The clamor of boots and shouted orders rang again as Garrick exited from the lead carriage. His cloak shifted with the faint breeze sweeping in through the shattered windows of the station. Even though his posture seemed lazy, every soldier froze as though there was a blade to their neck.
"Where's my report!?" Garrick demanded, his tone annoyed, carrying the weight of steel.
An officer jogged forward to Garrick with papers clutched in his hands. "Here's the report, sir: forty-eight dead, fifty-seven wounded, and some supplies damaged." The officer's voice faltered on the last part.
"Damaged?" Garrick repeated, tilting his head slightly.
"Yes, commander. Some filters and weapons were—"
The words died when Garrick closed the distance between them—taking the report from the officer's hand and skimming over the papers before tearing it in half.
"I don't give a damn about excuses," Garrick said. His voice not rising, yet the officer froze in his boots. "If the filters are damaged, then the men will make do. If they die, then they don't deserve the nobles we provide them with."
The silence spread across the station. Garrick relished it, his lips curling into a grin. "Now hurry up and get back to work!" he yelled, slinging his rifle onto his shoulder and turning away. Leaving the shredded report scattered on the floor.
Eryndor and Rivne kept their heads down, hiding in the shadows of the station. Eryndor knuckles tighten; Garrick's presence was suffocating in a way the poisoned air could never match.
Riven leaned close to Eryndor, his voice being muffled by the mask. "We should get moving; the guards will be rushing to get things down now."
Eryndor didn't answer. His gaze just drifted to the side corridor where the RESPIRATORS - RESTRICTED ISSUE crates had vanished. Two guards posted themselves outside the doors, rifles in hand, with their expressions hidden underneath their masks.
The thought of getting passed them seemed impossible. But with every breath, the warning of Riven's mask —15% AIR REMAINING— ticked closer and closer to zero.
They both knew they couldn't waste time, not now.
The shadows of the station felt heavier with every passing second. Riven's lungs worked against the filter, each inhale having a taste of metal despite the mask. The corridor to the supply room was right there— so close it made his teeth ache.
Riven leaned against the pillar, looking fatigued as he let out a cough. Eryndor turned to look at Riven. "What's wrong, is your mask below ten percent!?" Eryndor said quietly, reaching out his hand to help Riven.
Riven coughed again before getting back on his feet. He taps the mask, checking the filter percentage. -–13% AIR REMAINING— Riven eyes narrowed underneath the mask.
"I'm at thirteen, we can't waste any time, I need those filters and so do you." He says, looking around quickly, scanning for any gaps in the guards' rotation.
Eryndor followed his gaze, noting the rotation of the soldiers as they moved back and forth. Every step they took, every clank of their gear, and every order shouted seemed like it all synchronized like a heartbeat.
Suddenly, a soldier comes running to the guards, waving one over, saying something inaudible, before turning to leave with one of the guards.
"Just one guard left," Eryndor says, watching as the guard stands stiffly at the door, tightly holding his rifle in his hand.
Riven tilted his head slightly, "That's our opening," He whispered, his tone sharp beneath the coughing.
Eryndor's eyes scanned the corridor, "with one guard staring straight at the door? Doesn't sound like much of an opening to me."
"It's better than none at all. I'll make him look away, you get the door."
Before Eryndor could argue, Riven straightened, pulling his cloak tighter around him. He stumbled out into the open, violently hitting his mask.
The guard stiffened, shifting uneasily. "You there—what's wrong?" His voice muffled under the mask, but hinted at suspicion.
Riven slowly calmed down, slumping against the wall, one arm bracing as though his body was ready to give out. "F-filter's, I need Filters…" he rasped, forcing the words out between fake coughs. "I—need—air."
The guard stepped closer, enough to have his attention fixed on Riven's trembling frame.
Riven looks to Eryndor for a moment, nodding his head as a signal for Eryndor to go.
Eryndor darted from the shadows, his heart pounding in his chest. The corridor seemed to stretch on forever, every step suffocating. He reached the door—his gloved hand gripping the handle, trying to open it to no avail.
"Damn it." He whispered under his breath.
The glow beneath his sleeve pulsed ever so faintly, beginning to heat up his arm. His instincts were screaming to pull back, but there was no time. Riven couldn't last much longer, and even so hold the guard's attention any longer, too.
Come on! Come! on! Dammit!
Eryndor pressed his palm firmly against the door.
It felt as if a tremor coursed through the frame. The metal creaked, as if it were slowly deteriorating. For a moment, it was like the door obeyed him. With a sharp cracking noise, the lock was crushed from the inside.
Eryndor froze, staring at his own hand. The glow faded slowly, leaving faint aches of something inside his bones.
Eryndor! Riven yelled, snapping him out of it.
Riven stood up quickly, dashing past the guard in a flash.
Eryndor slipped inside the supply room. The air inside was cooler, with shadows across crates marked with the words: RESPIRATORS - RESTRICTED ISSUE.
Riven stumbled in a second later, shutting the door behind them fully. Just as the guard turned in the confusion.
"Finally!" Riven said, quickly moving to one of the crates with shaky hands, taking off the lid of it.
"So many," Riven muttered, quickly picking up a filter and swapping it with a cracked piece in his mask and tossing it to the side. The hiss of clean air fills his lungs again. "You don't understand how good this feels after how long I had that old filter on for."
Eryndor stands over a crate, silent. Raising his hand while trembly slightly, the memory of that strange heat he felt was etched into his mind and skin.
What the hell… was that?
Eryndor also swaps his filter, now looking to Riven.
"Did you get enough?"
Riven nods before looking back to the door,
"You two in there, come out with your hands up!"
Riven cursed under his breath, shoving the filters into a sack. "Guess it's time to go."
Eryndor glanced toward the door, the metal handle shaking with each demand. His arm still tingled faintly from whatever had forced the lock open earlier. He clenched his fist, as if willing it to happen again— but nothing.
"We don't have time to fight," he muttered
The door burst open with a crash. The soldier stumbled inside, raising his rifle, but Riven was faster. He quickly was on top of the guard, knocking his weapon away, as they dashed passed him.
"Move!" Riven hissed, pushing off the door frame.
The corridor outside was now roaring alive—shouts, bootsteps, and the clatter of the steam, the hunt was on.
"Left! Riven shouted as he cut through towards a narrow stairwell. The sounds of gunfire crack against the walls around them. The dust and sparks were raised from the stone and metal.
Eryndor gritted his teeth. "They're closing in!"
"They all can't fit through the narrow halls!" Riven yelled, though his voice sounded hesitant. The sack weighed heavily on his shoulder, rattling with the filters.
They ran through the station, rushing through the lower doors and into the maintenance tunnels. The air was colder here, stale like, but for now it was free of gunfire for the moment.
The tunnel stretched into darkness. The pipes hissed faintly along the tunnel walls, dripping condensation. The two of them ran into the darkness, their boots splashing through the shallow water as they ran.
Behind them, they can hear a voice thunder above the chaos and echo into the tunnel from the doors opening.
"SEAL THE EXITS! DON'T LET THEM ESCAPE!"
"Tchh… It's Garrick."
The sound of his command froze the air in Eryndor's lungs more than the poisoned mists ever could. He stumbled a little bit, but Riven grabbed his arm, yanking him forward.
"Keep moving, and don't look back!"
The tunnel began to incline, leading towards a faint light that was seeping through a gate at the end of it.
"Up there!" Eryndor yelled,
Riven suddenly shoved the sack into his hands. "You go first."
"But, what about you?"
"I'll hold them off. You just get out of here."
Eryndor hesitated, but gripped the cold bars of the grate. The shouts echoed closer and closer, and the footsteps of the soldiers pounded on the water below like war drums.
Eryndor slammed his palm against the grate. Like before, that hidden force surged through him - the metal screamed, crumbling from his touch.
The night air spilled in, with the shine of the moon emulating a tiny light on the grate.
Riven grinned under his mask. "Guess I won't have to hold them off after all."
They both scramble through the opening, tumbling out into the ruined streets of the smolder just beyond the station. The sky glowed a faint red from distant fires, and the streets remained the same just before they entered.
Behind them, the shout grew louder and angrier. Garrick's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"DON'T THINK THIS ENDS HERE! I'LL FIND YOU AGAIN! ERYNDOR DRAEMONT!!!"
The two continued to run away from the station, hearing the lingering words left behind from Garrick.
Just what the hell does that guy want from me? And how does he know my name?