The silence that descended after the retreat of Corbin's gang was thick with the coppery scent of fear and the low, guttural moans of the incapacitated Grok. Boulder moved cautiously towards the ruined doorway, peering out into the dark tunnel, ensuring the retreat was genuine and not a feint. Rhys remained slumped against the wall, fighting waves of nausea and dizziness – the unmistakable signs of Aether exhaustion.
Every Weaving attempt had drained him, the final, desperate reinforcement of the console leaving his Aether Pool feeling scraped raw. He could barely maintain his Echo Sense, the world outside his immediate vicinity blurring into indistinct energetic noise. This was the price of using abilities he hadn't fully mastered, of pushing far beyond his sustainable limits.
Boulder returned from the doorway. "Gone," he confirmed, his voice flat. He nudged Grok with his boot. The gang leader glared up in pain and hatred but was clearly immobilized. "What about him?"
Rhys pushed himself upright, forcing clarity into his exhausted mind. Leaving Grok here meant he could eventually alert others, bring back reinforcements. Killing him felt… excessive, a line Rhys wasn't eager to cross, but pragmatism warred with reluctance. Disabling him further and leaving him seemed the most practical, if ruthless, option.
"Check him for anything useful," Rhys instructed, his voice hoarse. "Then… tie him up securely. We move him deeper into a side passage, somewhere out of the way. Let his own crew find him or not." It was a cold decision, but leaving an active enemy conscious and capable of raising an alarm felt like suicide.
Boulder efficiently searched the groaning gang leader, finding a crude vibro-knife, a handful of low-denomination credit chips, and a small, greasy pouch containing stimulants. He pocketed the credits and knife, crushed the stimulants under his heel, then used Grok's own belt and strips torn from the man's tunic to bind his hands and feet tightly. Ignoring the stream of curses and threats, Boulder effortlessly hoisted the gang leader over his shoulder and carried him out into the tunnel, disappearing into a narrow, debris-choked side passage Rhys indicated with a weak gesture.
While Boulder was gone, Rhys took stock of their situation. The substation was secure for now, but compromised. Corbin knew they were here, knew they had some kind of unusual abilities ("sorcery," as Weasel had shrieked), and Grok's capture would only escalate the situation. An uneasy truce, born of the gang's fear and their leader's incapacitation, was the best they could hope for, and it wouldn't last. They couldn't stay here long.
His Aether exhaustion was profound. It would take several cycles of rest and careful absorption just to refill his pool, let alone make further progress. The fight, brief and desperate as it was, had starkly highlighted his weaknesses. His Weaving was inefficient, draining, and lacked true stopping power. His water slick and mist were tricks, easily overcome by a determined attacker. The spark was a mere distraction. Only the combination of his environmental manipulation, Boulder's physical intervention, and sheer luck had seen them through. He needed more power, yes, but more importantly, he needed control and efficiency.
Boulder returned, wiping dust and grime from his hands. "Done. He won't be going anywhere soon."
Rhys nodded, relief mixing with the sour taste of necessity. "We need to rest. Recover. Then find a new place. We can't risk staying."
He sank back to the floor, finally allowing the exhaustion to fully claim him. He focused inward, trying to soothe the scraped feeling in his dantian, gently guiding the thin ambient Aether towards his pool, beginning the slow process of recovery.
As he rested, his diminished Echo Sense passively scanned the area. He felt the lingering chaotic energy signatures from the fight, the faint residue of his own Weaving, Boulder's steady presence. But then, something else caught his attention near the damaged doorway – faint, deliberate markings scratched into the stone at ankle height. They weren't the crude territorial tags of Corbin's gang, nor random scrapes from the fight. These were precise, geometric, almost symbols.
He strained his senses, trying to get a clearer impression. They felt… cold. Analytical. Utterly devoid of the chaotic aggression of the gang members. They resonated faintly, not with Aether, but with something else, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
Signs of observation. Deliberate markers left by someone who had watched the entire encounter? Or perhaps placed there earlier, indicating this area was already under scrutiny? Were these connected to the unknown watchers Kaelen had warned about? Or the probe he'd felt in the Undermarket?
The fragile sense of victory evaporated, replaced by a deeper chill than his Aether exhaustion could account for. They had fought off the local predators, only to potentially reveal themselves to something far more calculating and dangerous. The lingering threats were closing in, unseen but leaving their subtle, disturbing marks on the periphery of Rhys's awareness. Their flight from the junction hadn't bought them safety, only traded one set of dangers for another, potentially worse, one.