Serra Crystalstine's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

The pinned thread burned steady in the dark, pointing down into the deep levels. Serra knew the way now. She also knew the lower tunnels were collapsing. Every day the warlord's drain ate the city's old supports. She needed to reach the spires below, but no stair survived the fall. She stood at the edge of a broken shaft and looked down into black air. The thread stretched past her reach. There was no floor between her and the warlord. Shimmer Stellawing landed beside her on crystal wings. Serra had seen her fight once, in a ring, half angel and half alien. Shimmer slowed time in her clock pieces to read hits before they came. She looked at the thread, then at the drop. "That gap eats scouts," she said. "It'll eat you too." "I have to cross it," Serra said. "The warlord is down there." "Not by flying," Shimmer said. "The drain pulls on moving clocks. Yours would stop halfway." She pointed at the ticking clock in Serra's chest. Forty-seven losses. Serra felt it skip at the edge of the dead air. A courier dropped from above on dark wings, one arm built from a clock. Celestial Dawn Stellarwind. He carried letters through places the postal service would not staff. He landed without a word and studied the thread. "I know this corridor," he said. "The drain can't catch what it can't see. A courier rift passes through blind." "Then open one," Serra said. "I can't carry you and hold it," he said. "I need an anchor on the far side." A shape climbed up from the shaft. Half clock, half galaxy fire crystal, a sparring machine built to take hits. Kronos Sphere. Their clock logged damage, not time. "I'll anchor," they said. "My core holds weight the drain can't move." "It could go critical," Shimmer said flatly. "I know my pattern," Kronos said. "I take too much and trust I'll last. Not today. I hold the line, then I stop." They worked fast. Kronos dropped into the shaft and wedged their body against the far wall, core glowing like a small sun. Stellarwind pressed his clock-arm to the air and tore it open. A rift widened, calm inside, blind to the drain. Serra gripped the wing-blade and stepped through. The drain clawed at her chest. Her clock sputtered, then caught Kronos's anchor on the far side and steadied. Shimmer followed, wings tucked, reading the dark. They came out on solid rock in the deep levels. The thread hung beside them, bright and short now. The spires loomed close. Behind, the rift closed. Kronos sagged against the wall, core dimming, alive. Serra stood on the warlord's level for the first time. The gap was behind her. The blade sang in her hand, and the thread ended just ahead, at a door in the dark.