The roar of the Black Pipe eventually subsided into a distant, rhythmic thrum. It was a sound that reminded every citizen of Oakhaven that the mountains were now their walls. Lyra returned to the Great Forge before the sun could fully crest the eastern peaks. The heat inside the foundry was a stark contrast to the freezing spray of the harbor. Miller and his crew were shadows against the orange glow of the vats, their movements heavy with the fatigue of a thirty-hour shift.
"The steel is coming along," Miller said, wiping a thick layer of soot from his forehead. He pointed to the cooling racks where the first bars of high-tensile alloy rested. "But the cost is high. We are burning through the coal twice as fast as I calculated. If we keep this pace to meet the deadline, we will be out of fuel before the ships even leave the pier."
Lyra looked at the glowing metal. It was beautiful and terrible. It represented their survival and their exhaustion. "The coal from the Coalition was supposed to last us a month. Why is it disappearing so quickly?"
"The quality is poor," Caelan said, stepping out from behind a massive steam piston. He looked as tired as the rest of them. "Graves didn't send us the high-grade anthracite he promised. He sent us the tailings. It burns dirty and fast. It is a subtle sabotage, Lyra. He is giving us enough to work, but not enough to win."
Lyra felt a familiar tightening in her jaw. Every gift from the South came with a hook. "He wants us to beg for the next shipment. He wants us to realize that even if we finish the steel, we cannot keep the fires going without his permission."
"Then we change the fuel," Lyra said, her voice echoing in the vast chamber.
"Change the fuel?" Miller asked, looking at her as if she had lost her mind. "This furnace is built for coal. You can't just throw wood in there and expect it to reach the melting point of iron."
"We don't use wood," Lyra said. she looked at the silver and gold that still sat in the corner of the room, the remnants of the Spire's decadence. "And we don't use coal tailings. Caelan, do you remember the records from the old gas works? The ones Thorne shut down when he moved to the electric grid?"
Caelan's eyes widened. "The methane pockets under the shale flats. He capped them because he couldn't meter the usage. He couldn't tax what the earth was giving away for free."
"If we can tap the main line and run a pipe to the forge, we don't need the Coalition's coal," Lyra said. "We can bypass their supply chain entirely. We can show them that Oakhaven doesn't just produce the steel. We own the energy that makes it."
"It's a two-day job just to clear the valves," Caelan argued. "And that's if the pipes haven't collapsed."
"Then we have two days," Lyra said. "Silas has the workforce. You have the engineering. I will handle the Coalition. If they see us working on the gas lines, they will know we are onto them. I need to keep Sterling and Vane focused on the harbor while you move the equipment to the flats."
The work began within the hour. It was a desperate, clandestine operation. Under the cover of the morning mist, teams of laborers began uncovering the iron caps in the shale flats. They worked in silence, using hand tools to avoid the rhythmic clatter that might alert the spotters on the Vulture.
Lyra spent her day on the pier, acting as the distraction. She met with Captain Graves under a flag of truce. She complained loudly about the quality of the coal, playing the part of a frustrated administrator who was slowly losing control.
"The coal is substandard, Captain," Lyra said, standing on the edge of the dock. "My foremen are telling me the furnaces are failing. If you want your steel on time, you need to send us a fresh shipment of anthracite."
Graves leaned against the railing of the Vulture, a smirk playing on his lips. "Supply lines are tight, Miss Belrose. Revolutions are expensive things. Perhaps if you were more open to the idea of the protectorate, I could find a way to prioritize your delivery."
"I am not here to discuss politics," Lyra snapped, her voice loud enough for the marines to hear. "I am here to discuss the terms of our trade. If the steel is late, it is your fault."
"The clock is ticking," Graves reminded her, looking at his gold pocket watch. "Four days left. I suggest you make the most of what you have."
Lyra stomped away, the picture of defeated anger. As soon as she was out of sight of the ships, she ducked into an alleyway and broke into a run. She reached the shale flats just as Caelan was turning the primary valve.
A low, subterranean hiss filled the air. It was the sound of the earth exhaling. A moment later, a blue flame erupted from the test pipe, steady and hot.
"We have pressure," Caelan shouted, his face lit by the ghost-light of the burning gas. "It's pure, Lyra. It's better than any coal we've ever pulled from the ground."
"Pipe it to the forge," Lyra ordered.
By midnight, the Great Forge was no longer belching black smoke. Instead, a clean, intense heat radiated from the chimneys. The steel was pouring faster than ever before. The hollow victory of the coal shipment had been turned into a genuine stride toward independence.
Lyra stood on the observation deck, watching the blue flames dance beneath the vats. They had bypassed the first trap. But as she looked toward the harbor, she saw the lights of the Talon moving. The Coalition was not waiting for the deadline. They were preparing for something else.
The ten-day mark was approaching, and the game was changing once again.