They came at the second hour after midnight, when the southern glassworks were at their most abandoned. Lira felt them approach through the lattice before any sound reached the vault: six distinct pressures, disciplined, carrying treated black-glass blades and the cold intention she had first tasted in the Root Kiln. The hardline faction had not wasted time.
Sera extinguished the lantern. In the resulting darkness the pale scars on Lira’s face and hands gave off a faint residual sheen, enough to map the room’s fused walls. The lens sat on the stone block between them, clear and still.
“I can try to hold the door,” Sera said quietly. “You should leave through the furnace collapse shaft. It exits near the lower canal.”
“They will have covered the exits.” Lira stood. The lattice scars tigh
