Alucent's boots slammed against the wet grating. Beside him, Raya kept pace, her breathing ragged but rhythmic. Behind them, the darkness of the maintenance tunnel echoed with a distinct, wet clattering. It was the sound of chitin striking iron.
Dozens of limbs were closing the distance.
At that moment, the Journal floated at Alucent's right shoulder. He did not touch it. His frantic intent acted as a tether, binding the artifact to his momentum. As he ran, cyan and gold light surfaced on the parchment, illuminating the damp walls. The map on the open page pulsed. Red ink—representing the swarm—bled forward, consuming the black lines of the tunnel.
Alucent glanced at the page. Too fast, he thought.
Suddenly, elegant script materialized over the map.
"Your pulse is a frantic rhythm, Scion. Does the prospect of being un-written terrify you so? The path to the 'Safehouse' is clear, but your fear is making the ink smudge."
Alucent ignored the mockery. He focused on the branching paths ahead. As he forced the map to update the swarm's velocity, a sharp pressure built behind his eyes. Then, a warm liquid dripped onto his lip. He wiped his nose with a sleeve, noting the smear of bright red blood.
"Left!" Alucent shouted. "The junction is ten meters ahead!"
Raya didn't hesitate. She banked hard, her shoulder checking the rusted wall as she turned. Gryan followed, his heavy toolkit clanking against his back. They sprinted down the narrower pipe-way. Not long after, a heavy steel door appeared in the gloom.
Gryan lunged for the handle. "Inside! Now!"
They burst into the warmth of the workshop. Gryan kicked the door shut. Simultaneously, he threw the heavy brass-reinforced bolts.
Clang. Clang.
The locks engaged.
"Raya, the bypass!" Gryan shouted, rushing to a panel of pressure valves embedded in the doorframe. Sweat dripped from his chin as he seized a wheel. "Help me loop the Runeforce! We need these seals at one hundred percent!"
Raya holstered her Weaveblade. Without a word, she grabbed the secondary valve. Together, they twisted the mechanisms. Steam hissed from the joints, and the amber light of the wards flared, sealing the frame.
Alucent moved to the central workbench. He set his pack down. Then, he pulled out the cloth-wrapped Voidshard. He placed it on the wood. The Journal floated over the object, its pages rustling as if caught in a breeze.
New text appeared.
"You have brought a piece of the Void into your nest. Aristocratic wit would suggest you've made a tactical error. My record suggests... you have made a choice."
Alucent didn't respond. He looked at Gryan. The mechanic was leaning against the door, his chest heaving. The sounds of scratching began on the other side of the steel.
"It won't hold forever," Alucent said. "Not against a swarm."
Gryan pushed himself off the door. He walked to the center of the room. "Then we don't use the door."
He knelt by a section of loose floorboards. With a grunt of exertion, he pried them up. Beneath lay a shallow compartment lined with oilcloth. Gryan reached in. He pulled out a device of brass, polished wood, and etched glass.
He set it on the table.
Alucent stared at it. It was a Reed-Pattern Caster. It was a firearm, but adapted. A piece of his Earth-memory reconstructed through the lens of this world's alchemy.
The Journal hovered closer. The cyan light intensified.
"Ah. The shortcut. Pre-etched intent. A child's toy for a man afraid of the quill. Will you use it, or will you let tradition bury you?"
Raya stepped back. Her hand drifted toward her sword hilt. She looked from the weapon to Alucent. "The Weaver is at our door, Alucent," she said, her voice tight. "If we use that, we aren't just fighting him. We're changing ourselves."
Standardization, Alucent thought. The death of mysticism.
Before he could answer, a screeching sound tore through the room. The amber wards on the door flickered. The scratching outside had stopped. It was replaced by heavy, rhythmic thuds.
"They're breaching," Gryan said, grabbing a handful of shells from the compartment. "Alucent, I need eyes. Where are they coming from?"
Alucent turned to the Journal. "Show me the weak points."
The page remained blank. The cyan light dimmed. The artifact was refusing.
It wants payment, damn it! Alucent realized.
He grabbed the Runequill from his pocket. The nib pricked his thumb. He pressed the tip to the page. The Journal required emotional honesty to function at this level, it demanded a confession to fuel the divination.
Alucent slashed the nib across the paper.
I am afraid of failing them again. The Caster is my shield against my own weakness.
The ink vanished instantly. Then, the Journal hummed. A low vibration passed through the table. Suddenly, the Dynamic Content expanded. A two-dimensional floorplan of the cottage projected onto the far wall. Red markers bloomed on the diagram, not just at the door, but at the ventilation grates and the floor drainage.
"The ceiling!" Alucent yelled. "They're circling the vents!"
At that moment, the amber wards on the door turned a sickly violet. With a sound like shattering glass, the light fractured and died.
The shadows beneath the door frame began to boil. They rose upward, defying gravity. A claw, glossy and black, phased through the solid steel. Then came another. This was not a standard Shadebinder. Its form was distorted, larger, vibrating with unstable energy.
Gryan slammed a casing into the Caster. He slid the weapon across the table.
"No more talking!" Gryan roared. "Start writing the ending, Alucent!"
Alucent caught the weapon. The wood was warm; the brass was cold. It felt heavy, grounded. He broke the breach. He loaded a Thread 2 Kinetic-Banishment Casing. The shell clicked into place.
He snapped the barrel shut.
On the Journal, the script changed. The font became bold, heavy, and jagged.
"THE PAGE TURNS BOTH WAYS. OBSERVE THE CONSEQUENCE."
Alucent raised the Caster. He aimed at the ceiling vent just as the grate buckled.
He pulled the trigger.
Hiss-crack.
A deafening roar filled the small room. Steam vented violently from the weapon's side. A beam of pure kinetic force erupted from the barrel. The flash was blinding, illuminating the entire workshop in stark white.
For a split second, the light revealed them, dozens of six-armed silhouettes clinging to the rafters, poised to drop.
Then, the battle began.