Chapter 18: The Scar Hunt Begins

The neon haze of Old Detroit pulsed through the truck's windshield as Elias Voss drove toward the docklands, the city's rift scars flickering faintly overhead in the late-night gloom. His gray eyes stayed locked on the road, unblinking, the scar over his eyebrow sharp in the dashboard's dim glow. The machete rested beside him, runes glowing faintly blue through patched bloodstains, while the SIG Sauer—reloaded with silver rounds—hung at his hip, its weight a steady promise. His tactical gear was patched, the bandage on his arm soaked red, but he moved steady, unyielding—pain was a shadow he'd long mastered.

Mira Kade sat beside him, her magic flickering violet in her palms as she flexed her hands, the Wraith Queen's taunt—"I mend fast"—still a raw edge in her mind. Her torn jacket hung loose, her smirk faint but sharp as she eyed the slums rolling past—rusted hulks of buildings, flickering signs, the hum of drones weaving through the haze. "Back to Rhea," she said, voice low, rolling the empty vial from her pocket between her fingers. "Hope she's got more than bad beer this time." Elias grunted, a rare sound, shifting gears as the truck jolted over cracked asphalt. "She knows scars. Knows rifts. Knows her."

The truck slowed outside The Iron Flask, its rusted door and flickering sign a stubborn blight in the docklands' sprawl. Elias parked, stepping out, machete sheathed but close, gray eyes scanning the street—quiet, save for the rain's soft patter and the distant wail of sirens from Apex's fallout. Mira followed, her limp gone, magic dim but restless as she cracked her knuckles. Inside, the bar stank of burnt herbs and stale sweat, 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 battered state. "Voss," she rasped, nodding once. "You're a damn curse, you know that?"

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 onto the table—its faint rift shimmer caught the light. "Queen's reaching," she said, voice sharp. "Shades in the safehouse, tendrils on the tower—she's bleeding through the scars." Rhea's smirk faded, her hands stilling as she took the vial, squinting at it. "Bleeding, huh? Apex's mess stirred her good." She set it down, pulling a battered crate from under the counter—vials, rune-etched tools, a map of the city marked with jagged lines.

Elias leaned forward, voice low and flat. "Scars are her veins. Where's she strongest?" Rhea unfolded the map, tracing lines with a scarred finger—rift scars crisscrossing Old Detroit, pulsing points circled in red. "Here," she said, tapping the docklands, then downtown, then the slums. "Biggest seams—old rifts, never sealed right. Apex fed 'em ichor, kept 'em live. If she's awake, she's riding those." Mira's magic flared, her smirk gone. "City's a damn net, and we're the flies."

Rhea pulled a vial from the crate—clear liquid, rune-etched, glowing faint purple. "Cleanse won't cut it now," she rasped, sliding it to Elias. "This tracks—rune-binder, sticks to rift energy like bloodhounds. Find the seams, you find her pulse." Elias took it, gray eyes narrowing as he pocketed it, the weight a tool for the hunt. "How many?" he asked, voice like gravel. Rhea shrugged, scars tightening. "Dozens, maybe—city's rotten with 'em. Start close—docklands got hit hard when The Breach cracked."

A low rumble shook the bar—not the storm, not the city. Elias spun, machete drawn, runes blazing as the floor trembled—a crack split the wood, purple energy surging, a rift tear waking fast. Rhea swore, grabbing her shotgun, but Mira's magic flared, violet light casting shadows. "Not again," she hissed, standing fast. The tear widened, tendrils lashing, and something clawed free—not a shade, not a wraith, but a rift reaver—hulking, its form a mass of bone and scales, claws jagged with corruption, eyes glowing purple like hers.

Elias lunged, machete slashing its chest—runes flared, cutting deep, black blood spraying as it roared, shaking the walls. It swiped, claws raking air—he ducked, slashing its leg, crippling it, but the reaver charged, smashing a table to splinters. Mira's Violet bolt hit its flank, scorching flesh—it staggered, roaring, and Rhea fired—shotgun blasts punched its shoulder, blood splattering the counter. Elias drove the machete into its skull, runes blazing as it sank through bone—it convulsed, collapsing, the tear snapping shut behind it, tendrils fading.

The bar fell silent, thick with the stench of rift ash and blood. Elias wiped the machete on the reaver's hide, gray eyes narrowing—the hum lingered, a whisper in his skull. Rhea lowered her shotgun, scars pale. "Bigger than shades," she rasped, nodding at the corpse. "She's flexing." Mira's magic dimmed, her smirk faint but grim. "Sending us presents now." Elias sheathed the machete, voice flat. "Means we're close."

He took the map, gray eyes tracing the docklands' red circle—Pier 17, the warehouse, seams pulsing nearby. "Start there," he rasped, folding it into his coat. Rhea slid another vial—rune-binder—across the table. "Watch your back, Voss," she said, voice low. "She's not just reaching—she's hunting." He nodded once, heading for the door, machete's weight a steady rhythm at his side. Mira followed, magic flaring low, her voice sharp. "Guess we're her favorite game."

Outside, the rain had thickened, neon bleeding through the haze as Elias climbed into the truck, gray eyes on the docklands ahead. The rune-binder pulsed in his pocket, a faint glow syncing with the rift scars' hum—he uncorked it, pouring a drop onto his machete, runes flaring brighter, binding to the rift's trace. "Tracks," he said, voice low, starting the engine. Mira smirked, faint but real, buckling in. "Let's chase her shadow then."

The truck roared to life, rolling toward Pier 17, the city's scars a web waiting to be cut. The reaver's blood dried on Elias's hands, the hunt a quiet, unyielding thing in his bones. The Wraith Queen was flexing—rift-bound but growing, her scars the veins of her power—and he'd carve through them, one seam at a time. The neon faded, the docklands loomed, and the rift's echo called him forward.