Lynn’s arms burned as he hauled the stolen crate through Ashhold’s shadows, the starfire ore clinking inside like a thief’s confession. Ella flanked him, her ember a faint pulse in the dark, while Lyra trailed behind, her crystal clutched tight. The east pit’s chaos faded—shouts of guards, the crackle of Ella’s diversion—but Lynn knew it wouldn’t last. They’d kicked a hornet’s nest, and the Flame Lords didn’t forgive.

“Faster,” he grunted, ducking into an alley. The crate’s weight dragged at him, but those visions—machines humming, steel bending—kept his legs moving. This was the fuel, the start.

Ella glanced back, her breath sharp. “They’ll lock the town down. We’re dead if they catch us.”

“Then we don’t get caught,” Lynn said, forcing calm. “Kael’s meeting us with Thorn. We’ve got muscle now.”

“Thorn’s a bull,” Lyra muttered, her voice tight. “Strong, but loud. Hope you’ve got a leash.”

The east pit’s edge loomed ahead, a jagged scar under a sky heavy with clouds. Kael waited there, his lanky frame hunched beside a giant of a man—Thorn. Even in the gloom, Lynn clocked him: broad as a barrel, arms thick with scars, his shaved head glinting under a flickering torch. He towered over Kael, a scowl etched deep, like the earth itself had spat him out.

“Greystone?” Thorn’s voice rumbled, low and rough. “Kael says you’re stirring trouble. That true?”

“True enough,” Lynn said, dropping the crate with a thud. “Stole this from the Lords. Need your help to make it count.”

Thorn’s dark eyes flicked to the ore, then back. “You’re the fool who blew the mine?”

“Got us out,” Lynn corrected. “And I’ll get us more—freedom, a real shot. You in?”

Thorn cracked his knuckles, a sound like breaking stone. “Lords took my sister—worked her ‘til she broke. I’d smash their skulls for free. What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Lynn said. “Just work. Hard work. We’re building something—power they can’t touch.”

“Pretty words,” Thorn said, stepping closer, looming. “Prove it.”

Before Lynn could answer, boots pounded the dirt—guards, closing fast. Ella’s ember flared. “Time’s up.”

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Move!” Lynn barked, grabbing the crate. Thorn didn’t hesitate; he snatched it from Lynn like it was a toy, slinging it over one shoulder. “This way,” he growled, charging toward a slag heap.

They scrambled over the rubble, Thorn’s bulk clearing a path, Kael darting ahead to scout. Lyra stumbled, but Lynn hauled her up, her crystal glinting as they ran. Behind them, torches bobbed—five guards, maybe more, their shouts sharp in the night.

“Thieves!” one roared. “Drop it or bleed!”

Thorn spun, his free hand snagging a rock the size of a skull. He hurled it with a grunt, and it smashed into a guard’s chest, dropping him like a sack. “Keep running,” he snarled, turning back.

Lynn’s pulse hammered, but he grinned despite it. Muscle, indeed.

They hit a narrow gorge, a dry creek bed snaking through Ashhold’s fringe. Thorn dumped the crate behind a boulder, and they crouched low, breath fogging the chill air. The guards’ lights swept close, then veered off—fooled, for now.

Kael wiped sweat from his brow. “That’s our Thorn. Brains of a brick, arm of a god.”

“Shut it,” Thorn rumbled, but there was a flicker of pride in his scowl. He looked to Lynn. “What’s this power you’re yapping about?”

Lynn tapped the crate. “Starfire. Ella lights it, Lyra shapes it, I build with it. Machines—engines—to drive the Lords out.”

“Engines?” Thorn frowned, meaty hands flexing. “Like carts?”

“Better,” Lynn said, those visions sparking again—steel beasts, roaring life. “Think a cart that moves itself, fights for us. But we need more ore, more hands.”

Ella’s ember dimmed. “You’re still dreaming. This”—she nodded at the crate—“won’t scare them. They’ve got hundreds.”

“Then we get hundreds,” Lynn said, voice steel. “Every Starborn they’ve crushed, every miner they’ve bled. We start here.”

Lyra shifted, her soft voice cutting in. “It’s not just ore. The crystals—I can make them hold power longer. Steady. But it takes time.”

“Time we don’t have,” Ella said, sharp. “They’ll hunt us by dawn.”

“Then we hit harder,” Lynn said. “Next stash is the west pit—bigger haul, tighter watch. Thorn, you up for breaking heads?”

Thorn’s grin was a crack in stone. “Born for it.”

Kael laughed, a wild edge to it. “Mad as a frostbit mule, but I’m still in.”

Lynn looked to Ella, her ember a faint glow. She met his gaze, silent for a beat, then nodded. “Don’t get me killed.”

“Deal,” Lynn said, standing. The team was rough—cynical fire, reckless wind, fragile crystal, brute stone—but it was his. His crew. His spark.

The gorge stretched west, toward the pit’s glow. Lynn led them on, the crate’s weight traded for Thorn’s strength. His mind churned—gears, heat, force—piecing together a machine from fragments of another life. It wasn’t clear yet, but it was close, teasing the edge of his grasp.

A shout echoed behind them—guards, doubling back. Lynn cursed under his breath. “Move!”

They bolted, the night swallowing them, but the tower’s red glare burned steady overhead. The Flame Lords knew something was stirring—Lynn could feel it. One crate wouldn’t topple them, but it was a start. A root, digging into ash and iron, ready to grow.

Thorn glanced back, fists clenched. “They come again, I’ll bury ‘em.”

“Save it,” Lynn said, his eyes on the west pit. “We’ve got bigger bones to break.”

The spark was spreading—slow, stubborn, and unstoppable.