The word "brother" hung in the Crucible's charged air like a suspended chord, unresolved and trembling on the edge of dissonance. Kael stood in the splintered doorway, his cloak dusted with alley grime, his alabaster features etched with shadows that the dim fungi-light couldn't dispel. His eyes—those pale blue shards that had once mirrored Silas's approval—now flickered with something raw, unguarded. Fear? Regret? Lysander couldn't tell; the Bone's lingering vibrations muddled his senses, echoing the raid's chaos in his skull.
The Collective tensed around him. Brynn raised her pipes halfway, a low hum building in their barrels like a warning growl. Jax gripped his iron rod, knuckles whitening, while Remy edged closer to the frame, file poised like a dagger. Seraphine froze mid-scratch on her slate, chalk hovering. Elara clutched her drum, small frame rigid, eyes wide as saucers. The air smelled of sweat, rust, and the acrid tang of burst vein-water—remnants of their improvised defense.
Lysander stepped forward, mallet still in hand, its brass head warm from the strikes. His popped stitch throbbed, a hot line of blood seeping through his shirt, but he ignored it. "Kael," he said, voice low and edged, like a bow drawn too tight across strings. "You send the Ironclads to smash our door, then slink in like a thief? If this is Silas's idea of a truce, tell him to shove it up his metronome."
Kael flinched, his perfect posture cracking for a heartbeat. He raised a hand—pale, unscarred, the hand of a Conservatory prince—not in threat, but placation. "I didn't send them. I followed them. Silas... he knows about the Bone. Not everything, but enough. Whispers from informants in the Crescent. He thinks it's just slum noise, a petty disruption. But if he learns the full scope..." His gaze darted to the iron frame, its copper veins still humming faintly. "That thing—it's genius, Lys. Dangerous genius. Like Father's wild experiments, but amplified."
The mention of Alistair Thorne sliced through Lysander like a jagged arpeggio. "Don't," he snarled, the mallet twitching in his grip. "Don't you dare invoke him. You stood by while Silas framed me, flogged me, cast me out. 'Brother.' What a hollow note that rings now."
Brynn shifted beside him, her presence a steady bass line grounding his rising fury. "Say your piece, golden boy," she said, pipes aimed at Kael's chest. "Then get out. We've got a Cantata to finish, and your kind aren't welcome in the score."
Kael's eyes lingered on her, a flicker of curiosity—or envy?—before returning to Lysander. He stepped fully inside, the door creaking shut behind him like a final cadence. The Crucible felt smaller with him in it, his Conservatory polish clashing against the raw chaos of looms and scrap. "I'm not here to fight. Not you. Silas is unraveling, Lys. The duel at the Orpheum—it shook him more than he'll admit. Your 'Symphony of Scars' didn't just challenge his renewal; it exposed the cracks in his empire. Patrons are whispering. Lady D'Arcy pulled her funding for the spring repertoire. And the slums... they're stirring. Your music is seeping through the veins, like poison in the water supply."
Jax barked a laugh, sharp as a cymbal crash. "Good. Let it poison the lot of them. What's your angle, pretty boy? Come to beg for mercy on behalf of your daddy?"
"He's not my father," Kael snapped, voice cracking again. He ran a hand through his silver-blond hair, disheveling the perfect waves. "Silas adopted me after... after the accident. To mold me into his image. But I'm not blind, Jax. I've seen the ledgers—the bribes to silence dissenters, the 'accidents' for artists who stray too far. Your parents, Lys... it wasn't a carriage mishap. Silas orchestrated it. Sabotaged the axle, paid off the driver. I found the records hidden in his study. Proof."
The words landed like a fortissimo strike, reverberating through Lysander's chest. He staggered back a step, the Bone's frame catching his weight. Flash: The mountain pass, fog-shrouded and treacherous. His mother's violin case tumbling into the abyss, his father's shout cut short by the crash. Silas's "condolences" at the funeral, cold as marble. "You knew?" Lysander whispered, the mallet dropping to the floor with a dull thud. "All this time, you knew and said nothing?"
Kael's face twisted, a mask of alabaster crumbling. "Not at first. I was a child, like you. Grateful for the roof, the lessons. But as I rose in the Conservatory, I pieced it together. Silas feared their 'degenerate' style would infect Veridia, undermine his control. He saw the same fire in you. That's why he framed you with the opium—my hand planted it, yes, but under his threat. 'Do it, or join them in ruin,' he said. I was weak. Afraid."
Seraphine slammed her slate down, the chalk snapping. "Afraid? You call that an excuse? While Lys rotted in the Dump, septic and broken, you played Silas's perfect sonata."
"I did," Kael admitted, meeting her glare. His voice dropped to a murmur, confessional. "But the duel changed everything. Hearing your symphony, Lys—it wasn't just notes. It was alive, visceral. Like Mother's violin keening through the storm. It woke something in me. I've been slipping information to the underground—anonymous drops about patrol routes, gala plans. That's how I knew about the raid. I tried to delay them, but..."
Remy snorted, limping forward. "Convenient timing. Prove it, Vaincre. What's Silas planning for the equinox?"
Kael hesitated, glancing at the door as if expecting shadows to creep in. "The 'Spring Renewal' isn't just a performance. It's a purge. He's rigged the Orpheum with acoustic amplifiers—hidden in the chandeliers, the stage floor. My concerto will carry a subsonic frequency, inaudible but potent. It induces compliance, dulls the will. Like the old Veridian bells that quelled riots. He'll broadcast it city-wide through the veins he's commandeered. The slums will kneel, the Collective silenced. And you, Lys... he'll paint you as the instigator, execute you publicly to 'restore harmony.'"
The revelation settled over the group like a smothering fog, thick and oppressive. Lysander's mind raced, notes swirling: subsonics, compliance, purge. It fit Silas's architecture—music as weapon, not liberation. "Why tell us now?" he demanded, pushing off the Bone. His scars burned, a counter-rhythm to his pounding heart. "What's in it for you?"
Kael met his eyes, the blue depths fracturing. "Redemption? Survival? Or maybe just... family. Real family, not Silas's gilded cage. I can't play his game anymore. Let me help. I know the Orpheum's layout, the amplifiers' weak points. We can counter it with your Cantata—fuse my precision with your raw power. Turn his purge into our revolution."
Brynn lowered her pipes slightly, but her stance remained wary. "Trust him? After everything? Lys, he's Silas's echo."
Lysander studied Kael, searching for the lie in his brother's posture, the false note in his plea. There—a tremor in his hands, the same one that had betrayed Lysander's own "instability" years ago. Vulnerability, weaponized by Silas, now perhaps turned against him. But doubt gnawed, a dissonant undertone. Was this genuine, or a trap to dismantle the Bone from within?
Elara broke the silence, her voice small but steady. "He looks like you, Lys. In the eyes. Like he's hurting too."
Jax grumbled, rod lowering. "Kid's got a point. But if he's lying, I'll bash his pretty head myself."
Seraphine scratched on her slate: TEST HIM. MAKE HIM PROVE.
Lysander nodded, retrieving his mallet. "Alright, 'brother.' Play with us. The fourth movement: Heartbeat. Show me you can feel the city's pulse, not just mimic it."
Kael swallowed, shedding his cloak to reveal a simple tunic beneath—no Conservatory finery. He approached the Bone cautiously, as if it were a wild beast. Remy handed him a spare rod, file-sharpened. The Collective formed up, instruments ready, the air humming with tension.
Lysander struck the frame first—THUMP—a low, steady beat like a heart in repose. Brynn layered a soft whistle, rising and falling like breath. Jax added rhythmic taps, Mira's loom clacking in sync. Remy rasped a subtle undertone, Elara pounding her drum in perfect time.
Kael hesitated, then struck a mid-strut—DUM-DUM—mirroring the beat but infusing it with a subtle flourish, a grace note that elevated the rhythm without overpowering it. The Bone responded, veins pulsing the sound outward, feedback returning as a faint, collective throb from the city beyond.
It worked. The movement built, a living pulse that bound them—slum grit and Conservatory polish fusing into something new. Lysander felt it in his core, a tentative harmony amid the scars.
But as the last vibration faded, a distant clamor echoed through the alley vein—not boots, but voices. Chanting. "Scrap and Sky! Scrap and Sky!" The raid had sparked something; the Crescent was awakening.
Kael's face paled. "They're coming. Silas's spies will report this. We have hours, maybe less, before he seals the slums."
Lysander gripped his mallet tighter, the hook sinking in. Alliance or ambush, the equinox loomed. And with Kael's knowledge, their Cantata might just shatter the Orpheum's foundations—or bury them all beneath the rubble.
The chant grew louder, a rising crescendo. Revolution's heartbeat, quickening.