Chapter 10: The Edge of the Gate

The truck's engine growled through the Riftlands' dark, tires chewing mud as Elias Voss drove away from Breachpoint's glowing stones. The rift scars overhead pulsed wildly, purple light streaking the rain-drenched windshield, casting shadows across his scarred face. His gray eyes stayed locked on the road, unblinking, the machete across his lap glowing faintly blue through blood-streaked runes. The SIG Sauer rested at his hip, its grip slick with sweat and gore, while the three rift shards in his pocket thrummed harder, a relentless pulse that echoed the tremor in the earth. Blood dripped from a gash on his arm, staining his tactical gear, but he ignored it—pain was noise, and he tuned it out.

Mira Kade slumped beside him, clutching her side, her magic flickering violet in her palms as she caught her breath. "That was her," she said, voice raw, wiping blood from her lip. "The Wraith Queen. Old as the rifts, maybe older." Elias didn't reply, just shifted gears, the truck jolting over a ridge of cracked stone. The Shrike's roar still rang in his ears, the Wraith Queen's laugh sharper—rift-born, rift-powered, and tied to Breachpoint's gate. Tomorrow night loomed, hours away now, and the shards in his pocket were keys to it all. He'd end this, one way or another.

The truck crested a hill, and Elias slowed, scanning the dark—a cluster of rusted silos loomed ahead, remnants of a farm long dead, their metal warped by rift corruption. He killed the engine, headlights dying, leaving only the scars' glow and the rain's soft patter. "Rest," he rasped, stepping out, machete in hand. Mira followed, limping slightly, her magic dim but steady. "Rest?" she snorted, leaning against the truck. "With that bitch loose and Shrike on our ass?" He grunted, a rare sound, and headed for the nearest silo, gray eyes piercing the gloom.

Inside, the air was thick with rust and mildew, the floor littered with broken tools and bones—human, animal, impossible to tell. Elias checked corners, machete low, runes flaring as he cleared the space. Mira slumped against a wall, pulling a rag from her jacket to wipe her face. "She's not his pawn," she said, voice low, almost to herself. "Shrike's scared of her—did you see his face when she broke free?" Elias sheathed the machete, gray eyes meeting hers. "Means he's weak. Good."

She smirked, faint but real, and pulled Rhea's notes from her pocket, flipping through them by the light of her magic. "Rift energy in the ichor, shards syncing with the gate—Shrike's not building an army, he's waking her up. Breachpoint's the lock, she's the key." Elias crouched, pulling the shards from his coat—three jagged crystals, glowing purple, their pulses syncing with the hum he'd felt at the camp. He set them on the floor, the device's broken shard beside them, its runes faint but alive. "Then we break it," he said, voice flat, a verdict.

A low rumble shook the silo—not the truck, not the storm. Elias rose, pistol drawn, gray eyes narrowing as the ground trembled again. Mira's magic flared, violet light casting shadows on the walls. "Company," she muttered, stepping to the door. The rumble grew, and the earth outside split—a rift tear, small but violent, purple energy erupting as something clawed free. A rift stalker—lean, sinewy, its skin a patchwork of scales and bone, claws glinting with rift corruption, eyes glowing red. It screeched, charging, faster than the hounds.

Elias fired—three shots, precise, punching through its chest and skull, but it kept coming, rift energy knitting its wounds. He sidestepped, machete slashing its flank, runes blazing as the blade bit deep—black blood sprayed, sizzling on the floor, and it staggered, shrieking. Mira's violet whip lashed out, wrapping its neck—it snapped tight, bone cracking, but the stalker lunged, claws raking her arm before Elias drove the machete through its spine, pinning it to the silo wall. It twitched, then went still, blood pooling at his boots.

He yanked the blade free, wiping it on the creature's hide, runes dimming as he caught his breath. Mira clutched her arm, magic sealing the cuts, her smirk gone. "Tough bastard," she said, voice tight. Elias crouched beside it, prying a shard from its chest—smaller, cracked, but pulsing like the others. "They're drawn," he rasped, holding it up. "To these." He added it to the pile, four now, their glow intensifying, the hum louder in his skull.

Mira stared at them, her magic flickering. "Gate's calling them. Shrike's waking it, and she's the trigger." Elias stood, gray eyes on the shards, then pulled the map from his coat—Breachpoint's coordinates stared back, hours away at best. "We go back," he said, voice low, final. "End it before it opens." She nodded, but her eyes flicked to the shards, unease breaking her usual edge. "And if she's already awake?" He didn't answer, just pocketed the shards, their pulse a weight he carried without flinching.

The truck's engine roared as they climbed in, the silos fading behind them. The Riftlands stretched dark and endless, the rift scars overhead flaring brighter, a storm within a storm. Elias drove, blood drying on his arm, the shards' hum syncing with his pulse. Mira broke the silence, voice low. "Guild tried to seal Breachpoint once—my job, before it went south. Didn't know what they woke. She… spoke to me, in the dark." Elias glanced at her, gray eyes piercing. "What'd she say?" Mira's smirk was bitter. " 'Freedom's a debt you'll pay.' Sounded like a promise."

He grunted, turning back to the road. "Promises break." The truck jolted over a crater, and Breachpoint's glow flickered on the horizon—closer, sharper, a wound in the world. The Wraith Queen wasn't just rift-born—she was its voice, and Shrike was her tool. The shards in his pocket pulsed, a drumbeat of warning, and Elias's jaw tightened. Tomorrow night was hours away, and he'd meet it with steel and silence.

The road ended at a ridge overlooking Breachpoint—the stones blazed now, rift energy coiling thicker, Shrike's camp a hive of movement. Elias killed the engine, stepping out, machete in hand, gray eyes scanning the valley. Mira followed, her magic flaring low, her limp gone but her face tight. "He's rushing," she said, nodding at the camp—men hauling crates, rift-tech sparking, The Shrike's silver mask glinting as he shouted orders. The cage was empty, the Wraith Queen's presence a shadow in the air.

Elias pulled the shards from his pocket, their glow searing his palm. "Gate's live," he rasped, feeling the hum in his bones. "We stop it now." Mira nodded, magic coiling in her hands, but her eyes flicked to the stones, fear breaking through. "If she's out—" He cut her off, voice flat. "Then she dies too." He started down the ridge, a stoic shadow against the rift's glare, the hunt his only answer.