The choice was no choice at all. As Isolde's breath hitched, Ronan made the decision. "Cain, get ready to move. Liam, help me with the grate. We're going up."
Ronan closed his eyes for a second, his hand clutching the dice in his pocket. He didn't roll them; he simply pushed. He sent a small, desperate nudge into the currents of fate, not for himself, but for the street above. A moment later, a faint but distinct sound reached them from the surface: the sharp crack of a carriage axle snapping, followed by a startled shout and the panicked whinny of a horse. It was a minor, believable accident—enough to draw the attention of any nearby Guardian patrol.
"Now!" Ronan commanded.
With a collective heave, they forced the heavy iron grate open. Cain, his lean frame belying his strength, moved first. He slipped out into the misty street, a phantom in the gaslight, before helping Ronan and Liam lift the gravely injured Isolde onto the cobblestones. The street was clear, the commotion Ronan had manufactured having drawn the local watch a block away. They were exposed, but they were free.
The journey back to the Gearhouse was a blur of desperation. The sleeping City of Terminus was a labyrinth of dark alleys and silent squares. Cain, now carrying Isolde, set a punishing pace, his knowledge of the city's forgotten shortcuts proving invaluable. Ronan moved just ahead of them, a sentinel reading the shifting probabilities of their path, steering them away from late-night wanderers and potential trouble spots. Liam stayed close to Isolde, his hand hovering over her, trying to feel the rhythm of her life force. It was a frantic, fading beat, a clockwork mechanism grinding to a halt. The poison was not just killing her body; it was erasing the quiet, steady hum of her Seal.
They burst through the reinforced side door of the Gearhouse like a tidal wave of panic. "Borin! Greta! We need help!" Ronan's voice, usually so controlled, was raw with urgency.
Lights flickered on. Seconds later, Borin appeared from the upper walkways, his expression grim and immediately assessing. Greta was right behind him, her boisterous energy replaced by a cold, dangerous focus.
"Infirmary. Now," Borin commanded, his voice a low rumble that cut through their panic.
The Gearhouse's infirmary was a clean, spartan room filled with both mundane medical supplies and esoteric devices for treating supernatural wounds. As Greta helped lay Isolde on a cot, Borin examined the wound. He barely glanced at the flesh; his attention was on the dark, viscous poison that seemed to drink the light.
"Void Taint," he growled, a muscle tightening in his jaw. "An alchemical poison. It severs the Ahenk bond. Standard medicine is useless."
Greta clenched her powerful fists. "Then what do we do?"
"We reinforce the bond," Borin stated, turning to a heavy, iron-bound chest. He began pulling out a series of strange, crystalline rods and silver wires. "We must create a conceptual anchor for her, a space where her Seal of Silence is the only absolute law. It will give her soul something to hold onto while it fights the poison." He looked at Greta. "I will need your will. I will build the frame, but you must be the foundation." He then turned his steely gaze to the exhausted recruits. "The four of you brought her back. Now you will see the price of this life."
The ritual was about to begin, a desperate gambit to save a soul from being erased. In the sterile light of the infirmary, surrounded by the hum of strange devices, Isolde's life hung precariously in the balance.