The shared flame flickered within Lysander like a candle in a drafty hall, warm yet precarious, its light casting long shadows across his thoughts as the Crucible's floodwaters finally receded to mere puddles. The envoy had dissolved into the Bone's crystal-augmented frame, leaving behind a subtle, resonant hum that vibrated through the iron struts—a pact sealed, but with an undertone that whispered of unfinished business. The air still carried the mineral tang of the Depths, mingled with the familiar scents of rust and dye, but now laced with something electric, like ozone after a storm. The Collective moved in weary unison, disconnecting the makeshift wires that had linked them, each touch sending faint sparks along their skin, a reminder of the essence diffused among them.
Brynn lowered her pipes, her breath coming in ragged bursts, the shared flame glowing softly in her eyes—a blue ember mirroring Kael's diminished one. She squeezed Lysander's shoulder, her callused fingers grounding him. "We did it. The floods stopped, winds calmed. Veridia breathes easy for now."
Lysander nodded, but the whisper echoed in his mind: *The flame grows. More sparks needed. Feed us... or we feed.* It wasn't the envoy's voice, but something deeper, hungrier, rising from the monolith below like a bass note sustained beyond measure. He glanced at Kael, who leaned against the Bone, his face gaunt but alight with a tentative wonder. The infusion—Alistair's legacy—had been diluted, distributed like a choral part among the group, but Kael's core still burned brightest, the bridge they all now shared.
Seraphine wiped her slate clean, chalk dust floating in the humid air, and scrawled: PACT HOLDS. TEST POWER?
Remy grinned through his fatigue, holding up a crystal shard wired to his file. "Aye. Let's see what this buys us. Elemental tweaks—make a loom weave wind, or a drum summon rain?"
Jax sloshed through a puddle, rod over his shoulder. "Long as it don't bite back. Felt like the Depths sipped my soul during that symphony."
Elara set her drum on a dry crate, her small hands trembling slightly from the pull. "It tickled. Like music inside my bones. Can we make good things now? Heal the slums?"
Silas, sodden and chained in the corner, his once-immaculate tails clinging like wet parchment, let out a hoarse chuckle. "Heal? Oh, children. The Depths don't heal; they hunger. Diffusion? A temporary salve. The flame will demand fuel—more essence, more sparks. Alistair thought he could tease it, and it drove him to ruin. You'll feel it soon: the itch, the pull. Feed, or be fed upon."
Lysander ignored him, though the words gnawed like a discordant motif. He approached the Bone, its frame now a hybrid marvel—iron forged in the Dump's fires, crystals birthed from ancient depths, veins coiling like living strings. The shared flame pulsed gently within him, igniting visions: composing a piece to mend cracked tenements, notes that commanded rivers to flow clean, harmonies summoning winds to power factories without soot. But beneath, the whisper lurked, a subtle hunger that made his scars itch anew.
"Let's test," he said, voice steady despite the unease. "A simple piece: mend the flood damage here. Fuse our styles with the Depths' touch."
The Collective reformed, instruments adapted to the new reality. Lysander struck a crystal strut with his mallet—CHIME—a high, pure tone that resonated through the frame, pulling elemental threads from below. The sound wasn't just auditory; it carried a tactile weight, like cool mist rising from the puddles. Brynn blew into her pipes, layering a WHIRL that evoked gentle breezes, the shared flame amplifying it to sweep the water toward drains, evaporating it in shimmering vapors. Jax tapped his rod on a bone drum remnant—THUMP—a grounding rhythm that stabilized the floor, cracks sealing with luminous veins. Remy's file rasped across a wired shard—SKRITCH-TWANG—binding the elements, crystals glowing as walls mended, looms drying in seconds.
Seraphine banged her scrap—CLANK—in punctuation, her eyes wide as banners unfurled themselves, threads weaving anew under the music's influence. Elara pounded her drum—THUMP-THUMP—a heartbeat that infused life, fungi-lights brightening to daylight hues.
The piece worked: Mending's Prelude, a fusion of surface grit and Depths' power. The Crucible transformed—puddles vanished, structures reinforced with crystal seams, the air freshened with a mineral purity. Visions bloomed in Lysander's mind: extending this to the Crescent, healing scarred streets, composing abundance from refuse.
But as the last note faded, the whisper crescendoed: *More. The flame hungers. Sparks fade—feed.* A sharp tug pulled at his core, not painful, but insistent, like a string tightening. He gasped, hand to his chest, and saw the others flinch similarly—Brynn's pipes slipping slightly, Jax rubbing his temple, Remy wincing as his file hand cramped.
Kael staggered, the brightest flame bearer, his eyes dimming momentarily. "It's... pulling. The diffusion spreads the cost, but the Depths want growth. More essence to sustain the pact."
Silas's grin widened, water dripping from his hair. "See? The beast stirs. Alistair's notes warned of it—the flame isn't static; it expands with use. Your little mending? A snack. Compose bigger, and it demands feasts. Souls, eventually."
The Crucible trembled lightly, not from flood, but a deeper rumble—the monolith stirring below, its appetite whetted. Outside, faint cries echoed: a tenement wall cracking anew, a vein leaking dissonant winds that whipped market stalls. The pact held, but the balance teetered.
Lysander steadied himself, mallet gripped tight. "We compose restraint. A piece to temper the hunger—bind it tighter."
They reformed, urgency fueling the music. Lysander led with a measured CHIME, highs to soothe the pull. Brynn's WHIRL wove calming eddies, Jax's THUMP grounding the flame's spread. But as Remy's SKRITCH bound it, the whisper roared back: *Feed or fade.* Kael cried out, flame flaring wildly, visions overwhelming him—Depths' beings demanding tribute, ancient creators sacrificed to sustain the power.
Elara dropped her drum, clutching her head. "It hurts! Like too much music inside!"
Seraphine slammed her slate: STOP. NEED MORE SPARKS?
The piece faltered, the rumble intensifying. Visions assaulted Lysander: Veridia thriving under elemental art, but at cost—one by one, Collective members dimming, essences fed to the monolith. The shared flame connected them, a beautiful web, but now a net drawing tight.
Brynn lowered her pipes, face pale. "We can't sustain this alone. The pact needs... volunteers? Or we sever it, let the Depths slumber."
Jax shook his head. "Sever? After all this? The power could end hunger, rebuild the slums."
Remy inspected a fading crystal. "But at what price? Silas ain't wrong—the hunger grows."
Kael pushed upright, flame steadying. "I bear the brunt. Let me give more—dilute further into me. Buy time."
Silas laughed bitterly. "Noble, but futile. The Depths crave fresh sparks. Outsiders, perhaps. Your revolution spreads—draw in more souls."
The door burst open, slum dwellers rushing in—smiths, weavers, urchins—drawn by the rumbles. "The veins whisper! Power calls—how do we help?"
Seraphine scrawled: VOLUNTEERS?
Lysander's heart sank, the hook twisting: the pact's power promised utopia, but demanded expansion. Feed the flame with willing essences, or watch Veridia crumble under unchecked storms. The whisper laughed: *Grow us.*
A smith stepped forward, hammer raised. "If it rebuilds our homes, take my spark."
The monolith hummed approval below, the flame flaring brighter in response. Lysander gripped his mallet, visions of a symphony vast as the city clashing with shadows of consumption. Alliance or addiction? The cadence built, voracious and unrelenting.