Midnight in Ironwood was thick with smog and the low, heavy grinding of machinery. Elias and Lyra, cloaked in the Aether-dampening wool, moved like true shadows toward the Solstus Mine's surface facility. This was the most heavily warded area in the Low City, yet they moved in silence, the cloaks muffling their already negligible arcane signature.
As they approached the main lift housing, Elias felt a surge of professional focus from Lyra—she was reviewing the pressure points of the mine's entrance wards. The central locking mechanism responds to the Steward's biometric scan and a verbal oath, she projected. We need the Steward's blood, and the oath itself.
Elias nodded, his own focus purely kinetic. He slipped away into the darkness, blending with the industrial exhaust pipes. The target was the Warden's Steward, a meticulous, elderly man named Roric, who carried the Lord's midnight wine.
Elias located Roric near the loading docks. The man was impeccably dressed, carrying a silver tray with a single, crystal goblet. He exuded the scent of expensive High City cologne, a jarring contrast to the grim surroundings. Elias moved with brutal efficiency, wrapping an Aether-dampened garrote around the Steward's throat. Roric went down without a sound, his struggle muffled entirely by the dampening material.
Lyra, waiting near the shadows, felt the entire, sickening sequence—the sudden, sharp fear of the Steward, the violent, silent force of the takedown, and Elias's utter lack of remorse. The violence was cold, necessary, and effective.
Elias quickly stripped Roric, donning the crisp uniform and cap. It fit well enough in the dim light. He retrieved a small glass vial, taking a necessary sample of the Steward's blood, then replaced the Steward's signet ring on his finger—the key to the biometric lock.
Roric is secured. Uniform acquired. Entering the facility, Elias projected.
Be careful, Ghost. Lord Cassian is known for his paranoia. He often tests the Steward's loyalty with riddles before taking the wine, Lyra warned.
Elias moved through the sterile, brightly lit corridors of the Surface Vault facility—a stark, white prison built right into the heart of the grinding mine. He reached the Warden's private lounge, a lavish room shielded by heavy, gilded blast doors.
He placed the Steward's ring on the biometric scanner. The door hissed open, revealing Lord Cassian Solstus, a large, heavy-set man with a cruel face and eyes that gleamed with avarice. Cassian sat behind a polished desk, a powerful, gold-filigreed pistol resting nearby.
"Steward Roric," Cassian drawled, not looking up from a heavy ledger. "You're three seconds late. That will cost you a fifth of your month's stipend. Set the wine down and speak the oath."
Elias placed the tray down with practiced stillness. His left hand was ready, the Spite-Viper dart concealed between his fingers.
"The oath, Steward! Don't dawdle!" Cassian snapped, finally looking up.
Elias had been prepped by Lyra. He spoke the oath, a litany of loyalty to House Solstus, in a rough, passable imitation of the Steward's voice: "May the Gilded Spire shine eternal, and the Grounders feed its light."
Cassian's eyes narrowed. "Your voice sounds rough, Roric. Did the smog finally get to your lungs? Tell me, then, Steward... what is the deepest truth of the Aether-Crystal? The one thing no Grounder must ever know?"
Elias felt Lyra's mind surge through the bond—a rapid-fire search for the specific, forbidden truth. The Crystals are not metal, they are organic. They are the planet's neurological system. The mining is causing tremors in the world's core.
Elias's lips barely moved. "They are the Veins of Aerthos. Their mining is the world's bleeding."
Lord Cassian laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Correct. A Grounder's lie, but a Solstus truth. You may pour the wine, Roric. The final toast to the Syndicate deal."
As Elias poured the thick, purple wine, the crossbow dart was already aimed. He had to disable Cassian before the Lord took a single sip, or the toxin would be useless.
He moved in a blur. The dart flicked from his fingers, a silent missile. It lodged perfectly into the soft flesh of Cassian's neck.
Cassian didn't even have time to scream. The neurotoxin was immediate. His hand, reaching for the golden pistol, froze mid-air. His eyes glazed over, the ability to control his nervous system—and his internal Aether-energy—gone.
Elias vaulted the desk. He felt a wave of triumphant relief from Lyra, followed immediately by sharp urgency. His shield is down! Get the key!
The Warden's Key was the size of a man's forearm, carved from obsidian and set with a single, continuously pulsating shard of pure, red Aether-Crystal. It was resting on a heavy display stand. Elias grabbed the key.
Meet me at the ventilation hub, Elias projected, racing out of the lounge, the heavy key cool against his palm. Ten minutes.
He found Lyra waiting in the shadows of the main ventilation shaft, cloaked and ready.
"We have to move," Elias said, pulling her toward the deep mine lift. "The poison will only hold him for twenty minutes. And the Memory-Crystal is almost a mile down."
The bond, charged by the high stakes and the adrenaline, was humming with shared purpose. They had the Key, but they were now diving into the heart of the Earth, where the magic was raw, and the dangers were legion.