chapter 19. A spark in the reactor of oblivion

Vivan's gaze, filled with that chilling, scientific curiosity, was more terrifying than any threat. He saw in Gray not a human being, not a child, but an artifact. A living proof of his theory.

"Take him inside," Vivan ordered, his voice back to its businesslike, sharp tone. "To the preparation chamber. Carefully. Do not damage the specimen."

The guard's iron grip on Gray's shoulder tightened even more, dragging him towards the gaping entrance of the observatory. He resisted, his eyes fixed on the box containing the child, but he was powerless to do anything. The hum of the Oblivion Reactor grew louder, penetrating his bones and drowning out all thoughts except one: "I'm trapped."

Suddenly, his gaze fell upon the young colorist. The boy was still standing there, pale and terrified, staring at him with wide eyes. There was more than just fear in his eyes. There was realization. He wasn't seeing a monster in the shadows. He was seeing a boy. A scared boy being dragged to the scaffold.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second.

Gray didn't say a word. He couldn't. But he did the only thing he could. He squeezed the anchor stone in his pocket with all his might. He didn't try to disappear. He focused on something small. On a single sensation.

On the "hunger" that emanated from the gray fragments being loaded onto the cart.

He caught the feeling—a cold, all-consuming void—and mentally cast it through his gaze, straight into the colorist’s mind. Not a spell. Not a force. Just a pure, raw feeling. The feeling that his own gift could be burned away, destroyed, reduced to nothingness.

The colorist’s eyes rolled back in his head. He swallowed hard and took a step back, as if he’d been struck. His hand trembled, and the slate slipped from his fingers.

BANG!

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The fragile device hit the stone floor and shattered into fragments with a bright but brief flash.

Everyone, including Vivan and the guards, reflexively turned to look at the source of the sudden sound. Their attention wavered for a fraction of a moment.

That moment was enough.

A shadow darted out of the darkness, around the corner of the wagon. Not Gray. Not his father.

Lyra.

Her face was contorted with rage and determination. In her hand, she held not a knife, but a large sack of something heavy—sand or metal shavings. With all her might, she hurled it not at the guards, but at the base of the Oblivion Reactor, into the swirling, unstable energies at its core.

As the sack passed through the barrier, it momentarily disrupted the machine's complex energy pattern.

There was a deafening, unpleasant SCREW, as if glass were being cut against metal. The reactor's toxic glow flickered, dimmed, and went out for a second before reigniting with a renewed, fierce intensity.

The automatic protection system kicked in.

Sirens blared throughout the complex. Not the usual human alarm sounds, but a piercing, mechanical wail that cut through the air. Emergency lights flashed on the walls, not brightly, but with a blinding white, relentless, scorching intensity.

"Stabilization circuit failure!" one of the colorists inside shouted. "Back to first stage! Stop loading!"

The chaos was instantaneous and absolute. Stunned, the guards released Gray, grabbing their weapons and trying to figure out where the threat was coming from. Vivan, furious, turned to his car, shouting commands.

Lyra, without wasting a second, grabbed Gray's arm.

"Run!" She hissed, and her voice was hoarse with adrenaline. "Before they come to their senses!"

She pulled him along with her, not toward the exit, which had already been blocked by the guards, but deeper into the courtyard, toward a pile of empty crates and construction debris.

Gray, stunned by sirens and blinded by floodlights, ran after her, stumbling. He saw that young colorist rush past them. Their eyes met again. And this time there was no fear in the guy's eyes. There was a nod. A quick, almost imperceptible movement of his head towards the blank wall — to where, as he knew, there was a secret passage for servants.

It wasn't a help. It was gratitude. Gratitude for Gray showing him the true value of what they were doing here.

They ducked into a narrow gap between crates, leaving behind the deafening chaos, the shrieks of Vivan, and the all-consuming rage of his awakened machine.

They were free. But they were not running to safety. They were running deeper into the beast's lair, guided only by the fury of a red-haired beast and the fleeting conscience of a colorist.