The smelter’s smoke hung like a shroud as Lynn’s crew regrouped inside, the dawn’s gray light filtering through the blasted wall. The Starlight Engine’s pipe glowed faintly, its cracked shell a testament to their near-miss. Ella doused her ember, her face streaked with soot, while Kael poked the wreckage, whistling low. Thorn leaned against a crate, his fists still clenched, and Lyra sat cross-legged, scribbling notes by crystal-glow. The guards were gone—Seryn with them—but Ashhold’s horns droned on, a warning hum in the distance.

“We’re alive,” Kael said, grinning. “That’s a win, right?”

“Barely,” Ella muttered, rubbing her singed sleeve. “Your engine’s a death trap, Greystone.”

“It held,” Lynn said, crouching by the pipe. “Crystals worked, fire hit hard. We’re close.”

“Close to roasting,” she shot back, but her tone softened—grudging respect, maybe.

Lyra looked up, her voice steady. “She’s right—it’s unstable. The crystals can’t take full heat yet. We need tighter seals, better metal.”

“Where?” Thorn rumbled, kicking a rusted bar. “This junk’s all we’ve got.”

Lynn’s mind churned, those Earth visions flickering—steel frames, rivets locking tight. “The Lords’ forge,” he said. “They’ve got real stock—plates, rods, not this scrap.”

Kael’s grin faded. “The forge? That’s their heart—guarded like a king’s vault.”

“Then we hit it,” Lynn said, standing. “Bigger haul, bigger risk. We’ve got teeth now—time to bite.”

Ella’s ember flared. “You saw Seryn out there. She’s onto us—next time, she won’t run.”

“Seryn,” Lynn echoed, his arm tingling where her chill had struck. She’d faltered twice—hesitant, almost human. “She’s a crack we can split.”

“A snake,” Ella snapped. “She’ll sell us out again.”

“Maybe,” Lynn said. “Or maybe she’s breaking. We find out.”

Thorn grunted. “Find out how? Bash her ‘til she talks?”

“No,” Lynn said, sharp. “We watch. She’s Starborn—hates the Lords as much as us, deep down. If we turn her—”

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“You’re dreaming,” Ella cut in. “She’s their dog.”

“Dogs bite their masters sometimes,” Lynn said, holding her gaze. “We’ve got no choice—five of us won’t topple that tower alone.”

Kael scratched his chin. “Risky, mate. She could lead ‘em straight here.”

“Then we move,” Lynn said. “Hide the ore, scout the forge. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Lyra’s pencil stopped. “We’re burned out—literally.”

“No rest ‘til they’re scared,” Lynn said, voice hard. “They’re waking up—we wake faster.”

Thorn cracked his knuckles. “I’m game. Smashing Lords beats sitting.”

Kael shrugged, a spark in his eyes. “Crazy’s my flavor.”

Lyra sighed, tucking her notes away. “I’ll refine the crystals. We’ll need ‘em.”

Ella’s ember dimmed, but she nodded. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Lynn exhaled—ragged, but together. “Good. Kael, Thorn, stash the ore—deep in the smelter. Lyra, Ella, pack the gear. I’ll scout.”

They split, the smelter humming with purpose. Lynn slipped outside, the air cold and sharp, Ashhold stirring under a bruised sky. Miners trudged to the pits, overseers barking, but the tower’s red glare burned brightest—watching, waiting. He ducked into an alley, tracing the forge’s smoke trail west, when a shadow moved—soft, deliberate.

Seryn.

She stood by a slag heap, her cloak tattered, hands glowing faint. No guards, no trap—just her, staring at him with those haunted eyes. Lynn tensed, gripping a shard of pipe in his pocket.

“You’re a fool,” she said, voice barely above the wind. “That fire won’t save you.”

“Saved us already,” Lynn said, stepping closer. “Why’d you run?”

Her glow flickered. “I didn’t—I let you go.”

“Why?” he pressed, watching her flinch.

She looked away, jaw tight. “You’re stirring ash that won’t settle. They’ll crush you—us—all of it.”

“Us?” Lynn caught it, leaning in. “You’re Starborn. They own you, not your soul.”

“They own everything,” she whispered, hands trembling. “I tried fighting—once. Got me nothing but scars.”

“Scars heal,” Lynn said. “Help us, Seryn. You know the forge, the guards. Turn that glow on them.”

Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and raw. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking you to choose,” he said, low. “Die their dog, or live our fire.”

She froze, breath hitching, then stepped back. “You’ll regret this.” Her glow flared, and she vanished into the alleys—running, not fighting.

Lynn cursed under his breath. A crack, but not broken—not yet. He’d plant the seed, see if it grew.

Back at the smelter, the crew was ready—crates buried, gear packed. Kael slung a sack over his shoulder, Thorn hefted a bar like a club, and Lyra tucked crystals into her coat. Ella met him at the door, her ember steady.

“Saw her,” Lynn said, quiet. “Seryn. She’s wavering.”

“Wavering’s not enough,” Ella said, sharp. “Next time, I’ll burn her.”

“If it comes to it,” Lynn said. “Forge first. West gate, midnight. Ella, you’re the flare—Kael, scout—Thorn, muscle—Lyra, backup.”

They nodded, a ragged line in the smoke. Lynn’s chest tightened—not fear, but weight. His crew, his spark, teetering on a knife’s edge. Those visions burned—wheels, steel, a roar to split the sky. The forge would give them bones; Seryn might give them a chance.

“Move,” he said, leading them out. The smelter’s heart pulsed behind, faint but alive, as Ashhold’s horns droned louder. The Flame Lords were coming—Lynn felt it in his bones. But cracks were spreading, in ash and iron, and he’d hammer them wide open.