A sugary vapor, thick and chemical, drifted through the dark. Tavira’s hand flew to her mouth, but the first tell-tale tickle was already in her sinuses. Knockout gas. Not lethal, but a guaranteed loss of consciousness, a guaranteed capture. The air grew heavier, pressing in, an invisible, insidious fog. Her pulse spiked as she calculated the seconds before unconsciousness. She struck the hardened pane of the cage, the impact deadened by the acoustic dampeners. No visible seams, no emergency release. Corvan’s final trap. Her comms device, still linked to Renzo’s network, buzzed once, a frantic vibration against her ear. She brought it up, her other hand fumbling for the tiny earbud. “Renzo!” she hissed, her voice a thin, reedy sound even to herself, muffled by the encroaching gas. Her vision began to blur, the edges of the absolute blackness softening. A faint, almost imperceptible hum started, a high-pitched whine that vibrated through the soles of her boots. The Echo-weave frequency from her necklace, the master key, was responding to the chamber’s internal network. Renzo’s voice, tight with strain, cut through the buzzing. “Gas dispersal… Hyle security override… I’m in the facility mainframe, Tavira! It’s fighting back!” His words were punctuated by a series of sharp, angry beeps from his end. “Got it! Dispersal offline! But it’s triggered a full lockdown. Every exit locked down. Corvan… he’s in the primary monitoring deck with me. We’re both trapped.” “The Loom!” Tavira gasped, the gas still heavy, burning her throat, though no more seemed to be entering. “Where is it?” “Underground shipping bay, Level Delta-Four! They’re loading it into a hauler! Quick, Tavira! Before he realizes you’re still awake!” The hum in the chamber intensified, rising to a piercing whine tuned to her necklace. The override key was tuned to the Solenz clan's core harmonic, a frequency capable of unraveling complex weave matrices. She gripped the metallic talisman as it vibrated against her fingers. The soundproof barrier was an Echo-weave laminate, built for containment rather than resistance to internal harmonics. She leveled the talisman at the nearest pane, letting the resonance surge. The shriek reached an unbearable pitch, vibrating through her teeth, her bones. A hairline fracture split across the treated glass with a sharp crack. It spiderwebbed outwards, a luminous, delicate blossom of destruction. Another, then another, until the entire pane became a fractured mosaic. The internal pressure built, the trapped sound, the energy, the gas, all seeking release. With a deafening CRACK, the glass panels exploded outward, not into dangerous shards, but into crystalline dust and blunt, dull chunks that harmlessly pelted the floor. The suffocating air rushed out, replaced by the faint, stale scent of the vault. Tavira stumbled free, gasping, her lungs burning, but alive. The vault hatch was not engineered to resist an internal structural breach. She found the emergency override panel, a small, recessed button hidden beneath a maintenance hatch. Renzo’s codes, still active in her comms, sent a pulse. The heavy door groaned, then slid open a bare crack, revealing a narrow service tunnel. She squeezed through, ignoring the scrapes against her expensive gown, and ran. The tunnel was dimly lit, reeking of ozone and spent fuel. Pipes snaked overhead, humming with residual energy. Renzo’s voice, a steady guide, came through her earbud. “Delta-Four is two levels down, Tavira. Maintenance shaft to your left. Watch for patrols. Lockdown means Hyle security will be… agitated.” Agitated was an understatement. The shipping bay, an open expanse of concrete and structural girders, churned with activity. Forklifts darted between towering stacks of welded cargo containers, their engines whining. Armored sentries patrolled the perimeter with shouldered rifles. Beneath an overhead crane sat a matte-black hauler, its open bay displaying the Solenz Echo-weave Loom under the yellow utility lamps. Tavira surveyed the scene, her eyes rapidly assessing choke points, movement patterns, potential weapons. Her gown was a hindrance, but the dark shadows cast by the immense containers offered some cover. She moved, a blur of dark silk against the grimy floor, ducking behind a stack of Grypton alloy crates. A guard, his heavy boots crunching on loose gravel, turned the corner. She struck the side of his helmet with the comms casing. He dropped, a gasp caught in his throat. She stripped the carbine from his harness, feeling the cold steel along her forearm. Two sentries shouted across the aisle. She didn’t return fire. Instead, she broke toward an automated gantry terminal mounted on an overhead catwalk. Bullets pinged off the metal crates around her. One tore through the silk at her shoulder, scorching the skin. She climbed without pause, securing the carbine over her shoulder. Her fingers struck the terminal switches, keying in a bypass sequence. The crane above, a colossal beast of articulated steel, lurched into motion. Its magnetic hoist dropped, clamping onto a rack of power conduits. The men below tracked the movement too late. Tavira angled the crane, swung the towering cargo, and released the magnet. The conduits plummeted, crushing two pursuing sentries beneath several tons of industrial alloy. A third rifleman leveled his sights toward the platform. Tavira didn’t hesitate. She pulled the auxiliary crane lever, its boom extended directly above the hauler. She activated it, but not to drop cargo. She tripped the emergency brake, wrenching the winch carriage on its rails. The crane arm bucked and swayed, narrowly missing the guard, but knocking him off balance, sending him sprawling into a pile of empty barrels. A dropped rigging chain dragged across his leg, pulling him into the path of an oncoming lifter. She dropped the carbine, stepped off the ladder, and sprinted toward the hauler. The cargo bay stood open. She launched herself inside, landing with a thud amidst securing straps and maintenance tools. The Loom, a marvel of intricate gears and woven light, shimmered before her. Her hand reached for it, almost there. Then, the bay doors began to retract. Not to close, but to open wider. A figure was thrown violently onto the cold, concrete floor outside, landing with a wet thud. Renzo sprawled on the concrete, blood seeping through the weave of his shirt. Corvan stepped into the bay, his eyes fixed on Tavira, a gun held casually in his hand. The barrel was pressed against Renzo’s temple. “The pendant, little bird,” he said, his voice soft, almost conversational, yet utterly devoid of warmth. “Or he dies.”

Shattered Glass