Chapter 8: The Cage and the Claw

The Riftlands night pulsed with the rift scars' eerie glow, casting jagged light over the crater where Shrike's camp burned in chaos. Elias Voss crouched behind a twisted tree, gray eyes piercing the dark, machete in hand with its runes flaring blue. The camp sprawled below—tents torn, crates splintered, men in silver-taloned gear firing wild into the shadows. Screams cut the air, sharp and brief, as something unseen dragged bodies into the gloom. At the center, a massive cage rattled, its occupant roaring against chains that crackled with rift energy. Mira Kade knelt beside him, her magic simmering violet in her palms, her smirk faint but sharp. "Hell of a party," she whispered.

Elias didn't reply, his focus on the camp's heart. The figure in the silver mask stood near the cage, barking orders, voice muffled but steady amidst the panic. Not The Shrike—too small, too frantic—but a lieutenant, marked by the talon pin glinting at his collar. The ledger's words burned in Elias's mind: Breachpoint, tomorrow night. They were early, but this was no coincidence—Shrike's operation was bleeding out here, and Elias would cut deeper. The rift shards in his pocket pulsed harder, syncing with the scars overhead, a rhythm he couldn't ignore.

A howl split the night—low, guttural, not hound or ghoul. The shadows erupted, and the camp's edge vanished in a blur of claws and teeth. Elias glimpsed it—a rift wraith, tall and skeletal, its form shimmering with purple energy, limbs too long, claws like scythes. It moved like smoke, slicing through two of Shrike's men in a heartbeat, blood spraying the mud. Rifles barked, bullets passing through its haze, useless. The lieutenant shouted, raising a device that pulsed with rift light, and the wraith recoiled, shrieking, but didn't flee.

Elias gripped his machete tighter, runes blazing, and rose. "Now," he rasped, voice low and final. Mira nodded, magic flaring as they broke cover, using the chaos as their shield. The wraith lunged again, dragging a screaming man into the dark, and Elias hit the camp's flank, silent as death. A guard turned, rifle swinging, but Elias's machete slashed upward, opening his throat in a spray of red. The body dropped, and he moved on, gray eyes locked on the cage.

Mira's violet bolts lit the night, slamming into a pair of guards who'd pivoted toward her. One fell, chest caved in, the other stumbled, firing wild—she snapped his neck with a whip of magic, her smirk gone, replaced by focus. The wraith struck again, closer now, bisecting a crate and a man in one fluid strike. Elias reached the cage's edge, its metal etched with runes older than his own, the beast inside thrashing—a hulking thing, part bear, part nightmare, its fur matted with rift corruption, eyes glowing red.

The lieutenant spun, silver mask glinting, and raised the device—a rift shard embedded in its core, pulsing in time with the ones in Elias's pocket. "Voss," he sneered, voice sharp through the chaos. "You're late." Elias didn't answer, just lunged, machete slashing for the man's chest. The lieutenant dodged, quick as a snake, and the device flared, sending a wave of rift energy that staggered Elias back, runes flickering. The wraith shrieked, drawn by the pulse, and charged the cage, claws raking the bars.

Mira's magic hit the lieutenant—a violet blast that scorched his arm, dropping the device into the mud. He cursed, drawing a pistol, but Elias was faster, closing the gap with a shot from his SIG Sauer—thwip—that punched through the man's shoulder. The mask fell, revealing a scarred face, eyes wild with pain and rage. "You're dead," he spat, lunging with a hidden blade. Elias parried with the machete, steel clashing, then drove his elbow into the man's jaw, sending him sprawling.

The wraith reached the cage, claws tearing at the chains, rift energy sparking as they snapped. The beast roared free, a mass of muscle and fury, and barreled into the camp, smashing tents and men alike. Elias dove aside, rolling as its claws gouged the earth where he'd stood. Mira's magic lashed out, a violet net that slowed it, but the wraith struck her from behind, hurling her into a crate with a crack. She groaned, magic flickering, blood trickling from her lip.

Elias rose, gray eyes narrowing, and faced the beast. It charged, jaws gaping, and he sidestepped, machete slashing its flank—runes flared, cutting deep, black blood gushing. The beast roared, swiping, but he ducked, driving the blade into its chest, twisting until it sank to the hilt. It staggered, collapsing with a shudder, the runes dimming as Elias yanked the machete free. The wraith shrieked, lunging for him, but Mira—back on her feet—unleashed a blast that tore through its core, dissipating it into a haze of purple smoke.

The camp fell silent, save for the rain and the lieutenant's ragged breathing. Elias loomed over him, machete at his throat, gray eyes unyielding. "Where's Shrike?" he growled, voice ice. The man laughed, blood bubbling at his lips. "Breachpoint… tomorrow. You'll see." Elias pressed the blade, drawing a thin line. "Details." The man's laugh faded, eyes glazing. "Too late… he's got her." He slumped, dead, and Elias stepped back, wiping the machete on the corpse's gear.

Mira limped over, clutching her side, magic dim but steady. "Her?" she asked, frowning. Elias didn't answer, just retrieved the device from the mud—its rift shard glowed, syncing with his own, a key to something larger. He tucked it into his coat, then searched the lieutenant's body, finding a folded map—Breachpoint marked, coordinates precise, a site deep in the Riftlands' heart. The cage's runes caught his eye, and he traced them—control sigils, tied to the shards. Shrike wasn't just hunting; he was commanding.

The rain washed the blood from his hands as he stood, gray eyes on the horizon where the rift scars converged. "He's building an army," Elias rasped, voice low, a verdict. Mira nodded, wiping血 from her lip. "And we're the only ones dumb enough to crash it." She smirked, faint but real, and he grunted, a rare concession. The camp was a ruin—bodies strewn, crates smashed, the beast's corpse steaming in the mud. Elias kicked over a crate, revealing vials of engineered ichor, rift-laced, matching Rhea's notes.

He handed the map to Mira, starting back for the truck. "Breachpoint's close," he said, voice flat. "We move now." She followed, limping but steady, magic flaring in her palms. "Got a feeling this 'her' isn't friendly," she muttered. Elias didn't reply, just climbed in, the engine roaring to life. The rift shards pulsed harder, a drumbeat of warning, and the Riftlands stretched dark and endless ahead. Shrike was steps away, and whatever he held at Breachpoint—beast, key, or worse—Elias would end it. The truck rolled on, a shadow against the storm.