# Chapter 159: The Chase
The skiff, a scavenged vessel of riveted iron plates and whining repulsor-lifts, slid out from the shadow of Veridia's western gate like a knife leaving a sheath. The city's grimy, familiar scent of coal smoke and desperation was immediately scoured away by the sterile, biting wind of the ash plains. A sea of grey stretched to every horizon, a flat, featureless ocean under a sky the color of a bruised plum. Nyra gripped the control yoke, her knuckles white, the vibrations of the engine thrumming up her arms. Behind her, the Unchained were a silent, tense presence—Boro's massive frame filling one corner, Lyra checking the charge on her kinetic gauntlets, and Faye nervously tracing patterns in the air with her fingers, her Gift a faint, shimmering distortion.
"Anything?" Nyra called out, her voice sharp over the engine's whine.
Torvin, the disgraced Inquisitor, was hunched over a small, jury-rigged console spliced into the skiff's navigation system. His face, a roadmap of old scars and new anxieties, was illuminated by a single, blinking green dot. "Steady," he grunted, not looking up. "The tracker's holding. They're on the main northern spur, moving at a good clip. They're not worried about being followed."
"They should be," Lyra muttered, her voice low and dangerous.
Nyra's jaw tightened. The main spur was the most direct route to the mountains, but it was also the most exposed. The Synod transport, a massive, armored behemoth, would outpace them on the open flats. They couldn't win a straight race. "Torvin, pull up the regional topo. I need options."
The former Inquisitor's fingers danced across the keys, and a flickering holographic map sprang to life above the console. It showed the transport's blinking red icon miles ahead, and a winding, treacherous line etched into the landscape to their west. The Serpent's Maw. A canyon system that cut through a rocky uplift, a labyrinth of narrow passages and sheer cliffs. It was a death trap for anyone who didn't know it. A shortcut for those who did.
"There," Nyra said, pointing. "We cut through the Maw. We can shave at least ten miles off their route."
Torvin looked up, his expression grim. "The Maw? Nyra, that place is unstable. Rockfalls, sinkholes, not to mention the things that nest in the shadows. That transport's driver would be a fool to take it."
"The Synod isn't sending fools," she countered. "They're sending zealots who believe the Bloom itself will step aside for them. They'll take the main road because it's the *proper* way. We'll take the fast way." She looked back at her team. "Hold on to something. This is going to get rough."
She slammed the throttle forward. The skiff's engine screamed in protest, a high-pitched shriek of metal under duress. The vessel lurched, kicking up a rooster tail of grey ash that blotted out the city behind them. The wind howled past the cockpit canopy, carrying the fine, abrasive dust that found its way into every crevice, tasting of ancient death and cold metal. The landscape blurred into a monotonous smear of grey, the only points of reference the jagged teeth of rock formations that jutted from the plains like tombstones.
The tracker's signal remained a steady, infuriating beacon on the console. The red dot crawled along the map, a symbol of Soren's captivity, of ruku's suffering. Every mile they covered felt like an eternity. Nyra's mind raced, replaying the last message from Lena's network, the frantic report of Soren's capture and the unusual, large prisoner taken with him. *ruku.* The name was a stone in her gut. She had promised Soren they would protect his people. She had failed. This chase was more than a rescue; it was penance.
"How's our power?" she asked, her eyes flicking to the energy gauge. It was already edging into the red.
"Not good," Boro rumbled from the back. "The repulsors are working too hard. If we push this hard for much longer, the core will overheat."
"We won't have to," Nyra said, her eyes fixed on the dark gash that was beginning to resolve on the horizon. The entrance to the Serpent's Maw. It looked like a wound in the face of the world. "We're almost there."
As they neared the canyon, the terrain changed. The flat ash plains gave way to a rocky, uneven ground littered with sharp stones and the bleached-white bones of some colossal creature. The skiff's suspension groaned and clanked as they bounced over the rough surface. The air grew colder, the wind funneled by the canyon walls, carrying a damp, earthy smell that was a stark contrast to the sterile dust outside.
The entrance to the Maw was a colossal maw of stone, towering hundreds of feet into the air. Shadows clung to the passage like a living thing, and the skiff's headlights cut only a small cone into the oppressive darkness. Nyra eased off the throttle, the engine's whine dropping to a guttural growl. The walls of the canyon closed in around them, sheer faces of rock that seemed to lean in, threatening to crush them. The sound of their passage echoed weirdly, distorted and amplified by the narrow space.
"Easy, Nyra," Torvin warned, his eyes glued to the console. "The seismic readings are erratic. This whole place is shifting."
"I know," she bit out, her focus absolute. She guided the skiff through the winding channel, her movements precise and economical. The vessel scraped against a rock outcropping, sending a shower of sparks cascading down the hull. A collective gasp went through the cabin. Nyra didn't flinch. She just corrected their course, her mind a whirlwind of calculations, her Gift for tactics and patterns flaring to life. She saw the flow of the canyon, the safe paths through the treacherous terrain, not as a random collection of rocks, but as a puzzle to be solved.
They plunged deeper into the Maw. The light from the entrance faded, replaced by the stark, artificial glow of their headlamps. Strange, phosphorescent fungi clung to the canyon walls, casting an eerie, blue-green light that made the shadows dance and writhe. The air grew thick with the smell of ozone and damp stone. The silence was broken only by the groaning of the skiff's engine and the occasional patter of loose stones dislodged by their passage.
Then, a new sound. A high-pitched chittering from above.
Lyra was on her feet in an instant, her gauntlets humming with power. "What was that?"
"Cave-crawlers," Torvin said, his voice tight. "Drawn by the engine noise and the light. Don't worry, they're more scared of us."
As if to prove him wrong, a shape detached itself from the darkness above. It was a spindly, multi-limbed creature, all chitin and glistening eyes, and it dropped toward them with terrifying speed.
"Faye!" Nyra yelled, not taking her eyes off the path ahead.
Faye didn't hesitate. She thrust her hands forward, and the air in front of the skiff shimmered. The illusion of a much larger, more menacing vessel—a snarling beast of metal and teeth—flared into existence. The cave-crawler, mid-pounce, screeched in terror and twisted its body, scrabbling at the rock wall before vanishing back into the shadows.
"Nice one," Lyra said, a grudging respect in her voice.
Faye slumped back in her seat, pale but resolute. "It won't hold them for long. They're not smart, but they're persistent."
"Then we'll be fast," Nyra declared. She pushed the throttle again, coaxing more speed from the protesting engine. The skiff rocketed through the canyon, a silver dart in a world of darkness and stone. They flew past narrow side passages and towering rock pillars, the walls a blur of grey and blue-green fungus. The tracker's signal was getting stronger. They were gaining.
The canyon began to widen, opening into a broader, sun-drenched valley. The blinding light after the oppressive darkness of the Maw was a physical shock. Nyra shielded her eyes, blinking rapidly. And there, less than a mile ahead, was their target.
The Synod transport was a brutalist block of blackened steel, moving with an inexorable, heavy grace across the ash-strewn valley floor. It was much larger up close, a mobile fortress bristling with weapon emplacements and sensor arrays. It was heading for another canyon entrance, a narrow, sheer-walled gorge that led directly into the mountain foothills.
"They're heading into the Gorge of Whispers," Torvin said, his voice grim. "There's no other way through from there. It's a bottleneck."
"It's also a kill box," Nyra finished, a predatory smile touching her lips. "They think they're safe in there. They think nothing can touch them." She turned to her team, her eyes alight with a fierce, dangerous energy. "They're wrong."
The skiff's engine was now screaming, a constant, high-pitched wail of agony. The energy gauge was deep in the red, the console flashing with overload warnings. But they were almost there. The gap was closing with every passing second. The wind whipped at Nyra's hair, carrying the scent of ozone from the transport's energy field. She could see the insignia of the Radiant Synod painted on its rear armor—a stylized sunburst, a symbol of their self-proclaimed holiness. It made her sick.
"Boro, Lyra, get ready," she commanded. "As soon as we're in the gorge, we hit their rear thrusters. Disable them. Faye, I need a diversion. Make them see an entire squadron of skiffs on their tail. Torvin, find me a weak point."
The team moved with practiced efficiency. This was what they were for. This was why they were the Unchained. They were no longer victims of the system; they were its predators.
The transport rumbled into the entrance of the gorge, a dark, imposing slash in the mountainside. The moment its rear bumper cleared the entrance, Nyra jammed the throttle to its maximum setting. The skiff leaped forward, a final, desperate burst of speed. They shot into the gorge, the walls towering so high on either side that they blotted out the sun, plunging them into a twilight gloom. The transport was directly ahead, its massive bulk filling the narrow passage. There was nowhere for it to run. Nowhere for it to hide.
"Now!" Nyra yelled.
Lyra and Boro unleashed their Gifts. Boro slammed his hands against the deck, and a shimmering barrier of kinetic force erupted in front of the skiff, just as a turret on the transport's rear swiveled and fired. The bolt of incandescent energy slammed into the barrier, shattering it into a million glittering shards, but the skiff was unharmed. At the same moment, Lyra leaned out the side, her gauntlets glowing as she fired two concentrated projectiles of pure force. They struck the transport's left rear thruster assembly. There was a shower of sparks and a plume of black smoke. The transport lurched violently, its speed dropping precipitously.
Faye's illusion bloomed into existence around them. The air filled with the ghostly images of a dozen other skiffs, all closing in from different angles, their weapons firing silent, spectral bolts. The transport's other turrets began to fire wildly, shooting at phantoms, their energy blasts scarring the gorge walls.
"They've got a blind spot in their sensor grid, just below the main cannon turret!" Torvin shouted, pointing at a schematic on his screen. "That's where their power conduits are exposed!"
"I see it," Nyra said, her eyes locked on the target. She swung the skiff hard to the right, bringing them alongside the crippled transport. The two vessels were terrifyingly close, close enough for Nyra to see the panicked faces of soldiers on the transport's deck. She could feel the heat radiating from its hull, smell the acrid stench of burnt metal. This was it. The moment of truth. They had the beast cornered. They had the advantage. It was time to spring the trap.