The first block came out of the natural chimney on a gray morning.
It rose slowly in an ordinary sling, wet along its lower edge, shedding grit into the prepared spoil cradle. The drill had opened its controlled cut. Wedges had separated the block from the rubble around it. A mechanical hoist took the weight while the crew stood outside the marked fall line.
Nyla watched the water gauge instead of the stone.
The head behind the plug had fallen through several limited drain turns. It had not disappeared. The receiving pocket below could take today’s agreed flow while its other feed stayed reduced. Tes’s lower garden trays retained their minimum warmth. If either condition changed, the cutting turn would stop.
It was day fifteen hundred and fifty-six.
The block cleared the upper lip and settled onto the spoil cradle.
Only then did Nyla look up.
A narrow dark gap remained where it had been. Warm air moved through it with a different sound, less hiss and more open breathing. The change was small enough to measure and large enough for the people nearest it to feel against their faces.
