chapter 12: Ashes of Breachpoint

The Riftlands lay silent under a sky dimmed by fading rift scars, their purple glow muted to a bruised haze as dawn crept over the horizon. Breachpoint's stones stood dark and cracked, the gate's roar reduced to a faint hum that lingered in the earth. Elias Voss stood amidst the wreckage of Shrike's camp, machete sheathed, its runes dull beneath streaks of black blood. His gray eyes scanned the ruin—bodies strewn in the mud, tents shredded, crates smoldering where rift energy had lashed out. The SIG Sauer hung at his hip, empty now, its barrel cold. Blood crusted his tactical gear, a gash on his back stinging with every breath, but he didn't flinch—pain was a shadow, and he'd walked through worse.

Mira Kade slumped against a shattered crate nearby, her magic gone, hands trembling as she wiped blood from her face. Her jacket was torn, her side bruised from the fight, but her smirk flickered back, faint and defiant. "Hell of a night," she rasped, voice raw, kicking a broken rifle aside. Elias didn't reply, just crouched beside The Shrike's corpse, gray eyes piercing the cracked silver mask that lay in the mud. The man's scarred face stared up, frozen in rage, blood pooling from the machete wound in his chest. Elias pulled the rift-charged blade from his grip, its energy spent, and tossed it into the dirt—another tool broken, another threat ended.

The air felt lighter without the shards' pulse, their sacrifice swallowed by the gate's tear. Elias rose, scanning the stones—cracks spidered across their runes, the rift sealed but not gone, a scar waiting to reopen. The Wraith Queen's laugh echoed in his skull—"This isn't over"—and his jaw tightened, a silent promise to meet her again. He turned, boots crunching on gravel, and headed for the truck, its chassis dented but intact. Mira followed, limping but steady, her breath fogging in the chill.

"Gate's quiet," she said, climbing into the passenger seat as Elias started the engine. "For now." He shifted gears, gray eyes on the road, voice flat. "Won't last." The truck rumbled to life, tires spinning briefly in the mud before catching, and they rolled away from Breachpoint, the camp's ashes fading in the rearview. The Riftlands stretched ahead—craters, twisted trees, a wasteland scarred by decades of rift corruption—but the silence held, broken only by the engine's growl and the rain's soft patter.

Mira leaned back, pulling a rag from her jacket to clean her hands, her magic flickering faint as it returned. "Shrike's dead, gate's down, and she's back in her hole," she said, glancing at him. "Call that a win?" Elias grunted, a rare sound, his grip steady on the wheel. "Half a win. She's alive." Mira's smirk faded, her eyes flicking to the horizon where the rift scars lingered. "Yeah. And she knows us now."

The truck jolted over a ridge, and Elias slowed, spotting a glint in the mud—a silver talon pin, Shrike's mark, half-buried beside a charred crate. He stopped, stepping out, machete in hand, runes glowing faintly as he approached. The crate was cracked open—vials of engineered ichor, rift-laced, their glow dim but alive. He smashed one with the machete's hilt, black liquid hissing as it ate into the earth, and kicked the rest into a puddle. "He's gone," Mira called from the truck, voice sharp. "Why bother?" Elias didn't answer, just crushed the pin under his boot, gray eyes narrowing. Loose ends got you killed.

A low growl rumbled from the trees—not hound or wraith, but something new, rift-born. Elias spun, pistol drawn from habit, but the clip was empty—he holstered it, machete up as the shadows shifted. A rift scavenger emerged—small, wiry, its skin a patchwork of scales and bone, claws glinting with corruption. It skittered forward, drawn by the ichor's stench, and Elias met it, blade slashing its throat in a clean arc—runes flared, blood sprayed, and it dropped, twitching once before going still.

Mira climbed out, magic flaring low, her smirk back. "They're like roaches—kill one, ten more show up." Elias wiped the machete on the creature's hide, sheathing it with a click. "Then we keep killing." He returned to the truck, gray eyes on the road, the scavenger's corpse a reminder—the Riftlands didn't rest, and neither would he. The engine roared, and they drove on, the dawn's gray light washing the blood from his hands.

Miles bled away, the landscape unchanging—craters, ruins, the sour tang of rift corruption thick in the air. Mira broke the silence, voice low. "Back there, when she spoke—'freedom's price.' Same thing she said to me, years ago." Elias glanced at her, gray eyes piercing, but didn't ask. She kept going, staring at her hands. "Guild thought Breachpoint was a fluke—first rift, sealed tight. I was the cleanup crew. She woke then, just a whisper, and I ran. Left bodies behind." Her magic sparked, unbidden, and she clenched her fists. "Thought I'd buried it."

He grunted, turning back to the road. "Past's a ghost. Haunts till you cut it loose." She smirked, bitter but real. "Easy for you to say, stone-face." Elias didn't reply, just drove, the weight of her words settling like the blood on his gear. He had his own ghosts—parents torn apart by a wendigo, a mentor lost to the rifts—but they were shadows he'd learned to ignore. Mira's were fresher, louder, and he saw it in her eyes, even if she hid it behind that smirk.

The truck slowed as a rusted sign loomed—Old Detroit, 50 miles—and Elias pulled off the road, parking behind a collapsed barn. "Rest," he rasped, killing the engine. Mira nodded, too tired to argue, and slumped against the seat, her magic dimming to nothing. Elias stepped out, machete in hand, gray eyes scanning the dark—no howls, no shadows, just the rain and the rift scars' faint pulse. He leaned against the truck, cleaning his blade by the dawn's light, the runes glowing soft as he worked.

Mira's voice drifted from inside, quiet. "You think she'll come back?" Elias didn't look up, just wiped the machete clean, his voice flat. "She will. And we'll be there." He sheathed it, the click loud in the silence, and pulled the map from his coat—Breachpoint marked, a scar he'd revisit. The Wraith Queen was rift-bound, but not gone, and the gate's cracks were a promise of more. He tucked the map away, gray eyes on the horizon where Old Detroit waited.

The truck's door creaked as Mira climbed out, stretching, her smirk faint but steady. "Back to the city, then? Apex won't like this mess." Elias nodded once, starting the engine. "They'll pay anyway." The truck rumbled to life, tires catching the mud, and they rolled toward the city, the Riftlands fading behind them. The dawn broke gray and cold, washing the blood from Elias's hands, but the hunt lingered in his bones—a quiet, unyielding thing. The Wraith Queen was out there, and he'd meet her again, blade ready, silence his shield.