The cavern's blue glow pulsed with a mournful rhythm, its light flickering across the stone floor where Elias Varn knelt beside Rory Tate, his oversized boots soaked in a thin pool of blood and coal dust. The faded jacket hung heavy on his trembling frame, streaked with grime and tears, and his bare hands clutched the notebook, its pages crumpled as he pressed it to his chest, a lifeline slipping through his grip. Without his glasses, the Shroud's crystalline core blurred into a shimmering haze at the chamber's center, but his eyes glowed faintly, the ember in his chest a warm pulse he'd fought to wield—now a fragile spark shadowed by loss. The air hung thick with dust and the Beneath's hum, a presence steady but wounded, echoing the silence where the stone woman lay, her green glow extinguished, her cracked form still.
Rory sprawled beside him, his patched hoodie torn and blood-soaked, his red hair matted with sweat and crimson streaks. His freckled face was ashen, his green eyes half-open, flickering with a fading defiance as he clutched his ribs, the bruise pulsing black beneath torn skin, blood seeping from a gash where the red figure's blade had struck. His breath rasped, shallow and wet, but he forced a grin, weak and trembling. "Elias…" he croaked, voice barely a whisper, "you—you're still kicking… good."
Elias's chest heaved, sobs breaking as the ember flared, his eyes glowing brighter. "Rory—don't—don't talk," he choked out, nudging a pulse toward him—a warm wave, desperate, wrapping his fading glow, slowing the blood, steadying his breath. "You're—you're gonna be okay—I'll—I'll fix this!" The Shroud's voice whispered, soft but urgent: "Save him—or lose me." He flinched, the ember surging, a heat he shaped, pouring into Rory, but it faltered, a limit he couldn't break.
Rory's hand twitched, brushing Elias's arm, sticky with blood. "Fix… me?" he rasped, a faint laugh turning to a cough, red flecking his lips. "You're—you're the hero, man… not a… miracle worker." His eyes fluttered, the grin fading, and his glow dimmed, a spark teetering on the edge.
"No—no!" Elias shouted, the ember surging—a pulse breaking free, wild and raw, flooding Rory with light, blue and gold weaving through his wounds. The core flared, tendrils coiling, bolstering the wave, and Rory's breath steadied, faint but alive, his glow flickering stronger. Tears streamed, and Elias clutched his hand, trembling. "You're—you're not leaving me—I won't let you!"
The chamber rumbled, a low groan echoing from the sealed tunnel, and the core's tendrils tensed, the Shroud's voice strengthening: "They return—deeper." Elias's stomach dropped, the ember pulsing as he turned, nudging a pulse toward the tunnel—a wave, shaped and firm, illuminating the dark. The stone woman's dust stirred, a silent witness, and the rumble deepened, not rigs but boots—deliberate, heavy, a march breaking the quiet.
A figure emerged—not robed, but clad in black armor, the red-helmed warrior from before, its faceless visor pulsing crimson, a blade crackling with red energy in its grip. Behind it, more followed—armored silhouettes, their helms glowing red, weapons humming with a sharp, lethal whine. The lead figure stepped forward, voice a mechanical growl cutting through the Shroud's hum. "Beacon," it said, red flaring. "Your spark bleeds—the Silence cuts it dry."
Elias staggered up, the ember surging, his eyes blazing as he nudged a pulse—strong, shaped, clashing with red, sparking wildly. The wave hit, blue and gold slamming the figure back, cracking its armor, but it pulsed, crimson slicing through, locking his limbs, the core trembling under its weight. "No—no more!" he shouted, the pulse rippling, tendrils lashing from the core, driving the figure back, but the others advanced, blades flaring, a wall of red closing in.
Rory stirred, his voice a weak gasp. "Elias—hit 'em… hard…" He coughed, blood dripping, and Elias's chest tightened, the ember surging—a heat he shaped, fueled by grief and rage. His eyes blazed, the wave breaking free—blue and gold, tendrils flaring, a torrent of light shattering the red, cracking helms, driving the figures back. The chamber roared, dust raining, and the lead figure pulsed, crimson clashing with blue, a deadlock sparking wild.
"You cannot save him," it growled, blade raised, red deepening—a pulse slamming Elias to his knees, the ember stuttering, Rory's glow dimming beside him. "The Order ends this—centuries of chaos, silenced at last." The figures fanned out, blades syncing into a piercing tone, and the core's tendrils recoiled, its blue fading under the crimson tide.
Elias's vision blurred, the ember fighting—a spark he clung to, a heat he shaped. "I—I won't let you!" he screamed, the pulse surging—blue and gold, tendrils lashing, wrapping the lead figure, cracking its blade. The Shroud's voice roared: "You are its heart—fight!" The wave hit, shattering the red, driving the figure back, but the others pulsed, crimson locking his glow, the core trembling anew.
A new sound cut through—a sharp crack, not stone but light, orange and fierce, as a figure burst from a side tunnel—the orange-lit stranger from the mines, his tattered gray cloak billowing, his staff glowing bright as he slammed it into the floor, a wave of flame clashing with red, cracking armor, driving the figures back. "Beacon!" he rasped, voice dry as ash, his sunken eyes glinting. "Hold it—now!"
Elias's chest heaved, the ember surging—a heat he wielded, a pulse he aimed, merging with orange in a torrent of light—blue, gold, and flame slamming the figures, shattering helms, cracking blades. The lead figure pulsed, crimson faltering, and retreated, voice tight: "Regroup—protocol two!" The armored ones fell back, red winking out, leaving the chamber silent but for Rory's ragged breath and the core's faint hum.
Elias sank beside Rory, the ember pulsing—a warm wave wrapping his friend, his glow steadying, blood slowing as his eyes flickered open. "Elias…" he rasped, a faint grin breaking through, "you're—you're a mess."
The orange stranger approached, his glow dimming as he leaned on his staff, dust streaking his lined face. "You've bought time," he said, voice low. "But they've got worse—crimson cuts the spark, severs it. Saw it—years ago, others lost." He gestured at the core, its tendrils coiling weak. "They'll bury it—and him."
Elias clutched the notebook, tears streaming, the Shroud's voice firm: "You save him—I endure." He nudged a pulse toward the core—gentle, warm, its blue strengthening, tendrils spiraling in response. "I—I'll save you both," he whispered, voice raw, Rory's hand limp in his, the orange stranger's gaze heavy with warning.
The mines rumbled, a distant whine echoing—the Order, regrouping, relentless. The ember burned, a spark he'd fight with, but the crimson shadow loomed—a reckoning he couldn't outrun.