[The the mechanical lungs]
The silence was wrong.
It pressed too tightly against them, not like peace, not like night, but like a noose waiting to close. Every step, every rasp of air, every faint metallic echo of steel was swallowed by the mist.
And then Thomas felt it.
The forest was breathing.
Mist curled at their ankles, rose to their waists, pressed against their lungs until each breath scraped raw. Beneath his boots, the earth pulsed not the beat of nature, but the steady rhythm of a hidden machine. Steam hissed between roots, hot enough to sear his skin. The ground trembled with the pulse of an unseen engine.
Arthur's voice cut through the suffocating haze:
"This isn't a beast. This is an engine. A cage that breathes."
A cage.
The Wolf's cage.
The forest exhaled.
Explosions cracked the air, steam vents screamed open, bullets tore fiery lines across the mist. Bark splintered, soil leapt, the cage roared.
"Run!" Lady Gaga's cry ripped against the storm.
They scattered.
But Thomas could not. His hands clenched the stretcher, Jon Smooth's fevered body dragging him into the dirt. Ema struggled at the other side, her arms shaking, sweat burning her eyes. Edwin and Rowan surged ahead, blades raised, shields cracking against the storm, walls of flesh and steel against an unseen maw.
Yet Thomas barely heard the gunfire.
Because he heard her voice.
"Will you come back, Thomas? Or will you vanish like Father?"
The memory stabbed deeper than any bullet.
The kitchen at dusk. Shadows leaning long against the walls. The faint smell of burnt supper, curling bitter in the air. Her hands, small and desperate, tugging at his sleeve. Her wide eyes, frightened, searching, too heavy for her young face.
And the chair. His father's chair. Empty. Always empty.
Thomas had forced a smile, brushing her hair back, hiding the weight pressing on his chest.
"Of course I'll come back. Always."
Always.
But here, with fire raking the woods and the stretcher digging into his palms, always felt like smoke. Fragile. Thin. If he fell here, if he vanished like Father, she would still be waiting. Waiting forever.
He could not vanish. Not now. Not before her.
"Move!" His roar ripped through the fog, his own voice shocking him. His legs surged forward, his body screaming but obeying.
Ahead, Twilight burned like a beacon, her sword flaring in arcs of light. Bullets bent toward her, not random but purposeful, caging her in. Behind, Zero pressed forward in silence, Aria trembling against him, her fear breaking but steadied by his unshaken calm.
And then
The mist split.
Merlin appeared. Commander of the Wolf.
Her presence was a blade of silence, the center of the storm. Soldiers shifted like shadows around her, but she alone anchored the battlefield.
And before her, rooted into the earth, loomed the weapon.
The long machine gun.
Its barrel rose as tall as a man, scarred with old heat. A golden belt of cartridges slithered into its side like a serpent, shells spilling at its feet in gleaming piles. When Merlin's hands gripped its steel, the world itself roared.
Bullets screamed—not wild, not blind, but bent like arrows of fate. They sought two names, two lives.
Twilight.
Jon Smooth.
The rest were shadows, obstacles, prey.
The Wolf had not come for all. The Wolf had come for them.
The cage closed tighter. Mist bound their ankles, roots shifted beneath their steps, vents hissed scalding breath. Every path bent back into the jaws of the gun. The good part of courage burned bright in their eyes, but the bad part of despair dragged at their shoulders. The hard time ground their bodies raw, each step heavier, each breath thinner. The worst time pressed upon them now death waiting in the trigger's pull.
Thomas's lungs tore, his arms trembled, but his sister's voice rang through the fire.
Will you come back?
And his vow answered.
I promised. I have to.
He roared with every shred of strength, forcing his body through the choking mist. Ema matched him, teeth gritted, tears blinding but unyielding. Edwin and Rowan carved ahead, their shields cracking under the rain but never dropping. Twilight's blade gleamed like rebellion itself, while Zero's silence cut a path steadier than steel.
And still Merlin's eyes never shifted. Cold. Precise. Her gun spat arcs that wrote death into the fog.
The storm would not let them go.
Not yet.
Not until the hunt was finished.
And so they ran together, through the good, the bad, the hard, the worst. Each heartbeat a battle. Each breath a vow.
The forest exhaled fire again.
And the hunt pressed on.