Chapter 1: The Sinking City
The wrench in Lyra’s hand was the only thing keeping her grounded, both literally and figuratively. She was wedged headfirst inside the exhaust manifold of Sector 4’s primary pressure valve, surrounded by the smell of scalding steam and ozone.
"Hand me the three-quarter copper coupling, Jax," she called out, her voice echoing muffledly inside the pipe.
Nothing happened.
"Jax? I don't have all day. This valve is sweating, and if it blows, we're both flying without air-ships."
"Uh, Lyra?" Jax’s voice wasn't near the toolbox. It was farther away, trembling. "You might want to come out of there. Now."
Lyra sighed, shimmying her way backward out of the tight metal sleeve. She wiped a streak of black grease from her forehead with the back of her glove and blinked against the harsh, flickering amber light of the maintenance bay.
Except the light wasn't amber anymore. It was deep, bloody red.
The massive brass gauges on the wall were spinning wildly. The hum of the Great Core—the massive power source nestled in the spires of the High District miles above them—had changed from its usual comforting, low-frequency purr to a high-pitched, agonizing whine.
Suddenly, the floor tilted.
It was slight, maybe only a two-degree drop, but to anyone born on a floating island, it was terrifying. The entire industrial sector of Iron hook had just lost altitude.
"The Core is spiking again," Jax whispered, his eyes wide as he clutched a heavy wrench like a weapon. "The Arcanists said the modifications last month would stabilize it!"
"The Arcanists are liars who live in the clouds," Lyra snapped, scrambling over to the main diagnostic console. Her fingers flew across the brass keys, pulling up the pressure grids. "They're drawing too much power for their localized gravity gardens and weather-domes. They’re starving the lower sectors to keep their own grass green."
The console sputtered. A spark leapt from the keys, biting her knuckle. Lyra hissed, drawing her hand back as the screen went completely dark. Then, the ambient lights died.
Total, suffocating blackness engulfed the sector.
In the distance, the alarms of Ironhook began to wail—a hollow, hand-cranked siren sound that meant one thing: Brace for impact.
