Director Thorne's face was a mask of cold fury and genuine concern. He stared at the crude bandages on Elias's arm, then at the official report detailing the explosion that had leveled Agent Corvus's home.
"They didn't just send a message, Elias. They tried to erase you," Thorne said, his voice dangerously low. "You are now a known target. In your condition, you are a liability to this agency and, more importantly, to yourself."
"I'm still operational," Elias stated, his voice purposefully flat, betraying none of the firestorm of rage within him.
"No," Thorne countered, his tone absolute, leaving no room for argument. "You are not. I am placing you on indefinite medical leave. My cottage in the northern countryside is vacant. You will go there to recover. This is not a suggestion, Elias. It is a direct, official order. Disappear until we have neutralized this threat."
Elias let a flicker of weary resignation show on his face, the perfect performance of a man pushed to his limit. He gave a slow, reluctant nod. Thorne believed he was saving his best agent. In reality, he was setting him free.
Days bled into weeks. The hunt was a frustrating crawl through the foundry's grime. The Wraith, Elias's new persona, was born in these shadows—a phantom in a white mask and heavy coat, a rumor whispered over the roar of the forges. His initial attempts to find Kestrel were met with a wall of silence. Questions earned him cold stares; pushing harder earned him a back-alley brawl with three of Kestrel's cronies, an ambush he'd walked into from a bad tip. He left them groaning in the dirt, but he was no closer to his goal. He learned the foundry's inhabitants were fiercely loyal to their brutal champion.
He changed tactics, turning from questions to observation. He tracked a smuggler rumored to be moving high-grade steam canisters for Kestrel. The chase was a desperate scramble across high gantries and through scalding steam clouds until he cornered the man. After a brief, one-sided fight, the terrified smuggler gave him the only lead that mattered: an illegal fighting tournament in a place called "The Crucible," where Kestrel himself held court.
He found it, hidden in the foundry's decommissioned heart. A massive, circular boiler room, its entrance guarded by a heavy iron door. As he approached, four figures stepped from the shadows. They were not common thugs; they were elite enforcers from the Vulture's Flock, handpicked as Kestrel's personal guard.
The fight exploded. A mountain of a man charged, aiming to crush him, while a wiry woman with twin knives darted in to flank him. The Wraith moved like a storm. He threw a handful of metallic dust into the brute's face, momentarily blinding him, and spun to parry the flurry of blows from the knife-wielder. Her speed was incredible, the blades a silver blur. He was forced back, his coat deflecting a slash that would have opened his ribs.
A third guard swung a massive, steam-powered wrench, forcing the Wraith to dive as it shattered the stone floor. This was his opening. As the wrench-wielder struggled to lift the heavy weapon, the Wraith drove his elbow into the man's throat and disabled him with a precise nerve strike. He spun just in time to catch the fourth guard's arm, twisting it until the pipe spewing scalding vapor was pointed away. But the momentary distraction allowed the knife-wielder to land a deep cut along his bandaged arm, sending a fresh wave of fire through him. He grit his teeth, slammed the fourth guard into the wall, and faced the remaining two. The brute had cleared his eyes and was charging again. The Wraith unclipped a small pellet from his belt and threw it to the ground. It erupted in a thick, choking smoke.
He moved within the smoke, a true phantom now. The brute swung wildly, hitting nothing. The Wraith used the sound to pinpoint him, striking his knee from behind and bringing the giant down. He emerged from the dissipating smoke to face the knife-wielder. They circled each other, the only two left standing. She lunged, a final, desperate attack. He met her charge, not with force, but with fluid precision, redirecting her momentum and using a disarming technique that sent her knives clattering to the floor. The fight was over. It had been long, brutal, and he was bleeding from a fresh wound, but he was standing.
Breathing heavily, his knuckles raw, the Wraith shoved open the massive iron doors and stepped inside.
The heat and noise were immense, but they came from his side. He was standing in a spacious, almost opulent chamber that served as a throne room. To his right, a massive, reinforced window looked down upon the true Crucible: a sand-filled fighting pit carved from the foundry floor, surrounded by a roaring, cheering mob of workers.
But the man in the room was not watching the fight.
Across the chamber, seated on a throne forged from scrap metal and discarded engine parts, was the Talon. Kestrel.
He was a giant of a man, his bare torso a canvas of scars. His famous steam-gauntlets rested on the arms of the throne, pistons hissing softly. His eyes—not the wild eyes of a simple brute, but the calm, intelligent eyes of a born predator—were focused on the masked figure who had just breached his sanctuary.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Kestrel's face. He had been waiting. The chapter had just ended, and a new, far more brutal one was about to begin.