Lynn Greystone’s world was crumbling—literally. The mine’s walls groaned like a dying beast, stone splintering overhead as the tremor hit. Dust choked the air, thick and acrid, stinging his lungs with every ragged breath. His lantern flickered, its weak glow swallowed by the dark, but he could still hear the screams. They were fading now, buried under the rubble alongside the other miners.

He clawed at the debris, hands slick with sweat and blood, nails scraping against jagged rock. Not like this, he thought, teeth gritted. I’m not dying in this hole. At twenty-six, he’d spent half his life hauling starfire ore from Aetherlan’s guts for the Flame Lords—fat nobles who’d never seen a pickaxe. He’d always figured he’d go out swinging, not crushed like a bug.

Another rumble shook the tunnel, and a slab of ceiling slammed down inches from his head, spraying grit into his eyes. He cursed, blinking through the haze, and that’s when he saw it—a faint shimmer in the chaos. A chunk of starfire ore, no bigger than his fist, pulsed with a dim, crimson glow. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Starfire didn’t burn on its own; it needed a Starborn to wake it. And Lynn knew exactly where to find one.

“Ella!” His voice cracked, hoarse from shouting. “Ella, damn it, where are you?”

A cough answered him, faint but close. He scrambled toward it, shoving aside a broken beam, and there she was—slumped against the wall, her dark hair matted with dust, amber eyes half-lidded. The Starborn girl was barely conscious, her wrists still raw from the shackles she’d worn until yesterday. She clutched a glowing ember in her hands, a tiny flame flickering between her fingers like a heartbeat.

“Stay with me,” Lynn rasped, dragging himself closer. “We’re getting out of this.”

Her gaze sharpened, cutting through the haze. “Why should I trust you?” Her voice was low, edged with suspicion. Starborn didn’t trust easy—not after a lifetime of chains.

“Because I’m not dying here, and neither are you.” Lynn’s mind raced, snagging on something strange—flashes of another life, alien and sharp. Blueprints of steel machines, engines roaring with power, a world he’d never seen but somehow knew. He shook it off, focusing on the ore. “That fire of yours? It’s our ticket out. Can you ignite this?”

Ella stared at him, then at the starfire in his hand. “It’ll kill us both if it goes wrong.”

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“Then don’t let it go wrong.” He met her eyes, steady despite the tremor rattling the mine. “I’ve got a plan.”

She hesitated, then nodded once, sharp and decisive. Her ember flared brighter as she pressed it to the ore. A spark leapt between them, and the mineral blazed to life—a searing red flame that scorched the air. Lynn flinched but held steady, his mind spinning through those foreign memories. Explosions weren’t new to him—not anymore. He’d seen them in that other place, controlled bursts of force bending the earth to man’s will.

“Over there,” he said, pointing to a cracked wall ten feet away. “Aim it there. Hard.”

“You’re insane,” Ella muttered, but she obeyed. She thrust her hands forward, and the fire roared outward, a blazing spear slamming into the stone. The wall shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing outward—but it didn’t give. Not yet.

“Again!” Lynn barked, scrambling to his feet. “More!”

Ella growled, her ember flaring into a torrent of flame. The heat singed Lynn’s skin, but he didn’t care. The second blast hit, and the wall exploded in a deafening boom, showering them with shards. Beyond it, a sliver of gray light pierced the dark—the surface. Freedom.

“Go!” Lynn grabbed her arm, hauling her up. She stumbled, weak from exhaustion, but he didn’t let her fall. They staggered through the breach, rocks tumbling behind them as the tunnel caved in for good. Fresh air hit his face, cold and biting, and Lynn collapsed onto the frost-dusted ground outside, Ella dropping beside him.

For a moment, they just breathed—harsh, ragged gasps under a sky bruised with storm clouds. Ashhold sprawled below them, its ramshackle huts and smoking chimneys a grim welcome. The Flame Lords’ tower loomed over it all, a spike of black stone against the horizon. Lynn’s hands clenched. He’d escaped the mine, but not the cage—not yet.

Ella shifted, her amber eyes narrowing. “You’re not one of them. The overseers. Who are you?”

“Lynn Greystone,” he said, wiping blood from his brow. “Just a miner. Or I was.”

“You knew what to do with the starfire,” she pressed. “No miner knows that.”

He didn’t answer right away. Those flashes—gears, pistons, a life of steel and smoke—still churned in his head, sharp and impossible. “I don’t know what I know,” he admitted finally. “But I saw something down there. A way to use that fire. Not just to survive—to fight.”

Ella snorted, but there was a flicker of interest in her gaze. “Fight? Against who? The Flame Lords? The Frostreavers? You’ll die faster than you did in there.”

“Maybe.” Lynn pushed himself up, staring at Ashhold’s flickering lights. “But I’m done scraping by. That ore, your fire—it’s power. Real power. And I’m going to use it.”

She watched him, her ember dimming in her palm. “And what about me?”

“You’re in or you’re out,” he said, offering a hand. “But if you’re in, we’re building something bigger than this pit. Together.”

Ella’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. She took his hand, her grip firm despite the tremble. “Don’t get me killed, Greystone.”

“Deal,” he said, and in the distance, Ashhold’s shadows seemed to shift—just a little.