Chapter 14: The Alchemist’s Warning

The neon haze of Old Detroit bled through the truck's windshield as Elias Voss drove toward the city's underbelly, the dawn's gray light fading into the flicker of signs and rift scars overhead. His gray eyes stayed locked on the road, unblinking, the scar over his eyebrow sharp in the dashboard's glow. The machete rested beside him, runes glowing faintly blue through crusted blood, while the SIG Sauer—freshly reloaded—hung at his hip, its weight a steady comfort. His tactical gear was patched but stained, the gash on his back a dull ache he ignored—rest was a luxury he didn't take.

Mira Kade sat shotgun, her magic flickering violet in her palms as she flexed her bruised hands, the rift shade's attack still fresh in her mind. Her jacket hung in tatters, her smirk faint but sharp as she eyed the slums rolling past—rusted tenements, flickering lights, the hum of drones weaving through the haze. "Back to Rhea?" she asked, voice low, glancing at him. Elias grunted, a rare sound, shifting gears as the truck jolted over cracked asphalt. "She knows rifts. Knows ichor. Knows more than she says." Mira smirked, leaning back. "Guess we're charming her again."

The truck slowed outside The Iron Flask, its rusted door and flickering sign a blight in the docklands' sprawl. Elias parked, stepping out, machete sheathed but close, gray eyes scanning the street—empty, save for a drunk staggering home and the faint pulse of rift scars above. Mira followed, her limp gone, magic dim but restless as she cracked her knuckles. Inside, the bar stank of burnt herbs and stale beer, the same scarred tables half-empty under dim bulbs. Rhea looked up from behind the counter, her face a map of scars and ink, eyes narrowing as she clocked their blood-streaked gear. "Voss," she rasped, nodding once. "You look like hell."

He didn't reply, just slid into a booth, gray eyes piercing hers as she approached, shotgun resting easy in her grip. Mira sat across, tossing the vial of cleansing liquid—empty now—onto the table. "Had a visitor," she said, voice sharp. "Rift shade, right in his safehouse. Your notes didn't cover that." Rhea's smirk faded, her hands stilling as she took the vial, turning it in her fingers. "Shade?" she muttered, then set it down, pouring a murky brew into a dish. "Sit. Talk."

Elias leaned forward, voice low and flat. "Wraith Queen. Shrike's dead, gate's cracked, she's reaching out. Explain it." Rhea's eyes flicked to his, then to the dish as she lit a burner beneath it, the brew bubbling with a faint rift shimmer. "Queen, huh? Old tales—rift-born, rift-bound, older than The Breach itself. If she's awake, you didn't just poke a hornet's nest—you kicked it." Mira snorted, magic flaring in her palms. "She's more than awake. She's pissed, and she's got range."

Rhea tapped the vial, frowning. "Shades don't just pop up—need a pull, a crack, something to anchor. You bring anything back?" Elias pulled the map from his coat—Breachpoint marked, edges singed—and set it on the table, gray eyes unyielding. "Shards are gone. Gate's quiet. She's not." Rhea unfolded it, tracing the coordinates, her scars tightening as she read. "Breachpoint's the first rift—sealed, they said, but seals crack. If she's reaching, it's through the seams."

The brew hissed, rift energy swirling in its depths, and Rhea squinted at it, muttering. "Ichor's rift-laced, sure, but this—shades, beasts, her voice—it's a web. Shrike was a pawn, feeding her power, but Apex…" She trailed off, eyes flicking to Elias. "They're deeper than you think. That ichor's theirs—engineered, not harvested." Mira's magic flared brighter, her smirk gone. "Carver. Bastard's playing god."

Elias's jaw tightened, gray eyes narrowing as he filed it away—Carver's evasiveness, the suit's nerves, Apex's fingerprints on Shrike's mess. "How's she reach?" he rasped, voice like gravel. Rhea poured the brew into a vial, watching it settle. "Rift scars—city's lousy with 'em. She's bound to Breachpoint, but the scars are veins, and she's the blood. Shades are scouts—means she's testing, feeling for cracks." She slid the vial to him, its glow faint but alive. "Track 'em. Find the seam, you find her reach."

A crash split the bar—glass shattering, a table toppling. Elias spun, machete drawn, runes blazing as a figure staggered from the back—gaunt, wild-eyed, clothes torn, the same man from nights ago. "She's here!" he shouted, voice cracking, pointing at the floor. Rhea swore, grabbing her shotgun, but the ground trembled—a rift tear erupted, purple energy surging as two shades clawed free, their forms shimmering, eyes glowing like hers.

Elias lunged, machete slashing the first—runes flared, cutting through its chest, black smoke spilling as it shrieked. The second swiped at Mira, claws raking air as she dodged, violet bolt blasting its core—it shattered, dissipating, but the tear pulsed, wider now. The gaunt man screamed, bolting for the door, but a tendril of rift energy lashed out, dragging him back—he vanished into the crack, voice cut off as it snapped shut. The bar fell silent, the air thick with ozone and fear.

Rhea lowered her shotgun, scars pale against her skin. "That's her," she rasped, nodding at the floor. "Pulling through the scars." Elias wiped the machete, gray eyes on the crack—gone now, but the hum lingered in his skull. "Seam's close," he said, voice flat, pocketing the vial. Mira's magic dimmed, her smirk replaced by a grimace. "City's a damn sieve."

Rhea slid a scrap of paper across the table—coordinates, a docklands warehouse. "Heard whispers—Apex stash, rift-tech, ichor vats. Carver's been busy. Might be your seam." Elias took it, gray eyes piercing hers, then stood, machete sheathed with a click. "Keep your ears open," he rasped, heading for the door. Mira followed, magic flaring low, her voice sharp. "Guess we're crashing Carver's party."

Outside, the rain had stopped, the neon haze thicker under the rift scars' pulse. Elias climbed into the truck, gray eyes on the city, the vial's glow faint in his pocket. The Wraith Queen was reaching, her shades a warning—Apex's hands were dirty, and Carver was the thread to pull. The engine roared, tires gripping asphalt, and they rolled toward the docklands, the hunt a quiet, unyielding thing in his bones. The Queen wasn't bound—she was bleeding through, and he'd cut her off, one seam at a time.