Chapter 69 The Veins of Aethelgard
The subway tunnels of Aethelgard were a subterranean world of their own—a damp, dark echo of the city above.
We moved in a single file, our footsteps silenced by the rubber soles of our tactical gear.
The Reclaimed wolves followed in the rear, their chrome grafts glinting in the dim light of the emergency lamps.
They were restless; the "Dead Zone" was already starting to sap their energy, making their movements sluggish and their breathing heavy.
"The air is changing," Killian whispered, his hand on my shoulder.
"It tastes like... iron and old electricity.
"
"We're crossing the threshold of the Vane perimeter," Aris warned.
"In ten meters, the magic goes dark. Prepare yourselves.
"
I felt the moment we hit the field.
It was like stepping into a pool of ice water.
The silver fire that had burned in my chest for years—the warmth that had defined who I was—simply vanished.
I gasped, stumbling against the cold concrete wall.
My vision, which had always been sharp and tinted with a hint of silver, turned dull and mundane.
Killian let out a low groan, his body shuddering as the Alpha aura he had reclaimed was forcibly suppressed.
He didn't shift, but I could see the pain in his eyes.
Without the magic to buffer his senses, the smell of the subway—the rot, the oil, the stale air—hit him like a physical blow.
"I... I can't feel the boys," I whispered, panic rising in my throat.
"I'm here, Mama," Leo said, taking my hand.
His voice was small but steady. "The light is gone, but the bone is still here.
"
We continued into the dark, guided only by the mechanical flashlights on our vests.
We reached a massive iron door, the sigil of the Vane Corporation etched into the steel.
Silas stepped forward, using a manual bypass kit to override the hydraulic locks.
As the door groaned open, we weren't met by guards or machines.
We were met by a garden.
It was a vast, underground chamber, lit by artificial suns and filled with plants that hadn't existed on the surface for centuries.
And in the centre of the garden, sitting on a simple wooden bench, was Julian Vane.
He looked exactly like the billboards, but smaller.
More fragile. He was reading a book, a pair of spectacles perched on his nose.
He didn't look like a king; he looked like a grandfather.
"You’re late, Elara," he said without looking up.
"I expected you at the Wasteland Node three days ago.
You must have spent too much time talking to the stones. "