The vein-burst's roar faded to a gurgling echo, leaving the Crucible awash in knee-deep water that lapped against the Bone's iron legs like a restless audience demanding an encore. Blue fire sputtered along the fractured crystals, casting fitful illuminations on the faces of the Collective and volunteers alike—pallid masks of exhaustion and fear, eyes reflecting the flame's erratic dance. Lysander's mallet dripped in his grip, the brass etched with singe marks from the backlash, his scars a throbbing counter-rhythm to the monolith's distant rumble below. The whisper, though muted by their desperate recomposition, lingered like a sustained pedal note: *Descend. Feed or face us.*
Brynn hauled Elara onto a crate, her pipes steaming in the humid air, voice a strained cello line cutting the hush. "The containment held—barely. But Kael's right. We can't patch this forever. The schematics point to the source. We go down, confront the monolith, renegotiate... or sever."
Kael folded the scorched blueprints, his hands trembling, the shared flame in his eyes dimmed to embers. "Alistair's final warning: 'The heart hungers eternal. Bind it with blood, or break with blade.' We descend armed—with music, not steel. Compose a requiem to quiet it, or a dirge to end the pact."
Jax shouldered his rod, water sloshing from his boots, his graffiti-poet's frame silhouetted against the leaking wall. "Armed? With what? The Bone's cracking, our sparks drained. And them?" He nodded to the volunteers, clustered in wary groups—the smith clutching his hammer like a talisman, the weaver's shuttle dripping threads, urchins' flutes silent in their small hands.
The smith stepped forward, blue glow faint in his eyes. "We come. The flame called us; we'll face its source. For the Crescent."
Murmurs of assent rose, a ragged chorus defying the fatigue, but Seraphine slammed her scrap metal against a strut—CLANK—a sharp punctuation of dissent. Her slate, water-smudged but legible: TOO MANY. SMALL TEAM. RISK ALL.
Elara's drum thumped softly from her perch, a heartbeat underscoring her whisper. "It's dark down there. Like the music's home... but angry."
Silas's chains clinked as he shifted, his laugh a wet rasp. "Angry? The Depths are primordial appetite, uncle to your 'music.' Descend, and it claims you as kin—or meal. Alistair went once, came back raving. Sever? Impossible without sacrifice."
The whisper agreed, a low vibration through the veins: *Descend. Offer sparks. Or fracture above.*
Lysander met Brynn's gaze, the flame bridging their eyes in silent communion—their partnership, forged in Crescent chaos, now tested in abyssal depths. The visions pulled: the monolith as ally, power tamed for Veridia's rebirth; or as devourer, pact shattered in cataclysmic silence. Vulnerability, his arc's core, demanded descent—not flight, but confrontation. "Small team," he decided, voice a low thrum over the drip-drip of receding water. "Brynn, Kael, Jax, Remy. Seraphine holds here—rally the volunteers, keep the Anthem echoing above. Elara... stay safe, little one. Your heartbeat grounds us."
Elara nodded, drum thumping assent, her child's spark a beacon amid the gloom.
They armed with what the Crucible offered: mallets, pipes, rods, files—tools turned instruments, wired with crystal shards for Depths' resonance. Volunteers passed scraps—a hammer for percussion, a shuttle for strings, flutes for winds—bolstering their arsenal. The fissure in the floor, sealed momentarily by their piece, cracked anew under the monolith's call, a yawning maw exhaling cool, mineral-scented air laced with ancient echoes: faint chimes like buried harps, drums of petrified thunder.
Ropes from stage pulleys—salvaged from the Orpheum's ruins—lowered them into the abyss, the Crucible's fungi-light fading above as they descended into shadow. The air grew thicker, damper, scented with earth and ozone, walls lined with proliferating crystals that pulsed blue in sympathy to their sparks. Vein-coils snaked downward, alive with the flame's glow, guiding like luminous scores.
Lysander's boots hit the cavern floor first, the impact resonating through stone like a bass note struck. The chamber expanded before them—a vast underheart, where ancient instruments loomed in crystalline splendor: harps of glowing strings, drums of fossilized hide stretched over abyssal voids, pipes carved from bone that whistled with subterranean winds. At the center, the monolith towered—a colossal crystal, fractured with luminous seams from their prior bindings, its surface etched with runes that shifted like living notation. It hummed a requiem, deep and voracious, the whisper manifesting as audible cadence: *Feed. Bind. Or break.*
Brynn landed beside him, pipes raised like a sentinel's rifle, her breath misting in the chill. "It's... alive. Feels like the Bone's ancestor. Hungry."
Jax thudded down, rod hefted. "Hungry? Looks ready to swallow us whole."
Remy limped into place, file glinting under crystal light. "The schematics end here—Alistair's map stops at 'the heart.' We compose now, or it does."
Kael arrived last, blueprints clutched like a talisman, his flame brightest in the gloom. "The runes—frequencies. We play to them: requiem for rest, or rupture for release."
The monolith pulsed, tendrils of blue fire extending like conductor's arms, the whisper a choral demand: *Sparks. Offer. Alliance feeds on essence.*
They formed a circle around it, instruments poised in defiant ensemble. Lysander led—mallet striking a nearby bone drum—BOOM—a low dirge to challenge the hunger. His scars flared, the flame pulling—a test of will. Brynn layered pipes with a mournful WHIRL, highs pleading for temperance, winds from the pipes stirring the cavern's stale air into eddies. Jax thumped his rod against stone—THUMP-THUMP—grounding the requiem, anchoring their sparks against the pull. Remy's file rasped across a crystal harp string—SKRITCH-TWANG—binding accents that wove a sonic net around the monolith, runes glowing in response.
The piece built: Abyss's Requiem, lows to quell the appetite, highs to negotiate terms, mids fusing blood-bound alliance without endless feast. Visions shared among them: the Depths' beings emerging—luminous entities of sound and stone, ancient composers who had bound their essences to the monolith for eternal creation, now hungering for fresh sparks to sustain their symphony. Alistair's face flashed—raving, infused, a warning echo.
The monolith responded, runes shifting into melody—CHIME-BOOM—a counterpoint that tugged at their cores, siphoning subtle essences. Jax gasped, rod faltering as his spark dimmed. "It's... taking!"
Kael's keys soured, flame flaring. "Negotiate! Offer restraint, not rupture!"
The requiem peaked—BOOM-WHIRL-THUMP-SKRITCH—a roar that wrestled the monolith, runes stabilizing, tendrils retracting. The whisper softened: *Bound... in blood. Sparks spared, but pact demands tribute. One essence for balance.*
Visions clarified: sever, and cataclysm; feed one spark willingly, and temper holds eternal—power for Veridia, hunger sated on sacrifice.
Lysander's mallet hovered, the hook visceral: who to offer? Himself, the unbound composer? Kael, the bridge? A volunteer, drawn by zeal?
Silas's voice echoed from above, faint but mocking: "Choose wisely. The Depths always claim their due."
The monolith waited, runes pulsing expectantly, the abyss's requiem unresolved. Descent had begun the endgame, but the cost loomed—a soul for salvation, or all in ruin.