The first mist Rae saw was… strange. A faint green. Like moss that had somehow decided to breathe. There was a shimmer of mushrooms on the ceiling—not a warm glow, but a light that seemed to have already given up. Cold. Patient in the most irritating way. And beneath it all, there was a smell. Old diesel. Damp fungus. A scent that crawled into your jacket and settled there.
He opened his eyes slowly, half convinced he was still dreaming. The barracks were silent. Too silent. The thin mattress beneath him held the cold the way stone holds the night—no matter how he shifted, the chill clung. On the bedpost, a work helmet hung, its paint peeling in uneven patches. A single deep scratch ran from one side to the back, as if something had almost split it in two… then changed its mind. The scratch caught the mushroom light, leaving a dull streak like a scar across an old shield.
"Finally awake?"
The voice was soft, coming from nowhere—more like dew than words. Rae turned his head. No one was approaching. Only rows of beds, metal lockers, heavy boots standing neatly by the door. Maybe it was just the echo of a dream. Or… the voice of the stone. Which preferred to whisper, he didn't yet know.
He sat up. His back protested. The cold bit into his breath. There was a work card tucked into the helmet strap: a thin, gray strip, edges frayed by time. Name: RAENITH. The letters were hard, carved-like. On the back, a temporary work permit, the sector left blank. No shift time filled in. A small cloth folded there—proof that someone, sometime during the night, had checked to make sure it was still all there.
He drew a long breath… and the memory struck.
A chasm without walls. Light falling, not from above, but from below. Threads of brightness swimming upward through the air, calling him without a voice. Then weightlessness. Cold. A strange surrender. He couldn't recall if he'd screamed. Only that the light swallowed him, and when he woke… it was this barrack.
Rae blinked. Touched the scratch on the helmet. It felt like someone else's scar.
"Chasmor," he murmured. A name that felt like both prayer and map. He didn't know how he'd ended up here, but the name… he knew. Tiered cliffs. Hanging rails. Mining posts. And far below… something beating, irregular, like a heart that had once been broken.
He set the helmet on his head. Heavy, but steadying. Slid the card into his chest pocket. His boots met the floor—the cold crept upward through his shins. The air tasted… bitter like medicine, damp like a cellar, salty like a shore no one remembered.
The barracks corridor greeted him with mushroom light. A man passed by, visor down, breath clouding in the air. "Newcomer," he muttered. Not a greeting, but loud enough to be heard. Rae only nodded.
The iron door at the corridor's end swung open… and Chasmor revealed itself.
⸻
The terraces of Chasmor clung to the cliff face, rails hanging in the air like veins of steel. Their groan stroked the mist. Now and then a trolley rattled overhead—its metal sparking like tiny lightning in the air. Across the chasm, a tall, narrow silhouette stood at a guard post. Elongated helmet. Heavy coat. A metal spear. Abysm Guard. Motionless. Only the mushroom light caught on their weapons.
Far below, a mist that was not air curled in slow coils. From there Rae heard it… the beat. Small. Fragile. Unceasing.
He gripped the railing. The metal was cold as a bad promise. How could salt reach this place? he wondered. Then he realized—he didn't even know how far they were from the surface.
An empty trolley rolled past overhead, stirring the fog. Rae closed his eyes, listening for the pauses between its sounds. He'd always known rhythms. Somewhere—in some school—he'd tapped his desk to the tick of a clock. On the street, he'd heard rain on the bus roof. Rhythm had always kept him alive. But here, the beat he heard… was different.
Slow. Strong. Slow. Slow. Strong. Like fingers tapping a wall to check if it still stood.
"You're standing like you're ready to fall again."
The voice was clear, sharp. Rae turned. A compact man stood there, hair slicked back, black eyes measuring from beneath. Work card in his pocket: RUDRAN.
"Rae, right?" His tone didn't need an answer. "Your brain's been still long enough. Time for your muscles to work."
Rae nodded. "I… heard something."
"What?"
"That beat."
Rudran studied him for a long moment. "Most take a month to admit that. You… day one." He tapped Rae's card. "Lumendel. Brug will take you."
⸻
Brug was waiting near the stairwell. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a thin mustache. His eyes were calm, like wet stone. Rudran gave him brief instructions, then left.
Brug nodded at Rae's helmet. "Where's that scratch from?"
Rae shrugged. "Don't know. I… fell. There was light. From below."
"Most people fall into dark," Brug said, as if making a note. Then he gestured. "Come."
The narrow stairs descended into the stone's belly. Each step sounded different—some clicked, some kept silent. Bioluminescent mushrooms threw their shadows on the walls. Rae paused when the railing trembled.
"Match your breath," Brug said.
"I already am," Rae answered, startled to find it true. The rhythm of the stone was in his bones now. Slow, strong, slow, slow, strong. Below, a trolley passed without haste, its screech landing on the note E. Brug listened. "If E's here, F's below. Means Lumendel will sing G today."
"What does that song unlock?"
"The key that keeps the stone from screaming," Brug replied.
⸻
The gate to Track Two was overgrown with dry fungal roots. A guard handed Rae an earcap. "Wear it when the song stops. Silence in Lumendel isn't always safe." He pointed to a mark on the wall: three slashes, a dot beneath. "If you see this, get inside fast, don't look back. Backflow. The stone can swallow sound."
They entered. The tunnel brushed their shoulders, the ceiling dipping low at times. The beat of the stone grew louder. Now and then, wordless melody floated from far away.
"You'll want to join in," Brug said. "But wait your turn. Miss the tempo, and the stone gets angry."
The last bend opened into a vast chamber: Lumendel. Walls combed by the hand of giants. Mushrooms the size of heads casting light over the workers' faces. They stood in rows, right hands gripping hammers, left hands pressed to the stone. The swings weren't in perfect unison—there were breaths between.
A sharp-faced woman approached. "I'm Nel. If I say 'hold,' you hold. If I say 'release,' you release." She pointed to a thin vein in the wall. "That's our spot."
Rae stood beside Samit, an older worker.
"Hold," Nel ordered.
Rae's palm met the stone. Cold. The rhythm from the railing returned. Slow, strong, slow, slow, strong. The hammers struck—thud, thud—holding back a scream that tried to be born.
"Do you hear something beneath the beat?" Samit asked.
Rae thought. "A sound that hasn't yet dared to be a sound."
Samit murmured, approving.
The song shifted tempo. Rae matched it. The stone beneath his hand quivered, then exhaled. "Release," said Nel. Silence dropped. A small scream tried to rise, but the song returned, pressing it back until it vanished.
Time blurred. Abysm Guards appeared now and then at the tunnel's mouth. Trolleys rolled by behind them.
Until… the floor trembled. A vein in the wall glinted. "Now," Nel said. Three precise strikes. The vein eased its tension.
"Good," she told Rae. "You placed your hand exactly where it should be."
⸻
The shift ended with the song tucked into every chest. Brug waited for Rae at the exit. "Your ears?"
"Still here."
"We sing so we remember we're not stone," Brug said with a smile.
They passed the backflow mark. Brug pressed his palm to the wall, waiting until the stone's voice receded. Rae remembered the light in the chasm. Had it brought him here, or abandoned him?
On the terrace, Rudran was waiting. "Tomorrow, same time. If their song changes, follow them—not your own feeling."
"What if my feeling is faster?"
"Lend it to the song. Don't keep it."
Brug pointed across the chasm. "Mouth of the Old Tunnel. Sometimes a light falls from there. Small. No one knows where it comes from."
"I'll watch," Rae said.
The mist touched their brows. The tunnel stood empty… until a speck of light appeared, drifting down, vanishing before it reached the terrace. Brug smiled. "The fall of a small light. Means tomorrow's song will be longer."
"Why?"
"Because the stone will speak louder. And Lumendel will answer more softly."
Rae stared at the tunnel for a long time. His helmet was heavy. The railing cold. The song still hummed in his arms. The earcap slept in his pocket. The work card rested against his chest. He walked back toward the barracks.
The mushrooms glowed a little brighter that night. He set his helmet on the post. Hid the card beneath his pillow. The stone's heartbeat followed him into sleep. From far away, there was a new note—one without words yet. Tomorrow he would return. Tomorrow, he might learn where the light fell from. Or… perhaps he would fall again.
Slow. Strong. Slow. Slow. Strong. Noctarion breathed.