The faint, cold resonance of the markings scratched near the ruined substation door seemed to leach warmth from the air itself. Rhys knelt, ignoring the grime and the lingering scent of ozone from his desperate Weaving defense. His Echo Sense, now mostly recovered though still feeling thin after the recent depletion, probed the shallow grooves in the stone. This wasn't the crude territorial scratching of Corbin's gang, nor the random damage from their forced entry. These lines were precise, deliberate, forming geometric shapes that felt chillingly familiar.
He closed his eyes, filtering out the background noise of dripping water and distant rumbles, focusing solely on the energy signature left within the marks. It wasn't Aether, not the chaotic, vibrant stuff of the mutated creatures, nor the murky, aggressive energy of the thugs. This was something else – a cold, structured echo, almost crystalline in its feel. It resonated with a frequency that reminded him instantly, viscerally, of the invasive probe he'd felt scanning him in the Undermarket after leaving Sera Bellweather's. It felt like… latent data, a focused informational imprint left behind, dormant but potent.
Kaelen's warning surfaced in his mind: "...sharp-eyed types asking questions... Didn't look like Hand thugs." These weren't just watchers; they were markers. Identifiers. A sophisticated way of tagging a location, or perhaps, tagging him. They knew he'd been here. They might have observed the entire confrontation with Corbin's gang, noted his clumsy but effective use of Aetherium Weaving, registered his presence, his abilities, his survival.
A shiver traced its way down his spine, unrelated to the tunnel's damp chill. The substation, their hard-won, temporary sanctuary, was irrevocably compromised. Staying here wasn't just risky; it felt like waiting in a carefully marked cage for an unknown predator to return. The poor quality of the ambient Aether only compounded the necessity of leaving; recovery was slow, progress stalled. They had to move. Now.
He rose, dusting off his knees, his face set in grim lines. He found Boulder methodically cleaning the salvaged vibro-knife, his movements economical and precise.
"We're leaving," Rhys stated quietly, relaying his findings about the markings, the cold resonance, the connection to the Undermarket probe and Kaelen's warning. "They've marked this place. Watched us. Staying here is waiting for them to close the net."
Boulder listened impassively, his gaze steady. He sheathed the knife. "Where?"
Rhys mentally reviewed his patchy knowledge of Meridian's under-layers, cross-referencing it with areas known to be frequented by various factions. "Not deeper into these main tunnels – too much overlap with Corbin's territory now. Not back towards the Undermarket or the Forge District – Crimson Hand presence is too high, and the watchers seem active there too. We need somewhere obscure, hazardous enough to deter casual traffic, but potentially holding resources."
He visualized the fragmented maps he'd pieced together from salvaged datapads and rumors. "The Old Industrial Sector. Mid-levels. Closer to the surface in some parts, but notoriously unstable. Chemical hazards, structural collapses, residual tech dangers. Most low-level gangs avoid it because the scavenging is difficult and dangerous. But…" He hesitated, recalling fragments of information. "…it might contain pre-Sundering facilities. Advanced manufacturing, labs, power conduits. Places that might hold useful salvage, maybe even… specific materials." Like catalysts. And crucially, the sheer chaotic nature of the ruins might offer better cover from sophisticated surveillance.
Boulder considered this, then gave a single nod. Acceptance. Trust.
The next cycle was dedicated to meticulous preparation for a calculated retreat. Rhys, conserving his Aether carefully, employed subtle Weaving. He used faint Air currents to disturb dust patterns near where he'd meditated, scattering debris to obscure the smoothed patches. He channeled a weak Water affinity to enhance the natural dampness in certain areas, washing away faint residual Aether signatures left by his practice or the fight. He wanted it to look like the substation had been briefly fought over by gangs, then abandoned, leaving no clear trace of his specific energy or prolonged stay.
Boulder focused on logistics. He used Rhys's Water Weaving assistance to top off their canteens with painstakingly filtered water. He consolidated their meager rations – nutrient paste, dried fungus strips – calculating their duration. He checked their basic tools, ensuring the pry bar was secure, the salvaged knife sharp. They packed light, prioritizing mobility and essentials.
Finally, Rhys focused on planning the route. Using his Echo Sense, he projected outwards, mapping the connecting tunnels leading towards the Old Industrial Sector. He identified choked service conduits, partially collapsed ventilation shafts, routes that seemed structurally dubious but energetically 'quiet'. The goal was to avoid main thoroughfares entirely, sticking to the forgotten capillaries of Meridian's underbelly.
When the distant roar signaled the peak of the next major drainage cycle flushing down from the levels above, they moved. Slipping out of the repaired but marked doorway, they didn't look back. The cacophony of rushing water provided auditory cover as they melted into the shadows of a narrow, slime-coated access tunnel. They moved with practiced stealth, Rhys leading the way, his Echo Sense a constant, low-level drain on his reserves, scanning ahead, below, above.
They navigated the first few hundred meters of the new, decaying tunnel system. The air here was different, carrying the acrid tang of old chemicals and rusted metal. As Rhys negotiated a tricky passage over slick, algae-covered pipes, his Echo Sense caught it – a fleeting, almost imperceptible flicker far behind them in the tunnel they'd just left. It wasn't an energy signature, more like a momentary distortion, a refocusing. Like a lens adjusting. Or a sensor recalibrating its tracking parameters.
He froze for a split second, then forced himself to keep moving, not betraying his detection. Had they been picked up already? Was the withdrawal from the substation observed? Or was it just his heightened senses, frayed nerves playing tricks on him in the oppressive darkness? The uncertainty settled deep in his gut, a cold counterpoint to the physical exertion of their flight. Their retreat was underway, but the feeling of being pursued by unseen eyes had just become chillingly immediate.