The final hours leading up to midnight were a blur of hushed, efficient movement. Ryker meticulously triple-checked the Isolation Block, erasing any physical sign that Lyra had ever been held there. Rowland prepared the sedation, administering a mild dose to ensure Lyra remained calm and resting through the initial, dangerous phase of the escape.
At 23:45, Jonathan slipped the heavy Ground-Hauler—the "Desert Fox"—into position outside Maintenance Hatch Gamma-1. The vehicle was a beast: high-riding, boxy, and painted a faded, non-descript gray, looking more like an armored supply container than a transport. Its engine rumbled with a deep, uneven thrum, a noisy mechanical protest against its unscheduled activation. It was now or never.
The Final Step.
Ryker unsealed the hatch. The healer, carrying Lyra—who was small and light beneath the Rowland's bulky frame—was the first one out. Ryker followed, his military pack tight on his shoulders, carrying the research data, the communicator, and his meager personal effects. He had only rested for a few hours but it would be enough to keep him awake the whole night.
Jonathan was already at the vehicle's rear, securing the small cargo area.
"Hurry, Commander. That noise is carrying straight over to the Officer's Barracks."
They loaded Lyra into the heavily padded cabin of the Ground-Hauler, laying her gently across the rear bench seat where the healer immediately began meditating to conserve and replenish his mana reservoir,in case of any emergency. Rowland, driven by the urgency of his medical duty, became a calm, focused professional, his worry set aside for the moment.
Ryker took the passenger seat, strapping himself in. Jonathan slid behind the massive wheel, his hands gripping the controls with white-knuckled intensity.
"Last chance, Rowland," Jonathan muttered. "After this, we're outside the law."
The healer didn't look up or even open his eyes. He was bent on remaining focused.
"Drive, Jonathan. Her life is contingent on your speed and my supplies."
With that last reassurance, they embarked onwards.
Jonathan threw the Ground-Hauler into gear. The vehicle lurched violently, its low-grade fuel protesting, and began grinding forward, tires churning through the dirt. They were moving at a speed that felt agonizingly slow to Ryker's taut nerves.
They bypassed the main gate entirely, relying on the forged papers and the cover of darkness. Jonathan drove the transport toward a seldom-used service exit designated for night-time waste disposal—a route he'd planned specifically to avoid armed sentries.
As they reached the rusted perimeter fence, Jonathan leaned out and activated a hidden electronic key,that mainly used magic to activate. The fence section groaned open just enough for the wide vehicle to squeeze through.
CRUNCH.
The Ground-Hauler scraped violently against the metal post, a sickening sound of rending metal that made Ryker physically flinch. The sound was deafeningly loud in the midnight quiet.
"Damn the fuel," Jonathan hissed, wrestling the wheel. "It's running rough. Hold on!"
They broke through the perimeter, the fence section clanging shut behind them. Jonathan slammed his foot down, forcing the vehicle onto the narrow, unpaved road leading into the dark foothills.
Ryker looked out the back window. The towering, brightly lit Citadel—the symbol of the Empire's power, his life's work, and the Queen's precarious control—receded into the distance. He felt a profound sense of finality. He had crossed the line. He was now a traitor, a fugitive, a self-appointed guardian of the Empire's most dangerous secret.
The Ground-Hauler rattled violently, its noisy passage tearing through the night air. The heavy vibration in the cabin was constant, a physical reminder of their compromised speed and their vulnerability.
"Captain, check Lyra," Ryker ordered over the engine's roar.
The Captain confirmed. "The physical jostling is concerning. The Seal is holding, but the vibration is stressful. If we hit a rough patch, we risk destabilization."
Ryker's eyes scanned the black, looming silhouettes of the foothills. He knew this terrain. It was wild, unforgiving, and entirely outside the Citadel's protection. Every shadow could conceal a spy, every distant flicker of light could be an agent of the Obsidian Pack, or worse, the Empire itself.
They were slow, they were loud, and they were alone.
"Jonathan," Ryker commanded, his voice sharp and steadying. "Drive hard. We don't stop until we reach the first designated safe house."
Their journey to Oakhaven—the village that held the key to Lyra's past—had officially begun.