The descent from the peaks was a grueling, five-hour scramble through razor-sharp shale. By the time the jagged volcanic rocks began to give way to charred, ashen plains, the "perfect" efficiency Fredrik had displayed was starting to fray.
His Ghost suit was functioning, but his mind was lagging. A sharp, white-hot spike of neural feedback lanced through his temples.
[WARNING: NEURAL SYNC OVERLOAD]
[MAINTENANCE TAX: OVERDUE]
Fredrik's vision flickered. For a split second, the ash-covered plains vanished, replaced by the muddy, blood-streaked walls of a trench in France. He heard the shrill, haunting blast of a whistle—the signal to go over the top. His hand flew to his face, clawing for a gas mask that wasn't there.
He stumbled, his boot catching on a root. It wasn't a tactical recovery; he hit the ground hard on one knee, gasping for air in a way that sounded painfully human.
"Hunter?" Elara was at his side instantly. She didn't touch him, but her hand was hovering near his arm, her expression a mix of concern and sharp assessment.
Fredrik didn't answer. He was staring at the grey ash, his pupils blown wide. The gold HUD was stuttering, casting jagged red shadows across his vision. The "perfect" scout was gone. In his place was a 24-year-old soldier whose hands were visibly shaking.
"I'm fine," Fredrik rasped, wiping a smear of black, oily sweat from his forehead. His voice lacked the filtered stability of the morning. "Just... the altitude."
"The altitude is lower here than the pass, Fredrik," Master Valerius said. He stood five paces away, leaning on his staff. He wasn't offering help; he was observing a specimen. "Your body is reacting to a strain I cannot identify. Tell me—does that 'mechanical' tool of yours require a tithe of blood, or is it simply your mind it's currently digesting?"
Fredrik forced himself to stand, his legs feeling heavy as the hydraulic assist struggled to recalibrate. "I said I'm fine."
The tension in the group had shifted. Kaelen was no longer mocking; he was watching Fredrik with a sharp, predatory alertness. He began to circle the hunter, his hand resting near the hilt of his blade. "You're not a hunter. I've seen hunters. They're scrap-collectors. You move like a veteran, but you have no crest. No guild-mark. Who are you?"
"The guy who got you through the pass," Fredrik snapped, his temper flaring through the haze of the neural spike. "Let's leave it at that."
They made camp as the green sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, sickly shadows across the plains. The silence was heavy. Elara set up the tent with her silver ring, but Fredrik didn't even look up. He sat on a charred log, staring into the small fire they'd built to save Arcanum.
"We'll reach the outskirts of the Citadel by midday tomorrow," Valerius announced. "Fredrik, you will sleep inside the ward tonight. I won't have our guide collapsing or 'glitching' before we reach the gates."
It wasn't an invitation. They wanted him where they could see him.
Inside the tent, the air was warm. Elara sat across from Fredrik, mending a small tear in her silk robes. She looked up, her gaze lingering on the way he leaned against the canvas, looking utterly spent.
"The offer for the Southern Reaches... it stands," she said softly. "But you won't take it, will you?"
"I don't think I'd fit in at a farmstead, Elara," Fredrik replied, closing his eyes.
"People who hide as well as you do usually have a reason to stay hidden," she said. "Just remember: the Citadel has eyes that see deeper than Master Valerius. If that suit of yours is as 'mechanical' as you say, they'll want to take it apart. To see how it ticks without magic."
Fredrik didn't reply. He let the HUD enter a forced sleep cycle.
[INTEGRITY: 78%]
[SYSTEM ADVISORY: HUMAN ELEMENT IS VULNERABLE]
As he drifted into a shallow, fitful sleep, he could feel the three mages watching him. They weren't looking at a teammate anymore. They were looking at a puzzle—one they were increasingly tempted to break.