Elias Varn's boots splashed through the sewer's muck, the stench of rot and oil clinging to his lungs. The Gearheart hung heavy under his coat, its faint glow cutting through the tunnel's gloom, urging him forward. Mara moved ahead, her lantern casting shadows on the dripping walls, her satchel tight against her chest, the blueprint safe inside. Her orb flickered at her belt, its runes dim but restless, as if sensing the steamheart's pulse echoing through Ironhaven's underbelly. The vision of Silas—alive, hiding in these sewers, Veyra's enforcers closing in—burned in Elias's mind, the Gearheart's voice whispering, The Herald Comes. The Iron Forge's collapse had slowed the Order of the Cog, but Veyra's reach was long, and Silas was their only lead to the amplifier's true chamber.
"Watch your step," Mara said, her voice low, her pistol drawn. Her bandaged arm was stiff, but her eyes scanned the shadows, sharp as ever. "These tunnels are old—Gearwright traps could still be active."
Elias nodded, his revolver ready, his grazed arm throbbing. The sewer was a labyrinth, its walls etched with faded runes, remnants of Ironhaven's birth. The steamheart's hum was muffled here, but the Gearheart's pulse synced with it, a rhythm that felt too alive. "You sure Joren's tip is solid?" he asked, his breath cloudging in the damp air.
"He better be," Mara said, her tone sharp. "He said Silas uses these sewers to hide. If we don't find him before Veyra's goons, we're back to nothing."
Elias's gut twisted. Joren's loyalty was shaky—smugglers played every side—but the vision was clear: Silas, bloodied, cowering in a sewer, The Herald Comes echoing. The Gearheart burned, and a flicker hit: Silas clutching a cog, runes glowing, Veyra's shadow looming. Elias shook it off, his head aching. The visions were coming too fast, each one sharper, pulling him deeper into the Order's game.
The tunnel split, water sloshing around their ankles. Mara checked her journal, its map smudged but legible, marking a chamber where smugglers stashed gear. "This way," she said, pointing left. Her orb pulsed once, its runes catching the lantern's light, as if answering the sewer's runes.
A clank echoed ahead, sharp and mechanical. Elias froze, raising his revolver. "That's no smuggler," he whispered. Mara doused her lantern, plunging them into near-darkness, her orb's faint glow their only guide. The Gearheart warmed, and a vision flashed: an automaton, its red lenses blazing, blades spinning in the dark. The Herald Comes, the voice roared, and Elias saw Silas's face, pale with fear.
"Traps or sentinels?" Mara whispered, her pistol ready.
"Both, probably," Elias said, moving forward, his boots quiet in the muck. The tunnel opened into a wide chamber, its ceiling crusted with rusted pipes, water dripping like a slow heartbeat. At the center, a pile of crates—smuggler's stash—hid a figure hunched in the shadows. Silas.
Before Elias could call out, a grate above clanged open, and two automatons dropped, their red lenses flaring. Their blades hummed, steam hissing from their joints. Behind them, enforcers in Council coats appeared, lanterns flooding the chamber. "Varn!" one shouted. "Surrender the blueprint!"
Mara fired, her pulse grazing an automaton's lens, sparking. Elias shot, his bullet denting its chest. "Silas, run!" he yelled, but Silas was frozen, clutching a cog, its runes glowing like the Gearheart's. The ex-Gearwright's eyes met Elias's, wild with panic.
"They're coming for me," Silas rasped, scrambling back. "Veyra—she knows!"
An automaton lunged, its blade slashing toward Silas. Elias tackled him, the blade grazing his coat, tearing fabric. Mara fired again, her orb flaring brighter, its runes resonating with the chamber's walls. The second automaton staggered, its gears screeching, but the enforcers advanced, their pistols drawn.
"Get Silas!" Elias shouted, shoving the ex-Gearwright toward Mara. He fired at an enforcer, the bullet clipping a shoulder, sending the man down. The Gearheart burned, and a vision hit: the chamber collapsing, water flooding, Silas screaming, The Herald Comes. Elias blinked, dodging a blade as the automaton recovered.
Mara grabbed Silas, pulling him behind a crate. Her orb pulsed, and the chamber's runes glowed red, pipes groaning. "This place is rigged!" she yelled, her voice sharp. "The runes—they're a trap!"
Elias cursed, firing at the automaton's lens, cracking it. The machine swung, and he ducked, his side screaming from old wounds. "Can you stop it?" he called, backing toward her.
Mara slotted her orb into a wall panel, its blue light clashing with the red runes. The chamber shook, pipes bursting, water spraying. "It's overloading!" she shouted. "We've got seconds!"
Silas clutched his cog, muttering, "The Awakening—it's too late." Elias grabbed him, dragging him toward a side tunnel as the automatons advanced, their blades cutting through crates. The enforcers fired, bullets sparking off the walls. Mara yanked her orb free, and the runes flared, the chamber's ceiling cracking.
"Run!" Elias yelled, pulling Silas and Mara into the tunnel. Water surged behind them, drowning the enforcers' shouts. The automatons followed, their lenses glowing through the flood, but the collapsing chamber slowed them, debris clogging their path.
The tunnel sloped upward, water rising fast. Elias's lantern flickered out, but Mara's orb glowed, guiding them to a grate. He kicked it open, and they stumbled into an alley, Ironhaven's fog a cold embrace. Silas coughed, clutching his cog, its runes dim but alive.
"You're explaining that," Elias said, panting, his revolver still drawn. His arm bled, his side ached, but the Gearheart's warmth steadied him. "What does Veyra want with you?"
Silas's eyes darted, his scarred hands trembling. "The amplifier," he rasped. "I built its core—before I ran. Veyra's finishing it, in the steamheart's deepest chamber. She thinks the Machine God speaks through her, but it's not a god. It's something else—something alive."
Mara's face hardened, her orb flickering. "The blueprint shows that chamber. How do we get in?"
Silas hesitated, glancing at the cog. "This unlocks it. But Veyra's got sentinels—hundreds. You'll never reach it."
Elias's head throbbed, the Gearheart pulsing. A vision hit: the chamber, a crystal blazing, Veyra chanting, The Herald Comes. Silas's cog glowed in his hands, opening a door of gears. Elias blinked, the alley snapping back. "We're reaching it," he said, his voice grim. "You're showing us how."
Silas shook his head. "They'll kill me. Veyra—she sees everything."
"Then we move fast," Mara said, tucking her orb away. "Joren's warehouse is our only safe spot. We plan there."
Elias nodded, but the Gearheart's hum grew louder, and a vision flickered: Veyra in a mask, her blade raised, Silas's blood pooling. **The Herald Comes**, the voice whispered, and Elias saw himself, holding the Gearheart, facing a sea of automatons. He pushed it down, leading Mara and Silas through the fog.
Joren's warehouse was dark when they arrived, its door ajar. Elias's gut twisted—Joren never left it open. He signaled Mara to stay back, his revolver raised as he stepped inside. The air was heavy, the lanterns out. Joren lay slumped by the table, his mechanical eye shattered, blood pooling beneath him.
"Damn it," Elias whispered, kneeling. Joren's hand clutched a note, scrawled in haste: *Veyra knows. Run.*
Mara's face paled, her orb flickering. "They're one step ahead."
Silas backed toward the door, his cog glowing brighter. "We're dead if we stay," he said, voice shaking.
Elias stood, the Gearheart burning, its voice clear: The Herald Comes. The warehouse creaked, and red lenses glowed in the shadows—automatons, closing in. Veyra's trap was tightening, and Ironhaven's pulse beat like a war drum.
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