Outside, the pounding faltered. "What in the depths is that?" a guard muttered, voice filtering through the door. "Sounds like the walls are... crying."
"Push through!" their leader barked. "It's just slum tricks!"
But the Cantata swelled, Lysander directing with sweeps of his mallet. He struck again—DOOM-DOOM—infusing it with his buried rage, the memory of his parents' final performance: Elara's violin screaming defiance, Alistair's piano thundering like a storm. This was their legacy, weaponized—not chaos, but controlled fury. The veins carried the sound outward, but also inward, vibrating the door's frame until the wood groaned audibly.
CRACK! The door buckled inward, splinters flying like shattered notes. Five Ironclad Guards burst through, armored in gleaming breastplates etched with Conservatory sigils, batons raised like conductor's wands. Their leader, a burly man with a scar bisecting his brow, scanned the dim space. "Lysander Thorne! By the Maestro's decree, you're under arrest for inciting discord and unlicensed composition. The rest of you—disperse or face the lash!"
Lysander didn't flinch. "Discord?" he echoed, voice amplified by the Bone's resonance. "This is harmony, you fool. The city's true voice."
The guards advanced, boots clanging in unintended rhythm with Elara's drum. But as they crossed the threshold, the Weeping Walls hit its crescendo. The sound poured from the veins—WHINE-CLANG-SKRITCH-DRIP—intensifying, pressing against eardrums like a physical force. The leader winced, clapping a hand to his helmet. "Shut it down!"
One guard lunged at Mira's loom, baton swinging. Jax intercepted, his rod CLASHING against the weapon in a spark of metal. "Not today, tin-man." He shoved back, graffiti-poet's strength surprising the enforcer.
Brynn blew a sharp blast on her pipes—SCREE!—directed at another guard, the high pitch shattering a nearby jar of dye, splattering viscous red across his armor like blood. The man staggered, ears ringing.
Lysander hammered the frame—BOOM-BOOM-BOOM—channeling the Bone's power. The vibrations shook the floor, dislodging dust from the rafters. A vein pipe burst open near the door, spewing a gout of foul water—filth flow made real—that slicked the guards' boots, sending one slipping to his knees.
Remy, from the shadows, filed a wire taut and plucked it—TWANG!—a low hum that resonated with the guards' armor, making their breastplates vibrate uncomfortably, like being inside a struck bell.
Seraphine banged her scrap metal—CLANK-CLANK—adding chaotic punctuation, her eyes fierce. "For the Crescent!" she shouted, voice cutting through the din.
The leader recovered, baton cracking against Jax's rod. "Enough!" He charged Lysander, face twisted in rage. Lysander dodged, mallet swinging in an arc that connected with the man's helmet—DONG!—the impact sending a jolt up his arm. The guard reeled, but pressed on, grabbing Lysander's coat.
Pain flared in Lysander's side, stitches straining. He twisted free, breath ragged. "You hear that?" he gasped, as the Cantata looped back stronger. "That's Veridia weeping—for your Maestro's lies."
Brynn leaped between them, pipes blasting a focused WHISTLE that pierced the leader's eardrums. He howled, dropping his baton to clutch his head.
The other guards faltered, the sound overwhelming—walls seeming to close in, tears of condensation dripping from the ceiling as if the Crucible itself mourned. One turned tail, fleeing into the alley. "It's cursed! The slums are alive!"
"Retreat!" the leader snarled, backing away, blood trickling from his ear. "But this isn't over, Thorne. The equinox will silence you for good."
They withdrew, dragging their fallen comrade, the door hanging askew like a broken string. The Collective held their positions, breaths heavy, the Cantata fading to echoes.
Lysander slumped against the Bone, mallet clattering to the floor. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the raw exhilaration of music as weapon. Blood seeped through his shirt; a stitch had popped. "We held," he murmured, meeting Brynn's eyes. She nodded, pipes lowering, a bead of sweat tracing her cheek.
"But they know now," Remy said, inspecting the damaged vein. "Silas will send more. And stronger."
Seraphine retrieved her slate, scratching furiously: WALLS WEEP FOR THE OPPRESSED. "We'll spread it. Turn this raid into legend."
Jax rubbed a bruise on his arm, grinning fiercely. "Our Cantata just got its first audience. And they ran."
Elara set down her drum, eyes wide but shining. "It worked. The music... protected us."
Lysander pushed upright, ignoring the pain. They had repelled the iron boots, but the march echoed in his mind—a prelude to greater assault. The equinox gala loomed, Silas's "Spring Renewal" a facade for control. And Kael... had he whispered the Crucible's location? The betrayal stung anew.
A faint vibration hummed through the Bone—not from their playing, but incoming. A new sound, distant but approaching: a single set of footsteps, lighter, hesitant. Friend or foe?
Brynn raised her pipes again. "More company. But this one's alone."
Lysander tensed, mallet in hand once more. The door creaked open, revealing a cloaked figure in the alley's gloom. The hood fell back, exposing a face pale as alabaster, eyes haunted.
Kael.
"Brother," he whispered, voice cracking like a flawed note. "We need to talk. Before Silas destroys us both."