The discovery that her love-born magic could interact with the palace's physical structure haunted Elara through a sleepless night. She lay on the cloud-bed, her fingers tracing the memory of the crystal wall thinning beneath her palm. A lockpick. Not a weapon, but a key. The thought was treasonous, terrifying, and the only thing that offered a sliver of light in the oppressive dark.
At dawn, Nissa arrived with forge-appropriate attire: a fitted suit of heat-resistant, grey-silver fabric, and sturdy boots. "The King awaits you at the Central Transit Hub," the maid said, her eyes avoiding Elara's. The entire palace seemed to hum with a different tension today, a industrial pulse that thrummed through the very floor.
Orion was waiting beside a sleek, enclosed sky-rail pod. He wore similar practical gear, though his was edged with platinum thread. "Today, you see the engine room of eternity," he said, ushering her inside. The pod shot forward on a magnetic track, speeding through transparent tubes that offered dizzying views of Astralis's industrial underbelly—vast docking bays for asteroid-haulers, shimmering coolant reservoirs, and towers venting controlled plasma into the void.
The Solar Forges were not a single location, but a constellation of linked facilities orbiting a captive white dwarf star—a dying sun held in a permanent state of energetic decay by immense gravity-manipulation fields. The main forge complex was a ring-shaped station of black iron and glowing orange viewports, built around the searing heart of the dwarf.
The heat hit Elara first, even through the climate-controlled transit tube. It was a dry, aggressive heat that vibrated with raw power. The air smelled of ozone, molten metal, and something acrid—sweat and fear.
Lord Solarius met them at the primary observation deck, a blister of reinforced crystal overlooking the main forge floor. Below, a cavernous space roared with activity. Rivers of molten stellar metal, siphoned from the dwarf's corona, flowed in glowing channels. Massive, automated arms wielded tools that sculpted white-hot ingots into ship hulls, weapon cores, and power conduits. And everywhere, there were workers.
Terra-born laborers, hundreds of them, clad in shimmering heat-shield suits. They guided machinery, monitored flows, and scrambled across ganties over pits of liquid fire. Their movements were precise, hurried, fearful. Overseers in Solarius's livery, marked by glowing orange armbands, patrolled with data-slates and shock-prods.
"Efficiency is at eighty-nine percent," Solarius reported to Orion, his voice almost lost in the industrial din. "The new conscription batch from the Lyrian cluster has improved output, though the mortality rate in the first week is… suboptimal. Twenty percent."
Orion gazed down, his face lit by the hellish glow. "Unacceptable waste. Improve the conditioning protocols. The metal is useless without hands to shape it."
Elara's stomach churned. Mortality rate. They were discussing people dying as a production metric. Her anger, that volatile fuel Solarius had disparaged, ignited in her chest, hot and bright.
"You use Terra-born as… fuel?" she asked, her voice tighter than she intended.
Orion glanced at her. "I use all available resources to their maximum potential. Their physical resilience is a resource. Their lives are given purpose in service to a greater celestial order." He pointed to a section where a new hull plate was being formed. "That metal will become part of a Starward dreadnought. It will keep the peace across three star systems, protecting millions of lives—Terra and Celestial alike. Is the sacrifice of a few hundred to save millions not a valid calculus?"
It was the same brutal logic from the library, applied on a monstrous scale. Before she could form a retort, a screaming alarm cut through the roar.
On the floor below, a containment channel for liquid hexium had ruptured. A geyser of molten, blue-white metal erupted, spraying across a gantry. Workers screamed, scattering. One wasn't fast enough. The hexium splashed across his leg. His heat-shield suit flared and failed. He fell, his shriek a brief, awful sound before it was swallowed by the forge's thunder.
Overseers shouted, activating emergency protocols. Robotic arms descended to seal the rupture. Medical drones zipped toward the fallen worker, but it was clearly too late. The man was dragged away, a smoldering ruin.
The production line slowed for barely a minute before resuming its frantic pace. The other workers, faces hidden behind visors, moved even faster, their terror palpable.
Elara stood frozen, the image of the burning man seared into her mind. The anger in her chest wasn't just hot now; it was a supernova, threatening to crack her ribs. She felt energy crackle at her fingertips, a desperate, violent urge to shatter the observation glass and rain destruction down on this hellish place.
Orion's hand clamped on her shoulder. His touch was like ice, dousing the immediate fire. "Control it," he hissed in her ear. "This is the reality of power. It is forged in fire and paid for in blood. Your anger is useless here unless you can channel it. Look."
He forced her gaze not at the tragedy, but at the result. The hexium flow was already restored. A new hull plate, flawless and glowing, was being lifted from the mold. "One life. One plate. The dreadnought will have thousands. The equation holds."
Solarius watched Elara's reaction with avid interest, his forge-fire eyes noting the flicker of power at her hands. "Volatile," he murmured, not to her, but as a note to himself.
The tour continued, a descent into an inferno. They visited the smelting pits, the annealing chambers, the quantum-hammer forges where gravity itself was the tool. Everywhere, Elara saw the strained, terrified faces of Terra-born laborers, their wills broken into repetitive motion. She also saw the cold, efficient cruelty of the overseers and the staggering, awe-inspiring products of this suffering: engines that could move continents, weapons that could crack moons, shimmering power cores that lit entire cities.
Her anger settled into a hard, cold diamond in her gut. It didn't fade; it crystallized. This was the true cost of Orion's stars. This was the engine of his "order."
During a walk through a quieter corridor lined with shimmering, finished power rods, they passed a squad of Starward Guards, not Orion's personal detail, but regulars. At their rear, pushing a cart of used coolant canisters, was Kaelen.
His eyes, shadowed with exhaustion and grime, found hers. The cart wobbled. One of the guards shoved him. "Watch it, grime."
Kaelen righted the cart, his jaw clenched. But as he passed Elara, his fingers brushed against a power rod on a low shelf. He didn't look at her, but his touch was deliberate. When he moved on, Elara saw it—a tiny, almost invisible smudge on the rod's pristine surface. A fingerprint, but in a specific pattern. Three short lines, a dot. The old Lyrian sign for "listen."
Her heart hammered. He was risking everything to send her a message. Listen. To what?
Orion and Solarius were ahead, discussing output quotas. She slowed, pretending to examine the power rods. She placed her hand near Kaelen's mark, letting her love-born magic, her connection to him, to home, subtly resonate.
And she heard it. Not with her ears, but in her mind—a faint, psychic echo Kaelen had left behind, a desperate whisper imprinted by his touch and her magic: "Vent shaft G-Seven. Gryffin. Moon-cycle's turn."
Then it was gone. The echo dissipated. She pulled her hand back, trembling.
"Elara." Orion's voice cut through her shock. He was watching her, his eyes narrowed. "Is something fascinating about the rods?"
"Their… density is surprising," she managed, falling back on sterile observation. "The energy containment must be remarkable."
Solarius looked pleased. "Indeed. A six-month yield from a single dwarf-star feeding. Efficiency."
They moved on, but Orion's gaze lingered on her a moment longer, suspicious.
The rest of the tour was a blur. Elara's mind raced. Vent shaft G-Seven. Gryffin. Moon-cycle's turn. It was a meeting. A time. Kaelen and the old custodian, Gryffin, were planning something. And they wanted her to listen? Or to be there?
The implications were staggering—and terrifying. If she were caught…
Back in the Spire that evening, the horrifying sights of the forges warred with the frantic hope of Kaelen's message. She was trapped between two abysses: the crushing reality of Orion's empire and the deadly gamble of resistance.
Nissa brought her dinner, but Elara couldn't eat. When the maid left, Elara went to the crystal wall. She needed clarity. She needed to see them.
Focusing on the love, the aching worry for Kaelen and her family, she placed her palm on the wall. The crystal clouded.
She saw Lyria first. Her home. Seraphina was in the back room, the one with the vent. She had a small, illegal lumen-cutter in her hand, and she was carefully, silently, scoring the seal around the vent grate. Her face was a mask of intense concentration. Loras stood watch at the door, ear pressed to the wood, listening for the guards outside. Althea paced, wringing her hands but staying silent. They were acting. Moon-cycle's turn was soon.
The vision shifted. She saw the custodial barracks in Astralis. Kaelen and Gryffin were in a shadowy corner, near a large, grimy vent cover marked G-7. They spoke in absolute silence, using hand signals. Gryffin pointed to a schematic scratched into the dust on the floor—a map of the palace's lower ventilation network. Kaelen nodded, pointing to a specific junction. Then Gryffin handed Kaelen something small and metallic—a broken piece of a mirror? A tool?
The vision faded. Elara was left breathless. It was real. A coordinated effort. Seraphina was preparing an escape route in Lyria. Kaelen and Gryffin were planning something inside the palace. And they had given her the time and place.
Moon-cycle's turn. In two nights, when the larger of Aethel's two moons eclipsed the smaller, a celestial event that happened like clockwork.
Her secret magic had given her their secret. But what was she supposed to do? Could she even reach Vent Shaft G-Seven? Her movements were restricted. The Spire was watched.
As she pondered, a different kind of echo reached her—not from the crystal, but from the palace itself. A surge of energy, familiar and angry. It came from the direction of the royal quarters. Orion was using his power. Not in practice, but in fury. She felt it ripple through the celestial energies of the palace, a wave of dark, controlled wrath.
Shortly after, Captain Lyra arrived at her door, her silver eyes grim.
"The King requires your presence in the Hall of Judgment. Immediately."
Dread, cold and sharp, replaced all other thoughts. Had he discovered Kaelen's message? Had the loyalty audits already borne fruit?
The Hall of Judgment was lit by harsh, white light. Orion stood on the dais, not sitting. Before him, on his knees, was a young Terra-born custodian Elara didn't recognize. He was shaking, his face bloodied. General Rigel stood to the side, looking satisfied.
"This worm," Orion's voice was soft, deadly, "was caught transmitting unauthorized signals on a scavenged comms unit. To Lyria." He looked at Elara as she entered. "He claims he was merely sending love letters to a sweetheart. A pathetic lie."
Orion descended the steps. He placed his hand on the trembling boy's head. "I could shatter his mind for the truth. But I prefer a more… instructive method." He looked at Elara. "You have learned to channel anger into energy. Now, you will learn to channel it into truth. Break his will. Make him tell you who he was truly contacting."
Elara stared, horrified. "I… I can't."
"You can. And you will." Orion's gaze was inexorable. "This is the next lesson. Power is not just creation. It is compulsion. It is dominion. Use your anger. The anger you felt in the forges. Focus it on him. Extract the truth."
The boy wept openly. "Please, milady… I didn't…"
General Rigel smirked. "Do it, girl. Or the King will find you a… less cooperative subject. Perhaps the cartographer boy."
The threat was explicit. It was Kaelen or this stranger.
Elara's hands trembled. The cold diamond of anger in her gut was there. The forges had fed it. Orion's cruelty fed it. She could feel the power, wanting to lash out. But to use it like this? To torture?
Orion's voice was a hypnotic whisper in the silent hall. "The truth safeguards the realm. Your family's safety depends on the realm's stability. Is his lie worth their peril? Use your power. For order. For them."
It was a twisted, brutal logic. He was making her complicit. Binding her to his regime not just through fear, but through her own actions.
Tears of shame and rage blurred her vision. She looked at the terrified boy, then at Orion's expectant face, then at General Rigel's cruel smile.
She raised a shaking hand toward the prisoner, the air around her fingertips beginning to crackle with blue-white energy—the anger-made-manifest. The boy whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.
Inside, Elara screamed. She was about to cross a line from which there might be no return. The lockpick of her love-magic felt useless in the face of this demand for a weapon.
But she had no choice. For Kaelen. For her family.
She unleashed the power.