Chapter 21: The Signal’s Call

The ash crunched under Milo's boots as he trudged away from the ravine, the Spire's shadow shrinking behind him. His side ached with every step, the blood-soaked rag tied around it stiffening in the cold. Asha's blade hung heavy at his hip, a tether to her voice still ringing in his head—Keep moving. He intended to. The question was where.

The horizon stretched flat and gray, broken only by the husks of old rigs and the faint shimmer of heat rising from the earth. The forge's power thrummed beneath him, a distant pulse he could feel through the soles of his feet. It was awake now, tied to Asha, and he had no idea what that meant—only that it had saved him once, and might again.

A faint crackle broke the silence, sharp against the wind. Milo stopped, hand dropping to the blade as he scanned the emptiness. There—again, a burst of static, then a voice, tinny and distorted. He pulled his goggles up, squinting at a glint half-buried in the ash a dozen yards off. A comm unit cracked but glowing faintly, its antenna bent but intact.

He limped toward it, kicking ash aside to reveal its source—a dead Overseer scout, armor scorched, one arm missing. The comm clung to the chest plate, its light flickering as the voice cut through again. "—Sector Nine, report. Reinforcements inbound. Confirm the status of the Spire."

Milo crouched, wincing as he pried the unit free. The Overseers weren't done—they'd lost their squad, but more were coming. He pressed the receiver, static hissing in response. "Sector Nine's quiet," he said, pitching his voice low and rough, mimicking the scout's clipped tone. "Spire's secure. No runners."

A pause, then, "Copy. Hold position. ETA two hours."

He dropped the comm, crushing it under his heel. Two hours. Not much, but enough to move—if he could. His side screamed as he stood, vision swimming. He needed shelter, a plan, something to turn the forge into more than a ghost story.

The wind shifted, carrying a new sound—a low, rhythmic beep, faint but steady. He turned toward it, spotting a flicker of green light pulsing through the ash to the east. Not Overseer tech—theirs was red, harsh. This was different, older. He adjusted his goggles, peering through the haze. A shape emerged: a tower, skeletal and leaning, half-buried in a dune. The light blinked from its peak, a signal cutting through the gray.

Milo hesitated. The forge had opened one path—maybe this was another. Or a trap. Either way, standing still wasn't an option. He started toward it, the beep growing louder, syncing oddly with the forge's hum below. His hand brushed Asha's blade, grounding him. "You'd tell me to check it," he muttered. "So I will."

The tower loomed closer, its base ringed with debris—metal panels, wires, bones picked clean by time. The signal came from a console embedded in its side, its screen cracked but alive, scrolling text in a language he didn't know. Symbols pulsed alongside its spirals like the ones in the Spire and the forge. He tapped the screen, and it flared, projecting a hologram—a map, jagged and incomplete, with a single point glowing bright: the tower's location. Lines radiated from it, one stretching back to the Spire, another arcing north into the unknown.

A voice crackled from the console, faint but clear, speaking his tongue. "Network active. Relay established. Awaiting command."

Milo froze. Network? Relay? The forge's pulse quickened beneath him as if responding. He glanced at the map, then the sky. The Overseers were coming, and this—whatever it was—might be his edge. He pressed the screen again, voice steady despite the pain. "Link to the Spire. Now."

The console whirred, the map pulsing as the green light intensified. A jolt ran through the ground, and the forge's hum surged, loud enough to rattle his teeth. The hologram flickered, then stabilized, a new line connecting the tower to the Spire glowing solid. The voice returned. "Link confirmed. Forge online. Awaiting directive."

Milo grinned, grim and fierce. Asha had given him a weapon. Now he'd make it sing.