# Chapter 82: Gathering Supplies
The decision hung in the air of the small room, heavy and absolute. Soren's agreement was not a surrender but a declaration, a rekindling of the fire that had seen him through the Bloom-Wastes once before. The pain in his arm was a dull, constant thrum, a reminder of the price of his power, but his mind was sharp, clear, and focused. Nyra's relief was palpable, a subtle loosening of the tension in her shoulders, a less guarded look in her eyes. She was no longer just a manipulator with a secret agenda; she was a co-conspirator, and the weight of their shared mission settled between them.
"Then we don't waste time," Soren said, his voice low and firm. "What do we need?"
A flicker of a smile, genuine and fierce, crossed Nyra's face. She was already pulling on her coat, her movements sharp and purposeful. "Everything. And we have to get it from people who don't ask questions. The black market, in the Spire's shadow. It's risky, but it's the only place open this late with the gear we need. Follow my lead, and don't talk to anyone."
They descended the stairs, the warmth of Lena's tavern giving way to the chill night air. The city was a different beast after dark, its alleys alive with scuttling shadows and muffled whispers. The air smelled of damp stone, coal smoke, and the faint, acrid tang of the cinders that perpetually rained down from the sky. Nyra moved with a confidence that belied the danger, leading him through a labyrinth of narrow passages where the only light came from the occasional, sputtering lamp bolted high on a wall. Soren followed, his senses on high alert. Every echoing footstep, every distant shout, every flicker of movement in the periphery was a potential threat. His body ached, but his survival instincts, honed by years of hardship, were a familiar, comforting hum beneath his skin.
They walked for nearly twenty minutes, leaving the relative order of the city's main districts behind. The buildings grew closer together, leaning over the streets like conspirators. The cobblestones gave way to packed dirt and refuse. Finally, they stopped before a cavernous warehouse hidden behind a tarpaulin facade that advertised "Grain & Feed." The stench hit him first: a thick, cloying miasma of ozone from jury-rigged tech, cheap synthale, unwashed bodies, and something vaguely chemical and sweet.
Nyra pulled aside a loose section of the tarp and gestured for him to enter. Soren ducked inside, his eyes adjusting to the dim, chaotic light. The space was immense, a hollowed-out shell filled with a sprawling, makeshift city of stalls. Crude lights dangled on frayed cords, casting long, dancing shadows. The air buzzed with the low murmur of a hundred hushed conversations, the clink of coin, and the whir of strange contraptions. It was a den of vipers, and every pair of eyes that slid over them felt like a knife on his skin. He saw hulking men with crude, steam-powered prosthetics, cloaked figures examining illegal bio-mods, and desperate souls bartering away their last possessions for a scrap of food or a filter mask. This was the underbelly of the Concord, the place where the system's failures came to fester.
Nyra navigated the chaos with an easy grace, her hand never straying far from the knife concealed at her belt. She ignored the stares and the whispers, her focus fixed on a stall in the far corner. Soren stayed close, his broad shoulders and grim expression a silent warning to anyone who might consider them easy marks. The stall they approached was a chaotic jumble of scavenged parts, worn-out gear, and unidentifiable tech. Behind a counter made from a rusted sheet of metal sat a man with greasy, dark hair, shifty eyes that darted everywhere at once, and a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. This was Silus.
"Silus," Nyra said, her voice flat and devoid of warmth. "We need gear."
The man's eyes lit up, not with recognition, but with the predatory gleam of a merchant smelling profit. "Nyra. It's been a time. And you brought a friend. Big fella." His gaze flicked over Soren, assessing him with the practiced eye of a butcher sizing up a side of beef. "What can I get for you? Looking for something to make a statement? Or something to help you disappear?"
"We need two full environmental suits," Nyra stated, getting straight to business. "Class Three or better. Sealed. High-capacity filtration masks. And a week's worth of nutrient paste and water reclamation tablets."
Silus let out a low whistle. "Class Three? That's top-of-the-line scavenger gear. Expensive. And dangerous. You two planning a trip to the beach?" He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "The only beach around here is made of glass and regret."
"Just show us the merchandise, Silus," Nyra snapped, her patience already wearing thin.
With a theatrical shrug, Silus disappeared behind a curtain of greasy tarps. He returned a moment later, dragging two bulky suits. They were made of a thick, rubberized material, patched in a dozen places with mismatched seals. The helmets were full-face visors, scarred and clouded with use. They looked like they'd been salvaged from a battlefield, which they probably had.
"Here we are," Silus said, patting one of the suits with a proprietary air. "The 'Wanderer's Delight.' Guaranteed to keep the ash out and your insides from turning to soup. Mostly guaranteed."
Soren stepped forward and ran a hand over the suit's material. It was stiff and cold, smelling of dust and chemicals. He checked the seals on the joints and the thick glass of the visor. It was battered, but the construction was sound. It would have to do.
"They're overpriced," Soren said, his voice a low rumble. It was the first time he'd spoken, and Silus's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Quality costs, my large friend," Silus replied smoothly. "Especially when the quality is… discreet. I don't ask questions, and my prices reflect the risk."
"The risk is ours if this equipment fails," Nyra countered, stepping into the haggling dance. "We'll give you two hundred crowns for the suits, the masks, and the supplies."
Silus laughed, a loud, barking sound that drew a few curious glances from nearby stalls. "Two hundred? For this? You insult me. The suits alone are worth five hundred. I'll take eight hundred, and not a copper less."
"You'll take four hundred, and you'll consider yourself lucky to get it," Nyra shot back. "We know what you paid for them, Silus. The Sable League isn't the only one with eyes and ears in this city."
The mention of the League made Silus pause, his shifty eyes darting around nervously. His smile tightened. "The League doesn't concern me. I'm a simple businessman. Seven hundred. Final offer."
The haggling continued, a tense, whispered back-and-forth of numbers and veiled threats. Soren remained silent, his imposing presence doing more to aid Nyra's cause than any words could. He watched Silus, saw the sweat beading on his forehead, the way his hands twitched. The man was desperate, or greedy, or both. Finally, they settled on a price that was still exorbitant but just within their means. Nyra counted out the coins, her movements precise and economical. As Silus pocketed the money with a greedy smirk, he leaned forward over the counter.
"You're paying for a lot more than just the suits," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You're paying for my silence. And for a piece of advice. Free of charge."
Nyra's eyes narrowed. "We're not interested."
"You should be," Silus insisted, his gaze flicking between them. "The wastes aren't like they used to be. The Bloom is getting… restless. The old paths are gone, swallowed by chasms or haunted by… things. You'll get yourselves killed without a guide."
"We don't need a guide," Soren said, his voice flat.
"Everyone needs a guide," Silus countered. "Even you, big man. Especially you. There's one person who knows the wastes better than anyone still breathing. A scavenger. Goes by the name Kestrel Vane. If you can find him, and if you can afford his price, he might just see you through to the other side. He's usually holed up in the old rail yards, tinkering with his scrap." Silus leaned back, his job done. "Don't say I never did anything for you."
The name meant nothing to Soren, but he filed it away. Nyra gave a curt nod, her expression unreadable. They gathered their purchases, the bulky suits awkward and heavy. The transaction was complete. They had what they came for. As they turned to leave, a cold prickle ran down Soren's spine. It was an old feeling, the hunter's instinct that had kept him alive in the wastes. He was being watched.
He didn't look around. That would be a mistake. Instead, he shifted his grip on the suit he was carrying, using the movement to casually scan the crowd reflected in the polished metal casing of a nearby steam engine. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual collection of desperate and dangerous characters. But the feeling didn't fade. It intensified.
They pushed their way back through the throng, the bulky gear making them slow and conspicuous. Every step felt like an eternity. The exit seemed a mile away. Soren's heart hammered against his ribs, the pain in his arm forgotten, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. He could feel eyes on him, tracking their progress. He risked a glance toward the ceiling of the warehouse, a maze of iron beams and pipes.
And then he saw her.
Perched on a rooftop across the street from the warehouse's main entrance, a silhouette against the perpetually grey sky. A young woman with pale, severe features and her hair pulled back in a tight, severe knot. She wore the unmistakable, stark black uniform of a Synod Inquisitor, the high collar and silver insignia stark even at a distance. It was Isolde. He'd seen her before at the Ladder Commission, her face a mask of cold piety as she watched the Trials.
She wasn't looking at the market or the general chaos. She was looking directly at him. Her expression was cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of mercy. There was no shock of discovery on her face, only the calm, focused intensity of a predator that had finally cornered its prey. She raised a hand slowly, a small, deliberate gesture. It wasn't a wave. It was a signal.
The hunt had already begun.
Soren grabbed Nyra's arm, his grip tight. "Don't look back," he muttered, his voice urgent. "Walk. Fast."
Nyra didn't question him. She felt the tension in his grip and saw the hard, dangerous glint in his eyes. She picked up the pace, her long legs eating up the distance. They burst out of the warehouse and into the alley, the cool night air a shock to their lungs. Soren didn't hesitate, pulling her into a maze of even narrower side streets, away from the main thoroughfares. They ran, the heavy suits banging against their legs, their breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind them, the sounds of the black market faded, replaced by the echo of their own footsteps and the pounding of their hearts. They had their supplies. They had a name. But they were no longer just planning a rebellion. They were now fugitives, and the Inquisitors were on their trail.