Dream Memory - Dren Volzig - Ash in the Gearteeth

Dream-Memory: “Ash in the Gearteeth”
Through the eyes of Morrow Granz
 
It begins in the hum.
 
A deep, thrumming sound like a great metal beast breathing beneath the floor — the smeltworks of Sector 7.
Pipes rattle. Pressure howls in the distance like something trapped just beneath the steel. The air stinks of iron, sweat, and coal-dust baked into the marrow of the world.
 
He — now Morrow — stands just beyond the edge of the light. Clipboard in hand. Plain uniform. Ministry badge scratched but present.
Unnoticed. As always.
 
Through the rising steam, he watches Dren Volzig.
 
Broad as a freight hauler, beard bristling with soot and pride. Dren stomps across the catwalk above Vat Line C, barking orders at a half-dozen workers while hauling a slag chain the size of a grown man’s thigh. He is the smeltworks — sweat and muscle made manifest. He’s gruff, crass, quick to laugh, and quicker to fight for the ones under his watch.
 
And yet—
 
Something is wrong tonight.
 
The line is too quiet.
A belt jerks once, then stalls.
One worker slips and no one moves to help.
Something deliberate lingers in the air, like a decision already made.
 
Morrow’s knuckles tighten around the clipboard. Not from emotion — not exactly. But knowing.
 
Dren doesn’t see the two Reichshammer officers until they’re already on the catwalk with him. White masks. Red cloaks.
The smeltworks quiets. Machines groan, but no man speaks.
 
Dren turns, confused, indignant —
 
“What in the black hells is this?”
 
The officers raise a writ. Branded with the Veil Division seal.
Subversion. Cult association. Failure to report illicit gatherings.
 
Lies. Every word.
 
Dren spits.
 
“You think because I keep my crew fed and don’t rat ‘em out to your damn shadow priests that I’m some apostate?”
 
They say nothing. One draws a baton.
The other clicks a rune, and the gantry beneath Dren’s boots shudders.
 
The gears below scream.
The floor vanishes.
 
Dren falls.
 
Not into flame — but into a vat of half-cooled slag. Not fire. Worse.
Thick. Slow. Inescapable.
He doesn’t scream. Not because he is brave, but because it happens too fast.
 
Morrow watches from behind the fogged glass of the oversight booth.
 
No one looks his way.
 
And yet—
He is not alone.
 
Behind him — not seen, but felt — the black fire whispers.
 
“See what truth costs.”
“See what silence buys.”
“He chose loyalty. Not to them — to meaning. To memory. And now he is remembered.”
 
Morrow stares at the surface of the vat. A single steel ring from Dren’s beard floats for a moment before sinking, swallowed whole.
 
“Take him. Not his shape. Not his pride. His purpose.”
“He did not burn in vain. You will.”
 
The clipboard in his hands turns hot. He looks down — it smolders from within, curling into blackened paper.
The name “Dren Volzig” chars until it reads:
 
“Burden. Reclaimed.”
 
Morrow awakes with ash beneath his fingernails and soot at the corners of his eyes.
 
In his dreams, he did not reach out.
In memory, he never will.
 
But in fire, he remembers.
And that is enough — for now.