CHAPTER 180: ARRIVED AT CINDRALOCK

They rolled toward the north gate, tires picking up dust, the engine’s low growl turning heads. The guard shift bristled for a heartbeat, then relaxed as the two faces in the cab resolved to known quantities. The senior sentry stepped forward—a woman with a scar like a misplaced smile along her jaw—and rested a hand on the gate jamb.

"Going far?" she called over the rumble.

"Cindralock," Lyra said. "Guild business."

"Always is," the woman said, amused. Her gaze moved to the JLTV with the skeptical fondness the city was learning to have for Inigo’s imported monsters. "Bring it back with the same number of holes."

"Increased holes will result in an after‑action report," Inigo promised solemnly, and she laughed and waved them through.

Stone gave way to dirt. Elandra fell behind in a ribbon of roofs, then a suggestion of towers, then nothing but a line on the horizon. The road unfurled in clean brown and the kind of pale gold that made Inigo think of mornings in other lives—pavement heat, hazy cities—but the JLTV’s cab was all here‑and‑now: the hum through the frame, Lyra’s elbow on the open window ledge, the map on the dash weighted with a smooth river stone.

Lyra folded her legs under her for a minute, watching fields move past. "If the alchemists asked for us by name," she said, "someone in their branch knows you from more than rumors."

"Or wants to watch the foreigner test their glassware," Inigo said.

"That too."

They drove. The sun climbed; the world ripened with heat. Farmers walked fencelines. A pair of shepherd boys tried to race them along a low stone wall and lasted all of six seconds before collapsing in laughter. Twice, caravans gave them a wide berth without being asked. The JLTV wasn’t just fast; it announced itself like a herald with a loud voice and expensive clothes.

They took lunch under a wind‑bent ash, heat shimmering off the hood. Lyra chewed a strip of dried meat and watched a hawk spiral high above the road. "We could make the south ridge by dusk," she said. "Sleep on the pass. Reach Cindralock by noon tomorrow."

"Unless the pass is washed out," Inigo said, "or unless we find a reason not to take the obvious road." He checked the map, then the horizon, mind running a quiet calculus of time versus exposure. "We’ll stick to the road until Fork Hollow. After that, we can cut along the farm track that parallels the ridge. Less traffic. Fewer eyes."

"And if someone’s watching the ridge instead?"

"In which case," he said, "we’ll be glad we can go off‑road."

They drove again, shadows stretching thin behind scrub and stones. The land began to change by degrees—the kind of thing you only noticed if you were looking. Hummocks of old glacial moraine rose, the dirt took on a gray‑green cast, the air a hint of salt that didn’t belong so far inland. The first uplift of hills threw long, cool shade across the road. Lyra set a hand against the window frame and watched the mountains grow.

"Thorne kept one thing back," she said at last.

"He always does," Inigo said.

"No, I mean one thing more than usual," she said. "He pressed fast. He rarely presses fast unless someone’s nervous."

Inigo considered that, then nodded once. "Then someone’s nervous. Either at Cindralock or at the guild."

"Alchemists," Lyra said, and made a face. The alchemist guild was useful, brilliant, occasionally insufferable. "If they’re nervous, the thing in that vault either breaks loud or breaks quiet and spreads."

"Let’s not let it break," Inigo said mildly.

They reached Fork Hollow with the sun just beginning to lean. The village was a scatter of slate roofs around a creek so clean you could drink straight from the current; children were killing an afternoon by daring each other to jump from the mill dam. Inigo idled long enough to buy a jug of fresh water and toss a copper to the oldest kid who’d had the sense to warn them about a broken bridge brace two miles north. The JLTV bumped across the creek on the fords and climbed a rutted track that stitched the first ridge like a scar.

"Quiet," Lyra said, not happily.

"Too quiet?" Inigo asked.

"I don’t know. Just... the kind of quiet that suggests either luck or design."

"Then we keep it luck," he said, and eased the vehicle down to a lower gear as the grade steepened.

They pulled off before sunset on a shelf of rock that had a view worth a painting: the plains behind, the second ridge ahead, the sky doing its slow blue‑to‑honey fade. Lyra set a tiny cook pot on a fold‑out rack and made tea with the mint she’d insisted on; it tasted like green and apology. Inigo did a walk‑around of the vehicle, checking tires, lugs, the spare fuel jerrycan’s strap. He tightened one lash, grunted satisfied, and came back to find Lyra polishing an arrowhead with the edge of her sleeve.

"Bet you ten silvers something goes wrong," she said, picking up their earlier joke like they hadn’t left it hours ago.

"You think I carry that much cash on me after opening a restaurant?" he said, deadpan.

She tilted her head. "Put it on my tab."

He sipped tea and let the warmth go all the way down. The wind came up as evening took the light, cool and clean, carrying the distant rush of water from somewhere in the rocks. They slept in the back, benches folded down, tarp rigged to break the breeze. Inigo drifted off to the sound of Lyra’s breathing and the JLTV’s metal clicking as it cooled.

Dawn they were rolling again, the world edged in silver, the engine’s first growl startling a half‑dozen grouse into flight. The second ridge fell away to reveal the high road that ran like a knife along the mountain’s flank. It carried them toward a ribbon of darker stone ahead, where the cliff carved itself into terraces and finally into walls.

Cindralock appeared without flourish: a fortress grown from rock rather than set upon it. Low outer walls layered like a mason’s dream, slit windows punching shadow into pale stone, a squat tower with prayer flags tearing themselves thin in the wind. The place had the look of a squat man with wide hips—hard to push over, hard to ignore.

Inigo brought the JLTV to a respectful crawl as they approached the gate. A horn blew once, short and surprised; then the gates opened a crack and a man with a clipboard stepped through that crack with the confidence of someone whose clipboard outranked swords.

"Guild escort?" he called over the engine.

"Elandra," Lyra said, lifting the chit. "Lyra and Inigo. We’re here for your unstable disaster."

The man’s mouth twitched. "You’ll want the north yard. Commander’s waiting. And... that carriage—does it breathe fire also?"

"Only on special occasions," Inigo said.

The gate widened. The JLTV rolled inside to a courtyard that smelled of cool stone, old oil, and the faint medicinal bite of alchemy. Men and women in gray‑trim coats moved with purpose toward a doorway blackened at the edges—the alchemy wing. A woman with cropped hair and a band of copper stitched into her sleeve met them halfway, eyes taking in the vehicle, the weapons, the way Lyra’s gaze weighed exits with a hunter’s habit.

"You’re late," she said.

"We’re early," Inigo corrected, glancing at the sun. "You just didn’t sleep."

She snorted, not unkind. "Fair enough. I’m Commander Ves. Your vault is breached. Your cargo is staged. And your clock," she added, looking toward the wind, "is already ticking."

Lyra’s hand found the door handle. "Then let’s move."

And they did—shoulders squared, breath steady, the JLTV idling behind like a loyal beast as the two of them followed Commander Ves toward the black‑edged door and whatever the alchemists had decided couldn’t stay in the dark any longer.