Chapter 19: The Pier’s Pulse

The docklands of Old Detroit sprawled under a sky streaked with rift scars, their purple glow pulsing faintly as rain hammered the truck's windshield. Elias Voss drove through the rusted maze of cranes and piers, Pier 17's coordinates—a red circle on Rhea's map—etched into his mind. His gray eyes stayed locked on the road, unblinking, the scar over his eyebrow sharp in the dashboard's dim light. The machete rested beside him, runes glowing brighter blue after the rune-binder's touch, its edge humming with rift energy. The SIG Sauer hung reloaded at his hip, silver rounds chambered, its weight a steady anchor. His tactical gear was patched, blood crusted on his arm, but he moved steady, unyielding—the hunt was his pulse, and it beat strong.

Mira Kade sat beside him, her magic flickering violet in her palms as she flexed her hands, the rift reaver's roar still a raw echo in her ears. Her torn jacket hung loose, her smirk faint but sharp as she eyed the map, tracing the docklands' scars. "Pier 17 again," she muttered, voice low, rain streaking her window. "Shrike's old haunt—guess the Queen likes the view." Elias grunted, a rare sound, shifting gears as the truck jolted over cracked asphalt. "Seam's there," he rasped, voice flat. "We cut it." Mira's smirk widened, leaning back. "Round two, then."

The truck slowed near the pier, its rusted cranes looming skeletal against the rift scars' glow. Elias parked behind a stack of shipping containers, killing the engine, the silence thick with the rain's drum and the faint hum of rift energy. He stepped out, machete in hand, runes flaring as he uncorked the rune-binder vial, pouring a drop onto the blade—it pulsed brighter, syncing with the scars overhead, a hunter's compass. Mira followed, boots splashing in puddles, her magic dim but restless. "Feels heavier," she whispered, eyeing the warehouse ahead—same steel slab from their first hunt, now dark, its windows shattered.

Elias moved, a shadow against the rain, gray eyes piercing the gloom—two drones buzzed low, Apex's leftovers, their lights flickering wet. He raised the SIG Sauer—thwip, thwip—two shots, precise, dropping them into the mud, sparks dying fast. Mira's Violet spark fried a third, its crash muffled by the storm. "Quiet's out," she said, magic coiling in her palms. He nodded once, voice low. "In." The loading bay door hung ajar, rift energy shimmering faint from within—he pushed through, machete up, Mira at his heels.

The warehouse yawned—a cavern of overturned crates, ichor vats shattered from their last raid, the air thick with ozone and rot. The rune-binder pulsed on Elias's blade, guiding him right—toward a corner where the floor cracked, purple light shimmering, a rift seam alive and humming. "There," he rasped, gray eyes narrowing as the hum grew, vibrating the walls. Mira's magic flared, violet casting shadows. "Stronger than the safehouse," she said, voice tight. "She's close."

A low roar shook the warehouse—not the hum, but something breaking free. The seam split wider, rift energy erupting as a tear opened—tendrils lashed out, and a rift behemoth clawed through—massive, its form a tangle of bone and muscle, scales glinting with corruption, jaws split wide with jagged teeth, eyes glowing purple like hers. It bellowed, shaking the steel, and charged Elias, faster than its bulk promised.

He dodged, machete slashing its flank—runes blazed, cutting deep, black blood spraying as it roared, rattling the walls. It swiped, claws raking air—he rolled, firing the SIG Sauer—three shots punched its chest, silver rounds sizzling, slowing it. Mira's Violet bolt hit its skull, scorching bone—it staggered, bellowing, but lunged for her, jaws gaping. Elias threw the machete—runes flared, sinking into its neck, and it shrieked, thrashing—Mira's whip snapped its jaw, breaking teeth, and Elias yanked the blade free, slashing its throat—blood gushed, and it collapsed, a heap of twitching ruin.

The tear pulsed, tendrils retreating, but didn't close—rift energy shimmered, the hum louder now. Elias wiped the machete, gray eyes on the seam—something gleamed within, a shard, pulsing purple, embedded in the rift's core. "Her," he rasped, voice low, reaching for it—the rune-binder flared, syncing with it, but a voice cut through—cold, sharp, feminine. "Hunter," the Wraith Queen purred, her laugh echoing from the tear. "You chase my echoes."

Mira's magic flared, Violet net aimed at the tear—it clashed with rift energy, sparking, but held the tendrils back. Elias grabbed the shard—rune-binder burned his palm, rift energy surging, and he yanked it free—the tear snapped shut, the shard's pulse fading in his grip. The warehouse fell silent, rain drumming outside, the hum a faint whisper in his skull. "Echoes," Mira muttered, magic dimming, wiping sweat from her brow. "She's playing us."

Elias turned the shard in his hand—smaller than Breachpoint's, cracked but alive, its glow syncing with the scars overhead. "Not playing," he rasped, voice flat, pocketing it. "Marking." He pulled the map, gray eyes tracing the docklands' scars—Pier 17 circled, a dozen more pulsing red across the city. Mira leaned in, her smirk faint but grim. "She's got anchors—shards like that, tying her to the scars." He nodded once, voice low. "We hunt 'em."

A low growl rumbled from the shadows—not the tear, not the behemoth. Elias spun, machete up, runes flaring as a figure staggered from behind a crate—gaunt, wild-eyed, clothes torn, the man from The Iron Flask, dragged into a rift nights ago. His skin shimmered, rift corruption streaking his veins, eyes glowing faint purple. "She sees," he croaked, voice hollow, claws glinting where hands once were. "Sees you."

Mira's magic flared, Violet bolt ready—Elias raised a hand, stopping her, gray eyes piercing the man's. "Where?" he growled, voice ice. The man laughed, ragged and desperate, rift energy pulsing in his chest. "Everywhere… scars… her eyes…" He lunged, claws slashing—Elias sidestepped, machete cutting his arm—runes blazed, black blood spraying, and the man shrieked, collapsing, rift energy fading as he died, a husk in the mud.

The silence returned, heavy with the stench of rift ash and blood. Elias wiped the machete, gray eyes on the corpse—the Queen wasn't just reaching; she was marking, turning men into her eyes. Mira's magic dimmed, her smirk gone. "She's building," she said, voice low. "Not just beasts—puppets." Elias nodded, sheathing the machete, the shard's pulse a weight in his pocket. "Then we blind her."

He headed for the truck, gray eyes on the rain-slicked pier, the rune-binder vial pulsing faint in his hand. Mira followed, magic flaring low, her voice sharp. "Pier's one—how many more?" Elias climbed in, starting the engine, gray eyes on the city beyond. "All of 'em," he rasped, voice flat, tires gripping asphalt as they rolled out. The hunt burned in his bones, a quiet, unyielding thing—the Wraith Queen was threading the scars, her shards her anchors, her puppets her eyes, and he'd cut them out, one by one.