The old smelter crouched on Ashhold’s edge like a forgotten beast, its rusted shell half-sunk in the dirt. Lynn led the crew through its broken maw, the air thick with damp rot and echoes of long-dead fires. Thorn dumped the stolen crates with a clang, starfire ore spilling into the gloom, while Ella’s ember cast jagged shadows across the walls. Kael whistled low, kicking a dented pipe, and Lyra knelt by the haul, her crystal glinting as she studied it.

“Home sweet home,” Kael said, grin crooked. “Smells like a dead rat’s dream.”

“Better than a cell,” Lynn said, scanning the space. The smelter’s belly was a maze of pipes and forges, its iron bones bent but solid—perfect to hide their work. Those visions pulsed in his skull—gears meshing, heat roaring—closer now, teasing a shape he could almost grasp.

Thorn flexed his bruised hands. “What’s next, Greystone? You said build—build what?”

“Starlight Engine,” Lynn said, crouching by the ore. “Starts with this. Ella lights it, Lyra shapes it into something steady—crystals, like she said. Kael, Thorn, we rig a frame. It’ll move, fight, give us teeth.”

“Teeth?” Thorn’s scowl cracked into a grin. “I like teeth.”

Ella crossed her arms, her ember dim. “You’re still vague. Move what? Fight how?”

Lynn hesitated, the visions flickering—half-formed, maddening. “I don’t have it all yet,” he admitted. “But I’ve seen it—steel beasts, powered by fire. Like a cart, but alive. We start small, figure it out.”

“Figure it out?” Ella’s voice sharpened. “We’re risking our necks on guesses?”

“Worked in the mine,” Lynn said, meeting her glare. “Got us here.”

“Barely,” she shot back, but her ember steadied—a grudging truce.

Lyra traced a crystal’s edge, her soft voice cutting in. “Starfire’s raw—wild. I can shape it, but it needs a vessel. Pipes, maybe, to channel the heat.”

“Good,” Lynn said, seizing it. “Kael, scavenge what you can—pipes, plates, anything solid. Thorn, clear a forge. We’ll need space.”

Kael saluted, darting off, while Thorn lumbered to a rusted furnace, ripping its door free with a screech. Ella watched, silent, then knelt by the ore. Her ember flared, igniting a chunk—flame leapt high, licking the ceiling, and the smelter glowed red for the first time in years.

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“Hotter than a devil’s spit,” Kael said, returning with an armful of scrap—bent pipes, a cracked plate. “This do?”

“Start with it,” Lynn said, grabbing a pipe. He fitted it to the forge, crude but firm, his hands moving like they knew the dance—those Earth memories guiding him. “Ella, feed it slow. Lyra, crystal when it’s steady.”

Ella nodded, her fire curling into the pipe, while Lyra pressed a crystal to the ore’s edge. It shimmered, hardening into a glassy shard—small, but stable. The pipe trembled, heat pulsing through it, and a faint hum rose—a heartbeat in the iron.

“It’s working,” Lyra breathed, eyes wide. “The crystal’s holding it.”

Lynn’s grin broke free. “That’s it—the spark. We scale it up, make it move.”

“Move?” Thorn rumbled, peering at the setup. “Looks like a drunk’s toy.”

“Give it time,” Lynn said. “This is just the heart.”

Kael laughed, clapping Thorn’s shoulder. “Wait ‘til it bites, big guy.”

The hum grew, then sputtered—smoke billowed, acrid and thick, as the pipe cracked under the strain. Ella yanked her fire back, coughing, and the glow died. Silence fell, heavy as the ash settling around them.

“Damn it,” Lynn muttered, kicking the split pipe. “Too much, too fast.”

“Told you,” Ella said, wiping soot from her face. “Wild stuff doesn’t bend easy.”

Lyra frowned, picking up the crystal—intact, but dull. “The vessel’s weak. We need stronger metal, or it’ll keep breaking.”

“Where do we get that?” Kael asked, tossing the broken pipe aside. “Lords have it all.”

“Then we take it,” Thorn growled, fists clenching. “Smash their stashes.”

“Not yet,” Lynn said, steadying his voice. “We’ve got enough to try again—smarter. Smaller bursts, tighter seals.”

Ella’s ember dimmed. “You’re pushing us blind, Greystone. We’re tired—hurt. What if it’s for nothing?”

The question hit like a stone. Lynn looked at them—Ella’s guarded eyes, Kael’s fading grin, Lyra’s trembling hands, Thorn’s coiled rage. They’d followed him this far, bleeding for it, and he had no promises, just fragments of a life he didn’t own.

“I don’t know everything,” he said, low. “But I know this—I’ve seen what starfire can do, what we can do. Down there, in the dark, it wasn’t nothing. It was us. I’m not stopping. You can.”

Ella held his gaze, then snorted. “Idiot. I’m not bailing now.”

Kael smirked. “Too fun to quit.”

“Rather break Lords than pipes,” Thorn said, shrugging.

Lyra nodded, faint but firm. “I’ll refine it. We’ll get there.”

Lynn exhaled, the weight easing—just a little. “Then we keep going. Rest, then back at it.”

They scattered to corners of the smelter, exhaustion crashing in. Lynn sank by the forge, staring at the cracked pipe. The visions swirled—clearer now: a hulking frame, fire in its gut, wheels grinding ash. An engine, rough and real, clawing closer.

A soft glow caught his eye—Ella, curled against the wall, her ember alive in her sleep, steady as a pulse. Kael sprawled nearby, snoring, while Thorn sat watch, a mountain unmoved. Lyra scribbled notes by crystal-light, her focus unbroken.

Lynn’s chest tightened—not fear, not doubt, but something warm. His crew. His spark.

Outside, a horn blared—distant, sharp. Ashhold stirred, the Flame Lords’ eyes turning their way. Lynn gripped the ore, its heat seeping into his palm. The smelter’s heart was beating, faint but alive—and it wouldn’t stop ‘til it roared.