The roar of the Foundry Heart faded behind them, its triumphant, rhythmic beat swallowed by layers of steel and concrete as Yaroslav Volkov led them down into the guts of The Anvil Heart. The Forge Council Master moved with a deliberate, heavy tread, his silence a different kind of weight than the noise of the forges. Here, in the deep passages, the air was cooler, tasting of clean machine oil and the faint, electric tang of immense power held in reserve. Sineus felt the shift in his bones. The lingering exhaustion from projecting the Mnemonic Bridge was a cold ache in his marrow, a debt his body was still paying, but this new quiet was a balm.
They descended on a grated, slow-moving lift, the walls around them not polished stone but perfectly fitted plates of iron, their seams flawless. Yaroslav stopped before a massive circular door, its surface a single, unadorned slab of dark steel. He placed his calloused palm on a panel, and the door slid open with a near-silent hiss of perfectly balanced counterweights. The air that breathed out was cool, dry, and still. It smelled of nothing, a void of scent that spoke of absolute isolation.
The vault was not a treasure room. It was a workshop, preserved under glass. In the center of the chamber stood a colossal, pre-Blast lathe, its steel gleaming under the flat, even light of caged work lamps. Every tool was in its place, every surface clean. This was the altar of a Rail Saint, one of the first engineers of Union 9, a man remembered not for his words but for the perfection of his work. The reverence here was not for a god, but for a standard of craft that had survived the end of a world.
Yaroslav walked to the base of the lathe. Set into its foundation was a heavy steel case. He did not use a key, but manipulated a series of interlocking gears on its surface, the clicks of the tumblers a quiet, intricate language. The case opened.
— After the trial, the council voted, — Yaroslav said, his voice a low baritone that seemed to absorb the silence. — We honor our word.
Inside the case, resting on a bed of faded, oil-stained velvet, was a heavy brass sphere. It was the size of a man’s fist, its surface covered in interlocking rings and fine, geometric etchings. A crystal lens at its top showed a single, needle-like shard of the same crystal floating in a clear, viscous fluid. The artifact hummed with a low, resonant energy that Sineus felt not in his ears, but as a vibration in the bones of his skull. It was a familiar feeling, a whisper of the dream-path that had guided him his entire life.
— It is the first of the three Keys you seek, — Yaroslav stated, his gaze fixed on the object. — We call it the Resonance Compass. It does not point north. It points to purpose.
He looked at Sineus, his eyes sharp and analytical.
— It will lead you to places of strong, stable memory. Places where people are bound by a common will. Or it will lead you to your enemy. Sometimes, they are the same thing.
Sineus reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the cool brass, the hum intensified, the crystal needle inside glowing with a faint, internal light. He lifted the Resonance Compass from its case. It was heavy, solid. A tool. The light within pulsed in time with his own heartbeat. He saw the faint maker’s mark etched into the brass casing: a three-spoked gear, the same symbol on his father’s wrench, the same sigil on the heart of the foundry. A thread of connection, pulled taut across a century of dust and decay.
— Before you take it, the debt must be formalized, — Yaroslav’s voice cut through the moment. He turned to a heavy anvil set beside the lathe, a blank plate of polished steel already resting on its surface. Beside it lay a heavy, single-jack hammer and a stamping tool.
This was the price of their passage, the cost of this first step toward unity. An obligation signed on behalf of allies who did not yet exist, a promise whose terms were as blank as the steel plate. To refuse was to let the world die in pieces.
Yaroslav picked up the stamping tool.
— The terms are as we said. One task of our choosing, owed by you and your allies, to be called upon at a time of our choosing.
He looked at Sineus, his gaze unwavering. This was the final test. Not of skill, but of commitment.
— Do you accept?
Sineus met his gaze. He thought of Morozov, of the cold silence where his mentor’s memory used to be. He thought of the wall of dust at Monolit, of the fear in the council’s eyes. Fragmentation was death. Unity, even at this unknown price, was the only tool they had left to build with.
— I accept, — Sineus said. His voice was clear and steady in the quiet vault.
Yaroslav nodded once. He set the stamping tool to the center of the steel plate. He raised the hammer. The sound, when it came, was not the deafening roar of the forges, but a single, pure, ringing note of hammer on steel. It was the sound of a contract being forged, of a promise made real and permanent in the culture of Union 9. The sound of a bond. The axis of the world had shifted, just slightly, from isolation toward a shared, and heavy, future.
As the note faded, the Resonance Compass in Sineus’s hand grew warm. The crystal needle, which had been drifting lazily, began to spin. It spun faster and faster, a blur of captured light. Then, with a final, decisive click, it stopped. It pointed steadily east, its tip glowing with a bright, unwavering light. It was pointing along the iron rails that led out from The Anvil Heart, a clear, undeniable path.
They had their direction.
The moment of quiet purpose was shattered. The vault door hissed open. A young Union 9 courier, his face pale and streaked with sweat, stumbled into the chamber, gasping for breath.
— Master Volkov! A runner from the eastern line! Waystation K-7 is under attack!
The courier leaned against the doorframe, his chest heaving.
— It’s the cultists, the Seed of Oblivion. They’re not just raiding. They’re erasing the station’s defenses. The line is about to be cut.
Yaroslav’s face was grim. He looked at the compass in Sineus’s hand, then at the panicked courier.
— It seems your new path is already contested.
