The Riverbed District was a graveyard of old aspirations. Houses were built on stilts over a wide, bone-dry canal. The address led to a shack nestled under a massive, dead bridge pylon.
The door was opened by a wisp of a woman with eyes as sharp as broken glass. She said nothing, just stared.
"We're looking for the Aquifer," Sage said softly.
She studied them for a long moment, then stepped back.
Inside, the air was close, smelling of dust and dried herbs. In a chair by a cold hearth sat an ancient man, wrapped in a blanket. His eyes were milky, fixed on nothing.
"Grandfather," the woman said, her voice rusty from disuse. "Visitors. About the water."
The old man's head shifted slightly. "The water doesn't visit," he mumbled. "It is. The visitors are the stones. And the sun. And the… the cutters." He spat the last word.
Sage knelt, showing him the scan of the spiral. "Do you know this song?"
The old man's trembling hand reached out, hovering over the image. A tear traced a path through the dust on his cheek. "The Stillpoint Spin. The breath before the flow. They broke the breath." He began to hum, a tuneless, wavering sound that raised the hair on Sage's arms. It wasn't music. It was an attempt to replicate a frequency.
"The cutters… with their loud, sharp notes… they make the deep water scream," the Aquifer whispered, his gaze turning inward to a memory. "The scream breeds silence. Then… the reverse flow. The black drink. The un-water."
Valentine exchanged a look with Sage. The un-water. The corrupted entropy.
"How do we stop the scream?" Sage asked urgently. "How do we heal it?"
The old man's focus sharpened for a dazzling, lucid second. His milky eyes seemed to see through Sage. "You don't stop a scream. You… you hold the space for the song to return. You find the First Note. The one under the Spire. The one they plugged."
His head drooped, the moment gone. "Plugged with a dagger of their own making… foolish…."
The woman gently shooed them out. "He is gone again. You have what you came for."
As they left, Sage felt a surge of despair. A riddle from a dying man. It wasn't a plan.