While Ryker was managing the delicate internal battle within Lyra's mind, Jonathan—a man whose competence was usually masked by a cheerful, easygoing demeanor—was navigating the treacherous logistics of their escape. His task was simple on paper: procure a vehicle, fuel, and papers for an unsanctioned, month-long military operation in the isolated Southern foothills. In reality, it was an exercise in pure treason.
The Transport Dilemma.
Jonathan knew he couldn't just requisition a standard military transport. Every vehicle in the Citadel's motor pool had a traceable transponder, a service log, and was registered on the main roster all through magic. Getting one out meant triggering an immediate alarm.
He spent the afternoon moving through the lower rings of the Citadel, relying on favors and forgotten debts. He finally located what he needed at a peripheral maintenance bay—a heavily modified, civilian-model Ground-Hauler used by the Imperial Geological Survey for long-range, deep-territory sampling.
It was large, rugged, and most importantly, it was entirely off-grid. Its only power came from a high-efficiency solar battery and a sealed internal combustion engine, making it invisible to the Citadel's centralized tracking system. Its thick, opaque armor was designed to repel minor rockslides, but would serve admirably as protection from prying eyes.
The problem was its mechanical state. It hadn't been run in months.
Jonathan found the chief mechanic, a greasy, perpetually tired man named Griz, in the cavernous, oil-scented bay.
"Griz, I need the 'Desert Fox' running and fueled by midnight tomorrow. Top off the solar charge, full fuel cell, and stock the long-haul supplies," Jonathan ordered, dropping a heavy pouch of unmarked silver coins—an entirely unauthorized expense—onto Griz's workbench.
Griz's eyes widened at the sight of the silver, then narrowed with suspicion. "The Fox? That thing's a nightmare. It needs new filters, the fuel lines are cracked, and the engine housing is seized. Why the rush? Geological Survey isn't scheduled to move south for another six months."
"I have a specific, unsanctioned detail from Commander Thorne. The General Staff needs a field assessment of the Southern Boundary yesterday," Jonathan lied smoothly, leaning closer. Griz was loyal to Ryker. He could be trusted but he couldn't risk getting anyone else.
"This is highly confidential, Griz. You log the maintenance as 'routine repair' and you forget we ever spoke. You have no knowledge of the destination. More silver when we return."
The combination of cash and the veiled threat of a Commander's authority was enough. Griz snatched the pouch, his eyes already assessing the Ground-Hauler's engine bay.
"Midnight. But the fuel won't be clean. It's the bottom of the barrel. You'll be shaking like a fever the whole way."
Jonathan sighed." That will do."
The Forgery.
With the vehicle secured, Jonathan's next crisis was the paperwork. They needed papers that would pass cursory inspection at any low-level Imperial checkpoint.
He tracked down a known—and expensive—forger in the Citadel's records department, an unctuous, pale scribe named Orphilia.
"I need an official Field Assessment Warrant," Jonathan stated, handing her the specific coordinates for their forged destination—a distant, non-existent mining claim far south of Oakhaven. "Signed by the Commander. Stamped for 'Long-Range, High-Security Biological Transport.'"
Orphilia's eyebrows shot up. "Biological Transport? That's Black Site clearance, Jonathan. That will cost you everything you earned last year, and I'll still be risking beheading."
"It's a sterile transfer of contaminated medical research," Jonathan countered, knowing the term biological sounded less dangerous than magical. "It's ugly, but it's not treason. Get it done. The date must be current, and the destination utterly convincing."
Orphilia agreed, taking a thick stack of bills. Jonathan left, feeling physically sick from the risk. The moment that warrant was generated, their escape was formalized in the Citadel's paper trail, creating a traceable, if heavily obscured, history.
"I'm the one who called it. Should have expected it to be dangerous." He sighed.
The Final Detail.
By late evening, Jonathan reported back to Ryker at the Isolation Block, his face smeared with grease, his nerves frayed.
"The Ground-Hauler is running, but it's loud, Commander. It's a rattletrap," Jonathan reported in a low voice. "And the fuel is low-grade—it'll chew up mileage and keep us bouncing. We'll be slow."
"Slow is safe, Jonathan. Speed attracts air patrols," Ryker said, appreciating his friend's efficiency. "What about the papers?"
"Orphilia is generating the warrant now. High-Security Biological Transport to a bogus mining claim. It gives us official cover for a month. We leave at midnight."
Ryker clapped Jonathan on the shoulder. "You've done well, my friend. Now get some rest. We move in six hours."
As Jonathan left, Ryker looked at the medical bag, then at the sleeping Lyra. Their slow, shaking ride toward Oakhaven—her forgotten home—was secured. But their cover was weak, and their speed was compromised. They were running right into the arms of the external threat, and they would be moving far too slowly to outrun a focused hunter. It was only gonna get worse.