Chapter 7: The Hollow Road

The Riftlands stretched endless under a sky bruised with rift scars, their purple glow casting a sickly pallor over the mud-churned road. Elias Voss drove the stolen truck through the night, its engine a steady growl beneath the drizzle that streaked the windshield. His long black coat lay crumpled in the back, leaving him in dark tactical gear streaked with ghoul blood, the machete across his lap pulsing faintly blue. The SIG Sauer rested at his hip, a silent promise, while the three rift shards in his pocket thrummed harder, their rhythm a gnawing pulse against his ribs. Breachpoint loomed in his mind—tomorrow night, the ledger said. He'd be there.

Mira Kade sat beside him, unusually quiet, her boots off the dash, hands restless in her lap. The violet spark of her magic flickered faintly, reflecting in her dark eyes as she stared out at the twisted landscape—fields of blackened grass, skeletal trees clawing at the air, and distant shapes that might've been ruins or bones. The air through the cracked window carried a sour tang, rift corruption seeping into everything it touched. "This place," she said finally, voice low, almost lost in the engine's hum. "Feels like it's watching." Elias didn't reply, gray eyes fixed on the road, the scar over his eyebrow a sharp line in the dashboard's glow. He'd felt it too—the weight of the Riftlands, a pressure that wasn't just the storm.

The truck jolted over a rut, gravel crunching under the tires as the road narrowed into a hollowed-out stretch flanked by steep embankments. Shadows pooled thick here, the rift scars overhead flaring brighter, casting jagged streaks across the mud. Elias slowed, scanning the dark—too quiet, even for this wasteland. Mira tensed, her magic flaring in her palms. "You catch that?" she asked, nodding at the embankments. He grunted, a rare acknowledgment, and killed the engine, plunging them into silence broken only by the drip of rain.

He stepped out, machete in hand, runes glowing as he moved to the road's edge. Mira followed, boots sinking into the muck, her magic crackling like static. The air felt heavier, charged with something beyond the storm. Elias crouched, tracing a gouge in the mud—wide, deep, claw-like, fresh enough to gleam wet. "Not ghouls," he rasped, voice low. Mira peered over his shoulder, frowning. "Wendigo?" He didn't answer, just stood, pistol drawn, gray eyes piercing the shadows atop the embankment.

A low rumble shook the ground—not thunder, but something alive, hungry. The shadows erupted—three shapes, massive and twisted, hurtling down the slope. Rift hounds—hulking beasts with matted fur, jaws split wide with too many teeth, eyes glowing red through rift-tainted flesh. Elias fired—two shots, precise, punching through the lead's skull and chest. It dropped, tumbling into the mud, but the others were faster, splitting to flank him. Mira's magic flared—a violet arc that seared the second's flank, flesh sizzling as it howled, but it kept coming, claws slashing for her.

Elias lunged, machete slashing upward to meet the third, runes blazing as the blade carved through its jaw. Black blood sprayed, hot and acrid, and the beast roared, swiping a claw that grazed his shoulder, tearing fabric and skin. He didn't flinch, driving the machete deeper, twisting until it crumpled, a heap of twitching ruin. Mira ducked the second's lunge, her magic coiling into a whip that wrapped its neck—it snapped tight, breaking bone, and the hound collapsed, gurgling.

The silence returned, thick with the stench of burnt fur and blood. Elias wiped the machete on the nearest corpse, runes dimming as he sheathed it, ignoring the sting in his shoulder. His breath stayed steady, gray eyes scanning the embankments for more. Mira shook out her hands, magic fading, and kicked the dead hound with a grimace. "Rift hounds," she said, voice tight. "Shrike's pets?" Elias crouched beside the corpse, prying a metal tag from its neck—silver, etched with a talon. "His leash," he rasped, tucking it into his coat.

She watched him, her usual smirk absent. "He's got the whole damn Riftlands wired." Elias stood, pulling the ledger from his pocket, flipping to the Breachpoint entry. "Not for long." The shards pulsed harder, a rhythm that matched the rift scars' flare overhead. He headed back to the truck, Mira trailing, her silence heavier than before. The engine roared to life, and they rolled on, the hollow road stretching into the dark.

Miles bled away, the landscape growing bleaker—craters pocked the earth, remnants of old rifts, their edges shimmering with faint purple light. Mira shifted, her voice breaking the quiet. "I've been here before," she said, almost to herself. Elias glanced at her, a rare flicker of curiosity in his gray eyes, but he didn't ask. She kept going, staring at her hands. "Guild job, years back. They sent me to seal a rift—small one, they said. Went wrong. People died." Her magic sparked, unbidden, and she clenched her fists to smother it. "That's why I ran."

He didn't reply, just drove, the weight of her words settling between them. Trust wasn't his currency, but he understood scars—hers were fresher, rawer, than his own. "Doesn't change now," he said finally, voice low, flat. She nodded, a ghost of a smirk returning. "Guess not." The truck jolted again, and a shape loomed ahead—a rusted sign, half-buried in the mud: Breachpoint, 10 miles. Elias slowed, eyes narrowing at the horizon, where the rift scars converged into a single, throbbing wound.

A crack split the air—not thunder, but gunfire. Elias killed the lights, pulling off the road behind a cluster of twisted trees. He stepped out, machete drawn, Mira at his side, her magic flaring low. Ahead, a faint glow flickered—campfires, silhouettes moving fast. Elias crept closer, using the trees for cover, gray eyes piercing the dark. A makeshift camp sprawled in a crater—tents, crates, men in Shrike's tactical gear. At the center, a cage held something massive, its roars muffled by chains and rift energy crackling around it.

Mira crouched beside him, whispering, "That's no hound." Elias didn't answer, just watched, counting heads—ten, maybe twelve, armed and twitchy. A figure in a silver mask stood near the cage, directing the chaos, voice too distant to hear. The Shrike—or a lieutenant. Elias gripped his machete tighter, runes flaring, then pulled the ledger out, checking it against the scene. Breachpoint, tomorrow night. They were early, but this was no coincidence.

A scream cut through the camp—one of Shrike's men, dragged into the dark by something unseen, claws glinting in the firelight. Panic erupted, rifles firing wild, and the caged beast roared louder, shaking its bonds. Elias stayed still, gray eyes tracking the chaos. "Ambush," he rasped. "Not ours." Mira nodded, magic ready, her smirk back. "Good timing."

He tucked the ledger away, the rift shards pulsing like a drumbeat in his pocket. The camp was Shrike's, but something else hunted it—rift-born, wild, or worse. Elias didn't care who bled first, as long as he got answers. The road to Breachpoint was close, and he'd carve it open, one blade at a time.