Cyrus Thornflare's Arc

Chapter 10 of 11

Inside the wall, the courtyard opened into a wet stone yard ringed with floodlights. Alarms shrieked from speakers bolted to the eaves. Cyrus crouched low and pulled their sibling behind a stack of crates. Boots clattered on metal stairs, but none came their way. That was the first wrong thing. Cyrus scanned the yard and saw an open door across the gravel, propped wide, lit from within like a stage. They knew a setup when they saw one. Their family was in there. So was the trap. Cyrus crossed the gravel low and fast, sibling at their back. Inside, the room was bright as a surgery. Their family knelt in a row of rusted iron stocks, wrists chained to rotting wood, mud dried on their feet. A gilded lyre sat on a pedestal beside them, strings catching the light like a gift at a homecoming. Cameras blinked red from every corner. Cyrus saw the shape of it at once — a frame built to hold them still while the corporation watched them break. They burned the chains off one wrist, then another, fingers shaking. Their sibling cut the last lock. Their mother gasped Cyrus's name. Then the floodlights cut out, and a single speaker clicked on above the door. "Thank you for coming inside," a calm voice said. The bolts on every exit slammed home. Cyrus had their family in their arms, and the compound had them all. Cyrus pressed their forehead to their mother's for one breath. Then they stood. The cameras still blinked. The lyre still gleamed. Cyrus walked to the pedestal and brought a flat palm down on the strings. Fire poured out of their hand, melting gold over the lens of the nearest camera. "They wanted a show," Cyrus said. Their sibling herded the family into the corner farthest from the door. Cyrus turned to face the bolted exit, both palms lit. The trap had closed. The family was free of the wood. Now there was only the room, the watchers, and whatever came through that door next. A scuffed guitar leaned against the wall behind the stocks. Cyrus's father's guitar, the one he played on porch nights. Cyrus saw it and felt the trap deepen. The corporation had been in their house. They had picked through what mattered. Cyrus crossed the room and lifted the guitar by the neck. They pressed flame into the soundhole until the wood caught. Then they hurled the burning shell at the bolted door. The dry wood split against the metal and sprayed fire across the seam. The bolts hissed. The lock glowed. Cyrus shoved with both palms and the door blew outward into the dark. "Move," Cyrus said. Their family ran. The compound knew exactly where they were now, but they were no longer in the cage.