"It's over."
Raya's voice cut through the silence on the ridge with the finality of a blade meeting bone. She remained gazing down at the village, at the Harvester loading her cargo, but her expression had shifted from observation to professional detachment, the form of emotional constraint that precedes delivering news unwelcome to hear.
"Our plan was reconnaissance in the Verdant Hollow," she pressed on. "We have located the breeding site, observed the growing process, verified the distribution by organized means, and found direct involvement by Iron Vale. That is military-level intelligence. We will withdraw now and inform Sir Vorn of our findings. It is the only logical choice."
She turned her attention to both of them, her sharp green eyes picking out the purple light of the Runewell that had been corrupted in the vicinity below. "We are three people with limited resources and only one functional weapon. We cannot interfere in an organized operation. We certainly cannot deal with whatever exists in Forge District 7. However, we can relay this information to someone who can mount an appropriate reaction. This is our task now."
The logic was sound. Tactically correct. A professional decision that valued information over action, aware of what a small unit could accomplish against a network of this scope.
Gryan's reaction was swift and unfazed. "No,"
His robotic arm hummed quietly, a gentle whir as hydraulic systems cycled with tightly contained pressure. His face had grown masklike, engineering practicality muffled beneath a tougher, more private emotion. His eyes were fixed upon the Steamwagon below, upon containers of memory-devouring parasites being loaded for transport.
"Do we let her deliver that poison right to my door?" His voice was steady, but there was steel behind it. Anger, carefully contained but sure to be there. "To the Conclave's forges, to be analyzed and employed on as large a scale as they can manage? We might be able to intercept this delivery. Perhaps even take control of the Harvester herself and find some answers for those behind this. We have to do this now, not when the trail is cold and the parasites are everywhere."
"Well, how exactly do you plan on acting?" Raya's hand had gone to the hilt of her Weaveblade. "How about storming down there and fighting your way through a whole village full of drugged civilians in order to get to one female, likely to be armed, and definitely tied to people who will come hunting for us if we try to mess with her?"
"Better than going back to Eryndral and hoping Sir Vorn can mobilize in time."
"We are not equipped for direct action against—"
"We are not equipped to do nothing while—"
"That's enough."
Alucent's voice was not raised, but it broke through into their argument with unexpected force. Both ceased speaking and turned to him. But he continued staring down into the village, his analytical mind racing, weighing the options, seeking a solution that met Raya's rationale and Gryan's needs.
The plan began to come together piece by piece, not as a compromise but because it was also a third way that neither of them had seen.
"We cannot attack her directly," Alucent murmured, his gaze fixed on the path of the Harvester, who was finishing up the loading of their vessel. "Raya's correct there, anyway. An assault will inevitably mean our deaths or capture and alert the forces she operates in that their operation has been uncovered."
Gryan's jaw clenched, but he did not interject.
"However, we cannot allow her to leave without a fight," Alucent pressed on. "Gryan is right about that too. It is a lead we cannot afford to pass on. By the time we return and Sir vorn is able to mobilize a counteroffensive, she will have delivered the containers and established a new web of distribution that is outside our knowledge."
He finally turned away from the village and met their stares. "So we do not fight her. And we do not let her go. We do neither."
"That's not a plan; that's a riddle." Raya's face changed from determination to puzzlement.
"We will not stop the shipment," Alucent said, speaking with the quiet conviction of a man who has already determined himself to embark on an unprecedented course. "We will become part of it," he added.
The silence that ensued was full of implications.
"You mean to stow away," Gryan spoke up finally, as a statement of acknowledgment, as he calculated with his engineering brain what Alucent suggested. "We will hide aboard the Steamwagon and let her take us right to Forge District 7."
"It is the only way to ensure that this trail is not lost to us," Alucent answered. "We cannot follow any steamwagon on foot, and it is impossible to keep up with a vehicle over a distance such as this to Iron Vale. However, if we are inside, it takes us right to our destination. And there, we can gather information about what this action means and who is behind it and then whether it can be intervened with or if it must be extracted and reported back to our superiors."
"That is insane," Raya said flatly. "We would find ourselves inside a vehicle that is in motion and beyond our control. Should we be discovered, there would be no place to retreat. We would either be caught and jailed or."
"I know," Alucent replied, not downplaying the danger. "But we have exhausted better options. This is the least damaging alternative we have."
Gryan nodded slowly, his mechanical fingers flexing as he weighed the technical difficulties. "It may be feasible. Steam wagons of this size often contain reinforced supply storage areas meant to hide valuable cargo or shield it from theft. If we can gain access undetected."
"This is a terrible idea," Raya said, and while she spoke, her tone conveyed less confidence than opposition.
But beneath them, the Harvester finished her last-minute preparations. Her crew checked the cargo restraints and scrutinized the steam-pressure gauges. Their time frame was measured in minutes.
"We have to make a choice now," said Alucent.
Raya looked at Gryan. Gryan looked at Raya. Some muttered dialogue was conveyed between the two that Alucent was unable to discern. Then Raya's hand fell away from her blade.
"If we die," she said quietly, "I'm blaming both of you in the afterlife."
They moved quietly down from the ridge, their actions precise and calculated as they traversed through this crystallized forest. Every step was planned to be soundless, every movement measured for visibility to the village below. The twisted trees were sufficient cover for them, with their unnatural purple light casting deep shadows to hide their presence.
Raya took point, acting as their scout. She was a swift and agile runner, crossing this ground with a fluidity that was almost otherworldly. She would periodically stop and look around before signaling for the others to follow with a series of hand gestures: clear path. Move up. Hold position. Gryan recognized these as a code for insertion from his experience in the military.
They got within twenty meters of the cottage where the Steamwagon was parked. The Harvester was still in sight, busy with some kind of work in the driver's compartment, perhaps examining instruments or laying out maps. Her back was turned to them, but she could turn at any second.
Gryan drew attention to the undercarriage of the vehicle, specifically to the large compartment that was mounted between the rear axles.
His mechanical fingers outlined the compartment as he explained its function silently: "supply storage, smuggling space—an appropriate hiding place."
They moved in turn. Raya led, doing a low sprint that barely disrupted the illuminated undergrowth. She pressed herself against the side of the Steamwagon, out of the Harvester's view, and signaled the rest to follow.
Alucent followed, his burden seeming to weigh much more than usual. He finally reached the vehicle and lay down alongside Raya, his heart pounding loud enough to be heard.
Gryan came in last, his cybernetic arm humming softly as he knelt beside the supply compartment, studying the locking mechanism. It was heavy-duty and resistant to tampering but not impossible to bypass if one knew how.
His organic fingers worked the latch as his mechanical hand held the compartment door steady. He applied the torque at just the right angle, spreading the pressure to avoid too much strain on the hinges. The latch started to turn, the metal scraping together, a noise that seemed almost jarring in the peaceful evening.
A groaning creak resonated through the clearing. The Harvester turned her head, her attention drawn by the sound.
Alucent reacted on instinct. His hand shot out for the metal wall beside the latch, and he produced his Runequill in his other hand, the amber ink flowing with purpose. He carved quickly, crudely, a glyph for sound suppression, Thread 2 Coppermark. It would do for a few seconds.
The glyph flashed cyan as it came online. The grinding of the latch stopped, replaced by a dull muffled click that hardly carried past the immediate vicinity of the vehicle. The Harvester paused for a heartbeat, cocking her head as if listening. Then she resumed her preparations, seeming satisfied that all was well.
Gryan finished opening the compartment, revealing a cramped, dark space perhaps a meter and a half deep. It was sufficient to allow maybe three individuals to stand if they squeezed their backpacks in tightly. There was a metallic scent to the air, an oily one, and something sugary that was probably left over from whatever was transported before.
They entered swiftly, Raya first, squeezing herself into the corner of the compartment. Alucent was next, the weight of his pack sticking to the edge of the compartment as he twisted awkwardly into position. Gryan was the last one in, his cybernetic limb taking up extra space.
The latch engaged softly on the inside. Gryan's fingers worked a mechanism that was hidden from the eyes of Alvent in the darkness to prevent accidental release during transportation.
Then they waited, huddled together in the darkness, hardly breathing.
Heavy footsteps drew near, Harvester, performing a last check of the ship's exterior before departure. Her footsteps came very close to where they were hiding, close enough for Alucent to hear the sound of her breathing through the thin metal wall. She stopped beside their hiding position. Alucent's hand rested on the hilt of his Runequill, prepared to inscribe whatever he might need to as a precaution in case she found them.
She moved on. The footsteps faded away, climbing into the cab of the vehicle. Soon, the engine roared to life.
The noise was deafening in the small enclosure—a din of hissing steam and grinding gears that shook on all sides. The whole car shook with the activation of the pressure systems, with the connection of the drivetrain, and with the mass of metal and freight poised to move.
The Steamwagon lurched ahead with a jerk that pushed them back against the sides of the compartment. It started to move, its massive treads churning through the earth, swaying with a rhythm that spoke of tough terrain transport.
They were now committed. There was no escape during movement. Neither control over destinations nor over routes. Their fortunes were henceforth to be exclusively in the Harvester's hands.
Alucent placed himself next to a ventilation grate, the only source of visibility into the outside world, and caught glimpses of the passing scenery through the slits: the infected forest receding into the distance, the purple color growing dimmer, and Hollow's Heart fading into the distance behind them.
Then, through the trees, there was a final glimpse: the round houses, the town square with its tainted Runewell, and villagers going through their appointed rounds with their hollow smiles and empty gazes.
They were safe there, a terrible kind of safe. They were protected from the pain, the fear, and the sorrow because those feelings were consumed by the parasites, and all they felt was a placid calm. They would live out the rest of their days in that gorgeous prison, blissfully unaware of what they were missing or the price their tranquility cost.
Alucent had left them there deliberately, choosing to ignore the current threats in favor of the bigger one. This was, surely, the most sensible decision, the best strategic move for the sake of the greater good.
However, this remained abandonment. A choice that sentenced that group of people to that soul-sucked paradise while he sought information that could or could not provide effective solutions.
The weight of such a decision came to rest upon him as a palpable mass. It would not be the last time, he knew. Perhaps, if he was lucky, such impossible decisions, such balancing acts of tolerable sacrifices and prudential considerations, would become commonplace to him if he lived long enough to see that day. It was impossible to save every person one cared about, to solve every problem, to quench every burning fire.
The forests thinned out.
From his grating, Alucent watched the landscape shift: the dense forests of Verdant Vale gave way to thin scrub, and the purple trees decreased in number, substituted by more resilient flora.
The scent from the ventilation, so rich in flowers, turned industrial, carrying hints of coal smoke, burning metal, and chemical ash. The Turquoise Moon was still visible above, casting a cyan-purple glow over everything.
But ahead, on the horizon, was another light source, crimson and orange. The light of the forge fires that burned day and night.
Dozens, or perhaps hundreds, of them, a jagged skyline of industrial architecture against the darkness. Iron Vale. The industrial center—where precision and utility had reigned supreme over the dignity of man; where steam power had been driven to an extreme that made men seek to optimize the use of lives rather than protect them, themselves included; where the Conclave had tested their pressurized systems on prisoners in the name of progress. Where one awaited the arrival of memory-devouring parasites for reasons Alucent could hardly imagine but knew were going to be terrible.
The steamwagon lurched forward, carrying its hidden payload towards the center of the furnace. The rhythmic pounding of metal wheels on hard earth was almost hypnotic, a journey that could lead to discovery, captivity, death, and even more. They were no longer investigators.
Now they were cargo, smuggled into enemy territory without an extraction strategy and without support. Just three individuals against overwhelming odds, and the only hope they had was that they might gather enough information to prevent the horror from spreading.
Alucent pressed his face to the grille, his eyes fixed upon the crimson glow of the forge-fires that grew larger on the horizon. The thunder of engines was accompanied by the tremor of his body as he moved. The hunt had turned to infiltration. And they were committed, whether they were ready or not.