Kael lingered on the outer wall as Toren headed inside, the dusk wind biting cold against his skin. The distant crimson lights pulsed in unison, like a heart waking in the dark. One in particular—farther away but brighter than the others—flared with a sudden intensity, as if answering some unseen call. Kael's void tugged faintly in response, a cold whisper in his chest. He scanned the shadows below and spotted a figure slipping out a hidden side gate: Rhen, cloak pulled tight, moving with purpose down a barely-visible mountain path. The same secret route he'd taken during Ashveil. Kael frowned, suspicion coiling tight, but he didn't follow. Not yet.

  Rhen moved like a shadow through the familiar twists of the mountain trail, the path he'd carved over years of silent trips. The air grew thinner, colder, as he descended from the Crucible's heights toward the valley below. His star burned low and steady in his chest—gray, scarred from too many close calls. He pushed the thoughts away, focusing on the rhythm of his boots against stone. Four Couple years of this double life, balancing on the knife's edge.

  Starhaven loomed as he neared—a sprawling facility etched into the red cliffs, its Warden Gate glowing faint violet under the night sky. The measure yard sprawled below, encircled by high walls topped with wards that hummed with crimson energy. Rhen slipped in through a blind spot he'd left in the wards—a small sabotage no one had noticed yet. He shed his cloak, straightening his instructor's tunic, the fabric stiff with the scent of laundry soap and old blood.

  The yard was alive with activity, even at this hour. Arbiters patrolled the edges, their hooded forms flickering with stolen light. Instructors like him herded a new group of kids—10 or so, ages five to ten—into lines.

  "Keep them straight," barked a senior instructor, a woman with a hard face Rhen knew too well—Lira, loyal to the bone. "The upper ones demand double measures tonight. No delays."

  Rhen fell into place, his expression neutral, voice clipped as he directed a cluster of the younger ones. "Line up. Stars forward. No talking."

  One boy caught his eye—seven or eight, skinny with wide eyes, hair matted from days in the yard. His star flickered pale yellow, weak but stubborn. Rhen remembered faces like that. Remembered Kael's at the same age, blue light defiant even then.

  The measure began. Each kid stepped to the fist size rock of dead star—which is what is used to measure. The tear above pulsed, judging. Strong stars passed—marked for training or service. Weak ones... vanished in a flash of light, fed to the harvest. Screams cut short, light snuffed like candles.

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  A girl of five went first, her star a faint green. The gate hummed, the tear pulsed. "Weak." An Arbiter stepped forward, palm extended. The girl's scream pierced the night as green light poured out, her body convulsing, eyes rolling back. The star dimmed, the husk crumbled to dust.

  Next, a boy of nine with a steady orange. "Strong." Passed on, marked for training.

  A six-year-old with flickering red. "Weak." Drain. Scream. Dust.

  Rhen watched ten go through, his face a mask, inside churning.

  The fourth: a girl, eight, violet light. "Weak." Harvested.

  Fifth: boy, ten, yellow strong. "Strong." Passed.

  Sixth: five-year-old, white faint. "Anomaly." Arbiter paused, then drained anyway—scream louder, light brighter as it vanished.

  Seventh: the boy Rhen had noticed, pale yellow. "Weak." The Arbiter pressed, light pouring, scream echoing. Dust.

  Eighth: nine-year-old, green weak. Harvested.

  Ninth: seven-year-old, orange steady. "Strong." Passed.

  Tenth: girl, six, red dim. "Weak." Drained. Gone.

  Rhen kept his face blank, nodding as if approving. "Next."

  Inside, the crack widened—the same fracture that grew with every harvest he witnessed. He acted okay with it, played the loyal instructor, but each one broke him a little more. The screams lingered in his dreams, the empty eyes staring back. He'd saved Kael and Elowen because they were the breaking point—stars too rare to feed the machine. But for the others... he stayed, slowed what he could when possible, fed intel to the Crucible. But tonight, with the high alert, no delays. No mercy. Another light gone. Another piece of him lost.

  Lira approached as the line thinned. "The upper ones are restless," she said, voice low. "Ashveil's loss stirred them. The measure quickens—more harvests, more tests. They're looking for anomalies. Deep blue. Pure white."

  Rhen's blood went cold, but he kept his tone even. "We'll find them."

  She studied him a beat too long. "Make sure you do."

  The night dragged. Rhen recorded what he could—new orders, the tear's strengthening pulse, whispers mentioning a "thief" who stole a Herald's light. He slipped out before dawn, the weight heavier than ever.

  Back at the Crucible, Kael waited in the shadows near the hidden gate. Rhen froze, then sighed.

  "You saw."

  Kael stepped forward, eyes steady. "Where do you go?"

  Rhen rubbed his jaw. "Starhaven. I'm still there. Inside. Slowing the harvests. Saving who I can.

  "Kael's face hardened. "You helped us escape. Why stay?"

  "Because if I left, more kids die. I feed intel here, sabotage there. But Ashveil... it changed everything. They're harvesting faster. Looking for stars like yours. Like Elowen's."

  Kael's star pulsed blue in his chest. "Then we go back. End it."

  Rhen shook his head. "Too risky. But... if were smart and patient we will get outr chance."

  The distant Starhaven light flared on the horizon—brighter, hungrier.

  The net tightened, but the Crucible had a man on the inside.