Elara's "resistance" was housed in the belly of a beast. The cargo hauler was a monstrous, six-wheeled relic of a bygone industrial age, its hull a patchwork of welded armor plates and stolen chromed filigree that did little to hide its brutal purpose. The moment Kaelen crossed the threshold, the scent of ozone, hot metal, and recycled air assaulted his senses. This was not a sanctuary; it was a war-room on wheels.
The interior was a claustrophobic maze of stacked crates, weapon racks, and humming, jury-rigged technology. Wires snaked across the floor, pulsing with faint blue light. In the driver's throne sat a mountain of a man, his back to them. He didn't turn, but Kaelen felt the man's presence—a dense, grounded energy that spoke of a Loom's Foundation built for endurance, not finesse. This was Rork.
"Took you long enough," the man grumbled, his voice a low rumble like grinding stones.
"Had to convince our miracle worker," Elara replied, slapping the man's armored shoulder. "Rork, our driver and resident immovable object. Don't get on his bad side."
From a nest of holographic displays and flickering schematics, a nervous-looking young man with oversized goggles peered at Kaelen. His Nexus was a strange, flickering thing, not aligned to Matter or Space, but to something more digital. It pulsed in time with the hauler's systems. "Axiom-level energy signature confirmed," he muttered, his fingers dancing across a keyboard. "Resonance is... paradoxical. It reads as both a perfect void and an infinite source. Fascinating."
"That's Pim," Elara said. "Our tech-wizard and information broker. He's the one who confirmed the dampener transport route."
Kaelen stood awkwardly in the center of the chaos. He was the variable, the unproven weapon. Elara tossed him a grimy jumpsuit. "Get changed. Your clothes are broadcasting 'Central District refugee.' And stop leaking Aether. You're making the lights flicker."
He realized she was right. The single Thread he had spun was a raw, untamed conduit, passively pulling in the ambient energy of the hauler. He found a quiet corner behind a stack of crates labeled 'High-Explosive (Ordnance)' and changed. As he did, he focused inward. The Spark provided no technique for stealth, only for consumption. So, he had to invent one. He visualized his Thread not as a hungry mouth, but as a closed loop. He imposed a new axiom on his personal energy flow: [AETHER_CONSUMPTION = INTERNAL_CYCLE]. The drain on the environment ceased. The overhead lights stabilized. It was a tiny, controlled edit, and the strain was minimal, a gentle hum behind his eyes. He was learning.
Elara laid out the plan via a grainy hologram projected from Pim's console. "The transport is a single armored vehicle, moving through the old mag-lev tunnels beneath the Aether-Tech spire. It's a tight space, which limits their ability to deploy heavy assets. But it also limits our escape routes." She pointed a glowing finger at Kaelen. "Your job is 'contingency.' If anything goes wrong that my luck or Rork's armor can't handle, you 'un-wrong' it. I don't need a hero. I need an insurance policy."
Rork finally turned, revealing a face that was a topographical map of old scars, one eye replaced by a pulsating red cybernetic. "The Guard cultivators in that transport... they won't be Adepts. They'll be specialists. Their Looms will be stable, their techniques refined. Can your 'editing' handle that?"
Kaelen met his gaze, the memory of the Sentinel's crushing power fresh in his mind. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "But I know what happens if they get me. So I'll handle it."
Elara nodded, a glint of approval in her eyes. "Good enough. Pim, plot the course. We move at nightfall."
As the hauler's engines powered up with a deep, resonant thrum, Kaelen returned to his corner. He had hours. He closed his eyes and began to cycle. He breathed in the hauler's metallic-tanged Aether, spinning it into his First Thread. With each cycle, the thread grew stronger, more defined. He wasn't just gathering power; he was building the very frame of his being, his Loom. He could feel the structure beginning to take shape in his dantian, a fragile, crystalline lattice growing in the void. It was painstaking work, each new mote of Aether a brick laid with excruciating care. But with each brick, the hungry void within him shrank, and the screaming star of the Spark felt a little more… contained. He was no longer just a vessel for chaos. He was becoming an architect.