The Rift Chronicles: The Neon Contract

The Riftlands trembled under Breachpoint's glare, the ancient stones blazing with purple rift energy that tore the night apart. Elias Voss descended the ridge, a shadow against the glow, machete in hand, its runes flaring blue through streaks of dried blood. His gray eyes pierced the dark, unblinking, the scar over his eyebrow sharp in the scars' light. The SIG Sauer hung at his hip, barrel slick with rain, while the four rift shards in his pocket pulsed like a heartbeat, searing his palm through the fabric. His tactical gear was torn, blood crusted on his arm, but he moved steady, unyielding—pain was a whisper he'd long silenced.

Mira Kade followed, her boots crunching gravel, magic coiling violet in her hands, her face tight with focus. The camp sprawled below—tents shredded, crates stacked high, Shrike's men scrambling as the rift gate's hum shook the earth. The silver-masked figure—The Shrike—stood on the platform, rift-charged blade in hand, barking orders over the roar. "Seal it now!" he shouted, voice raw, his mask glinting as he swung toward the stones. The cage stood empty, the Wraith Queen's absence a weight in the air, her laugh still echoing in Elias's skull.

He hit the camp's edge, machete low, runes dimmed to avoid the glow. Mira flanked him, her magic a faint shimmer, her limp gone but her breath sharp. "He's losing it," she whispered, nodding at The Shrike's frantic pace. Elias didn't reply, just gestured her left, taking the right himself. A guard patrolled ahead, rifle slung loose—Elias lunged, blade slashing his throat in a silent arc, blood spraying the mud. He dragged the body behind a crate, gray eyes scanning the chaos—two dozen men, rift-tech sparking, the gate's roar drowning their shouts.

Mira's violet spark flared—a drone overhead fried, crashing soundlessly into a tent. She slipped through the shadows, magic ready, and Elias moved parallel, closing on the platform. The stones pulsed harder, rift energy coiling into tendrils that lashed the air, cracking crates and scorching earth. Shrike's men hauled a device to the center—a rune-etched console, its core glowing with a shard like the ones in Elias's pocket. The gate was waking, and The Shrike was its midwife.

Elias reached a stack of crates near the platform, peering through a gap. The Shrike swung his blade, cutting down a man who'd faltered, blood pooling at his feet. "She's coming!" he roared, mask tilting toward the stones, his voice cracking with something like fear. Elias gripped his machete tighter, runes flaring, and stepped out, a tall shadow against the rift's glare. The Shrike spun, eyes narrowing behind the mask. "Voss," he growled, blade up. "Persistent bastard."

Elias didn't answer, just lunged, machete slashing for The Shrike's chest. Steel clashed, runes sparking against rift energy, and The Shrike parried, driving a boot into Elias's gut. He staggered, breath knocked out, but rolled, slashing The Shrike's thigh—blood sprayed, and the man roared, swinging wild. Elias ducked, gray eyes narrowing, and fired the SIG Sauer—thwip—a shot that punched through The Shrike's shoulder, mask tilting as he stumbled.

Mira burst from the shadows, violet bolts slamming into guards rushing the platform—two fell, chests scorched, a third snapped back with a broken neck. The console flared, rift energy surging, and the ground split—a tear opening beneath the stones, purple light erupting as something clawed free. A rift spawn—tall, sinewy, its form a blur of scales and claws, eyes glowing red. It screeched, lunging for Mira, but Elias threw his machete, runes blazing as it sank into the creature's spine. It shrieked, collapsing, and he yanked the blade free, blood sizzling on the steel.

The Shrike recovered, rift blade swinging—Elias parried, sparks flying, and drove his elbow into the mask, cracking it. The man staggered, blood dripping from the gash, but lashed out with the console's shard, a pulse of rift energy that hurled Elias back into a crate. The shards in his pocket flared, syncing with the gate's roar, and the air warped, a voice cutting through—cold, sharp, feminine. "Freedom's price," it hissed, the Wraith Queen's laugh ringing in the chaos.

Mira reached the console, magic flaring as she smashed it—violet energy clashed with rift light, the shard shattering, but the gate's tear widened, tendrils lashing out. The Shrike roared, lunging for her, but Elias tackled him, pinning him to the mud, machete at his throat. "Where is she?" he growled, gray eyes piercing through the cracked mask. The Shrike laughed, blood bubbling at his lips. "Here," he rasped, nodding at the gate. "You're too late."

The stones flared blindingly, and she emerged—the Wraith Queen, her form shimmering with rift energy, pale skin streaked with black veins, eyes glowing purple. She stepped from the tear, air warping around her, and the camp froze—Shrike's men dropped rifles, staring, as her laugh shattered the night. "Debt paid," she said, voice like breaking glass, raising a hand. Rift energy coiled, slamming Elias and The Shrike apart, hurling them into the mud.

Mira's magic flared—a violet net aimed at the Queen—but it dissipated against her, useless, and she staggered back, blood trickling from her nose. Elias rose, gray eyes narrowing, machete up, the shards in his pocket searing his skin. The Queen turned to him, smiling, a predator's grin. "Hunter," she purred, rift energy coiling around her fingers. "You carry my keys." He didn't flinch, just lunged, machete slashing—runes blazed, cutting air, but she vanished in smoke, reappearing behind him, claws raking his back. Blood sprayed, and he grunted, spinning to fire—shots passed through her, useless.

The Shrike scrambled up, rift blade swinging for Elias, but Mira's violet whip snapped his wrist, dropping him again. "Stay down," she snapped, magic flaring as she faced the Queen. The rift gate roared louder, tendrils lashing, and Shrike's men broke—some ran, others fell to rift spawn clawing from the tear. Elias dodged the Queen's claws, slashing again—runes grazed her arm, drawing black blood, and she hissed, retreating to the gate's edge.

"She's tied to it," Mira shouted, magic shielding her from a tendril's lash. Elias nodded, pulling the shards from his pocket—they blazed, syncing with the gate, and he hurled them into the tear. The Queen shrieked, rift energy convulsing, and the stones trembled, cracks spidering across their runes. "No!" The Shrike roared, lunging for the gate, but Elias tackled him, driving the machete into his chest—runes flared, blood gushed, and the mask fell, revealing a scarred face frozen in rage. He slumped, dead, and Elias rose, gray eyes on the Queen.

The gate's roar faltered, the tear shrinking as the shards' light dimmed. The Queen laughed, sharp and desperate, and vanished into the rift, her voice echoing. "This isn't over." The stones went dark, the camp a ruin—bodies strewn, rift spawn fading, the night silent but for the rain. Elias stood, blood dripping, machete sheathed, his breath steady despite the pain. Mira limped over, magic gone, her smirk faint. "Close enough," she said, voice raw.

He didn't reply, just walked to the truck, gray eyes on the horizon where the rift scars dulled. The Wraith Queen was gone—for now—and The Shrike was dead, but Breachpoint's gate lingered, a scar not fully sealed. The hunt wasn't over.