By midnight, Ironhaven lay under a shroud of smoke and embers. Flames from the collapsed Ventral Pump and vented elemental conduits flickered like dying fireflies against the starless sky. The Forge District, once the pulsing core of the city's industry, was now a charnel house of collapsed arches, shattered runic lanterns, and pools of molten slag. Rebel wraiths—any that had survived the collapse—roamed in small bands, scavenging for resources to feed Azrael's burgeoning network.
Lyra‐Cade, Master Cairn, Malach of the Vale, and Ashen the wraith child had regrouped beneath the skeletal remains of the Iron Spires—a cluster of abandoned watchtowers once used to signal approaching caravans. Now, the Spires offered the only concealed space large enough for them to plan their next move. Small fires cast flickering shadows on the soot-blackened walls as Cairn, crouched over a makeshift map, charted their path toward Silverreach.
"We have the binding fragments," Malach said, voice hoarse from chanting runic incantations. He traced a route from Silverreach's Founding Pillar through the Iron Spire Pass. "If we can reach the Founding Pillar before dawn, we retrieve the final fragments to reforge Elysion's seal. After that, we return to Ironhaven—if it still stands—to bind Azrael's Heart."
Lyra pressed her ward token, the faint glow reassuring her. "But Corvax's forces will be hunting us. He's scoured the Forge District for survivors. We can't travel openly. We need a stealth route."
Cairn nodded. "There's a network of smuggler's tunnels beneath the desert dunes east of Ironhaven—ancient passages no longer charted in city maps. If we follow those and emerge near the Oasis of Tharros, we bypass Corvax's patrols. From Tharros, we head north into the Iron Spire Pass."
Malach laced his fingers. "It adds distance, but may be our only option. The desert sands will slow us—but Azrael's minions don't often venture into the dunes."
Ashen—its runic core flickering pale blue—stepped forward. "I can scout ahead. My sensors detect hidden ward traps and patrols. I know some of the old passages."
Lyra's heart fluttered. "Thank you, Ashen. But step carefully. Desert storms rage west of Tharros. We cannot risk losing you."
Ashen inclined its head. "I go."
Malach folded the map and tucked it away. "Then we leave at once. Take only what you need: runic chalk, fragments, a few provisions. Rest up—tonight's journey will test us."
Cairn placed a burnished cloak around Lyra's shoulders. "I'll come as far as the desert entrance—after that, I must return to Ironhaven's survivors. The city still needs its artisans."
Lyra's throat tightened. "I understand. But please—return safely." She clasped his hand. "We'll do everything we can."
Cairn nodded, eyes moist. "I trust you. Follow Malach's lead."
As Cairn slipped into a hidden hatch beneath the Spires, Malach turned to Lyra. "Let's gather supplies."
They stepped into a narrow chamber lit by a single runic lantern, its light wavering as if the storm above threatened to snuff it out. Ashen hovered near a stack of cloth sacks and leather satchels. "Provisions here: water skins, pressed rations, and basic medical herbs—should you or the children need them."
Lyra set a satchel on her shoulders, checking its contents: a vial of runic chalk, extra runic ward tablets, a small curved knife, and a coil of insulated wire. She added the binding fragments—carefully wrapped in cloth—and her wrench. "We have to keep the chalk dry. If it gets moist, our wards fail."
Malach adjusted the straps on his pack. "I have the scrolls and runic instructions. If we survive this desert, Silverreach's Founding Pillar awaits."
Lyra nodded, glancing at Ashen's mechanical frame. "You'll need protection, too. We will guard you fiercely."
Ashen's runic eye glowed brighter. "I will guide you."
Malach gave Lyra a brief nod. "Then we move now."
They slipped out of the chamber and down a spiraled stairwell. The air felt colder as they emerged into the open beneath the Spires, where a faint breeze carried grains of ash. Overhead, the sky was a charcoal canvas, the moon hidden behind thick clouds. Through a gap in the Spires, they glimpsed the desert dunes beyond—their crests outlined faintly against the dark night.
Malach pointed toward a narrow ravine carved by centuries of flash floods. "We follow that bedrock until heat vents yield to sand dunes. Then we emerge near the Canyon of Bones—a dry wash where smugglers once hid their caravans. From there, the outskirts of the Oasis of Tharros are only a two‐day march."
Lyra braced herself. "Two days through scorching sands. We need to move quickly."
Ashen drifted ahead, runic glyph flickering light against the ruins. "This tunnel—ancient, but still stable. I know its path."
Malach led the way. They approached a partly collapsed archway beneath the Spires. Runes carved in forgotten tongues marked it as an ancient service entrance. Ashen hovered near the arch, projecting a soft beam of runic light onto the floor. "Step here. Avoid the loose runic plates—some have collapsed."
One by one, they stepped through the arch, descending into darkness. Each footstep echoed off stone walls carved with near‐erased runic inscriptions. Water dripped from the ceiling, forming small puddles that glowed faint blue when Lyra's ward passed over them.
"These tunnels once connected to Ironhaven's lower levels," Malach murmured. "But as the city expanded, they sealed most passages. Only narrow maintenance shafts remained."
They followed Ashen's lead, turning left at a fork marked by a dim, chipped glyph—a deer entwined with a rune. Beyond, the passage opened into a wider chamber where the floor sloped gradually downward.
"The smuggler's tunnels begin here," Ashen said. Its runic eye scanned the ceiling. "Ancient ward traps still hover. Stay low."
Lyra pressed the ward token to her throat, dimming her silhouette. They crept forward. Above them, a faint hum indicated lingering runes meant to detect intruders. Malach laid a circle of runic chalk on the floor, chanting a quick incantation. The chalk glowed white-hot, briefly illuminating the entire chamber in silver‐blue light.
"Ward circle activated," he whispered. "We're safe for the moment."
Lyra exhaled and followed Malach across a runic‐etched drawbridge spanning a yawning chasm. At the far side, they descended a spiral ramp that spiraled downward into darkness. Cairn's muffled footsteps fell behind them as he returned to Ironhaven.
At the bottom, the passage leveled out, walls smooth and solid. Ashen floated ahead, illuminating the stone with its runic core. "This corridor leads directly into the desert sands. The eastern exit opens into the Canyon of Bones."
Lyra's boots sank slightly on sand that had blown in through the distant opening. She paused and inhaled a breath of desert air—dry, scorching, smelling faintly of dust and decay. "We must gather water before we fully enter the dunes."
Malach produced a small metal flask. "I filled this at the Rivervale outpost—fresh water. Only a single flask. We must ration."
Lyra nodded. "We share it equally."
Ashen drifted to the front, scanning for unseen hazards. "One mile beyond this corridor, the dunes begin. I sense no nearby patrols, but the desert winds may shift the sands and hide sinkholes."
Malach surveyed the horizon through the narrow exit. In the moonless night, the dunes rolled like dark waves. A faint scar in the distance indicated the edges of the Canyon of Bones. "We proceed carefully," he instructed.
They stepped out into the desert. The air was stifling, but the night's chill offered reprieve. Ashen's runic glyph glowed softly, but its presence did little to ward off the desert's oppressive silence. Lyra's boots sank into the fine sand; each step felt as though the dunes sought to swallow her. Sigfrid trudged alongside her, breath ragged. "I've never crossed dunes before," he panted.
Lyra closed her eyes, centering herself. "One foot in front of the other. Follow Ashen's light. We'll make camp when we reach a small oasis—two hours from here."
As they journeyed, Malach kept an eye on the stars—though barely visible through the swirling desert mist. He checked his pocket watch: just past midnight. "We need to move swiftly. By dawn, the desert will become scorching. We cannot risk crossing in daylight."
Lyra nodded. "Understood." She took a small sip from Malach's flask, then offered it to Sigfrid. Cairn's ward glowed faintly, anchoring her resolve. They staggered through the dunes, each step met by a soft crunch as sand yielded beneath their feet.
After nearly an hour, they reached a small depression—a shallow basin where a few shrubs—dyed gray by the moonlight—clung to life. The faint sound of trickling water echoed. Ashen guided them to a brackish spring, its surface reflecting flickers of runic light from Ashen's core.
Sigfrid knelt and cupped his hands, gulping water. Lyra hesitated—fearful of using it prematurely. Malach shook his head. "Take only a sip. Save most for dawn. The Oasis of Tharros awaits—freshwater wells, and perhaps allies."
Lyra knelt and tasted the spring: cold, slightly metallic. She let the water trickle down. After a moment, she refilled the flask, sharing it with Malach and Ashen. Each took a cautious sip. They each felt a burst of energy, enough to push them toward their goal.
Ashen's runic eye dimmed as it drank. Then, in low, mechanical voice: "We must leave. The dunes shift unpredictably. If we remain, we risk being buried."
Lyra drew Cairn's ward from beneath her tunic. "May your path be safe." She pressed it to the sand and uttered a brief invocation. A pale barrier shimmered around them—warding them from wandering sandstorms and ward traps.
As they departed, Lyra glanced back at the oasis, its faint lantern of life flickering. Ahead loomed a ridge of dunes, dark and menacing. But in Malach's steady stride and Ashen's faint glow, she found hope.
They trudged deeper into the dunes. The wind grew colder—unexpected in the desert night. Malach's robes flapped as if caught in a gale. Lyra kept her hood drawn, ward glowing faint blue against the dark. Ashen hovered at their front, scanning the dunes for signs of hidden perils.
One hour passed. The dunes rose and fell like tides. Each crest yielded a view of the inky horizon, punctuated by distant, ominous silhouettes—giant windmills once used to harness elemental winds. Now silent, they stood as skeletal sentinels.
Suddenly, Ashen's runic glyph flared bright violet. "Patrol—dozens of them—heading west." Its mechanical voice was tight with urgency. "Corvax's scouts have mounted desert lancers. They cross here at night to sweep through the dunes. Evasive maneuver: proceed south through the salt flats, then loop east toward the Canyon of Bones."
Lyra's heart hammered. "We must not be seen. If they catch us with binding fragments—"
Malach placed a hand on her shoulder. "We will not be seen," he assured. "Trust Ashen." He oriented himself, adjusting the map's coordinates. "We head south, then east."
They veered off course, sinking into the salt flats—a bleak landscape of cracked earth and a salty crust that glimmered under Ashen's runic glow. The ground felt brittle, as though walking on ice. Sands clicked beneath their boots. They advanced in tense silence.
For the next hour, the wind sighed through cratered salt‐worn hills. Malach's lantern cast long shadows as they skirted around dunes too steep to climb. Ashen hovered low, scanning for any sign of the desert lancers.
Finally, beyond the salt flats, they glimpsed the Canyon of Bones—a broad expanse scattered with bleached animal skulls and jagged rocks. The canyon's entrance yawned like a gaping maw. Ashen's runic glyph pulsed with relief. "We've lost their trail."
Lyra exhaled deeply, sweat and sand clinging to her skin. "Thank the gods." She gulped the last dregs from the flask. "Only enough for morning."
Malach nodded. "We find shelter within the canyon. We wait for dawn south of the Owl's Perch"—a crag jutting into the canyon's mouth. "At first light, we cross the desert ridge just beyond Silverreach's border. Then we slip into the city—if its gates still stand."
Lyra looked toward Ironhaven's distant silhouette—now barely visible in the smoky haze—and clenched her fists. "I pray it stands."
They crossed into the Canyon of Bones—skimming the edge of bone‐strewn plains until they reached a narrow ledge beneath Owl's Perch. They huddled inside an alcove of jagged sandstone. Beside them, a small cluster of scavenger shrubs offered the only cover.
Ashen drifted to Lyra and Malach. "We rest here until dawn." Its runic eye dimmed, offering a pale lantern of light. "I will keep watch."
Malach settled on the ground, draining the last drop of water from the flask. "That is our challenge tonight: sleep with one eye open. We cannot risk a surprise assault from the desert lancers."
Lyra sank onto a bed of sandy gravel, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. She traced Cairn's ward with her fingertips. "I wish Cairn was here. We need every hand."
Malach touched her shoulder gently. "He's holding Ironhaven's survivors. His fight is no less vital. We must succeed, then return to him."
Lyra lowered her head, tears pricking her eyes. "I hope… I hope he's safe."
Malach folded his hands. "He is strong. So are you."
Beneath the starless sky, they settled into uneasy rest. Ashen's runic glyph pulsed softly as it hovered by the alcove's mouth. Nearby, a half‐eaten animal skull lay half-buried in dust. The wind moaned through the canyon trees, carrying a promise of both peril and possibility.
As Lyra's eyes grew heavy, she pressed Cairn's ward to her heart and whispered, "Guide us… and keep us safe until dawn."
In the flickering glow of Ashen's runic light, Lyra and Malach drifted into a tense slumber, poised on the edge of destiny. Ironhaven's fate—and the fate of all behind Azrael's awakening—rested on their shoulders as they prepared to face the dawn