In the faint light of dawn, in the view from the broken windows of the old mill, long shadows crossed the dusty floor. John woke by jerking his heart, still race-beating strong from nasty nightmares visited upon his sleep. John sat up on the throw-together bed, rubbing his tired eyes. That was the weight of days pressing down upon him with the horror of the last few days: Jameson's betrayal, Winters' death, and the incessant pursuit by the Order that never seemed to want to end. He was sure he couldn't stay down for long.
Indeed, Caleb was awake, over a table of old maps and other documents that were rickety. The meager light barely made its way into his face, but the deep etches carved across its surface revealed to John that Caleb had not slept at all. He had been sitting up all night, trying to piece together what move to make next.
"You didn't sleep much, did you?" John asked as he approached.
Caleb met his eyes with a faint smile. "I've had worse nights. Besides, we don't have the luxury of time. The Order isn't going to stop hunting us, not as long as you've got the Heart of Aether."
John nodded; the weight of the artifact was heavy in his pocket. "What did you find?"
Caleb gestured toward the papers. "This mill isn't just a hideout. It has a very particular history; this is very close to the Order. Long ago, it was a meeting place for people who rejected the influence of the Order. They used it to scheme their resistance, and it seems they left more behind than just memories."
Curiosity finally bested John, and he went along with Caleb to clean away tons of refuse, which had accumulated over the years and covered the trapdoor hidden under a haphazard pile of old, dusty, cobwebbed crates. Opening it upon cry spewed forth creeeeeaaaaaking from its ancient wood, a meager tenuous stairwell extended endlessly downwards into blackness. The air grew cold, and the musk of damp earth tickled the small hairs in their nostrils as they followed this into the depths.
At the foot of the stairs, they entered a small chamber. The walls were of stone, and within the room, a pedestal, already dusty, sat. Ancient symbols were etched within the walls; their meaning had been lost to all but few.
"What is this place?" he whispered, his voice barely able to push through the eerie silence.
Caleb ran his fingers over the carvings. "This is some sort of sanctuary. The carvers believed in protecting the town against the darkness of the Order below. These symbols are wards that should keep evil out."
His eyes flashed to a series of markings on the back wall, and Caleb dusted away detritus to uncover a cryptic message chiseled into the rock. It was old; the letters were barely legible, but plain enough to send a shiver down John's spine.
"'The Heart of Aether mustn't go to the unworthy,'" Caleb read. "'For within lies the power to unleash such darkness that cannot be contained. Its power, foreclosed within the Rite of Shadows.'"
John stared at the words. Cold dread settled into his gut. "What's the Rite of Shadows?"
"I don't know," Caleb confessed, his voice thick with hesitation. "But it sounds like some kind of ritual. Maybe something that was meant to keep the artifact's power in check."
John's mind was abuzz as it whirled with feverish digestion of it all. The Heart of Aether was powerful beyond anything he could have ever imagined. If this were to fall into the Order's hands, then something disastrous could be unleashed. He had to figure the workings of this ritual and be ready to defend the town against whatever darkness this artifact held.
No sooner had the words been spoken when a slight noise from the ceiling brought them to a sudden halt. Caleb stood up, rigid, his eyes narrowed. "Did you hear that?"
John listened hard. The noise was faint to the point of near inaudibility, but unmistakable—the barely-audible creak of someone's footfall on the floor above. At last, the Order had tracked them down.
"'S them." John barely spoke, feeling a cold dread wrapping around his heart. "We need to get out of here."
Caleb's face went grim in understanding. "The way out through the mill, they took this," he said, "trapped—to come out through other areas. It's a gamble, but our only hope."
They quickened their pace, racing up the stairs and back into the main room of the mill. The sound of footfalls was getting louder, closer. The Order was closing in on them. Caleb led John to a secret door at the back of the room, hidden behind a stack of old barrels. With one push, the door swung open to reveal a dark tunnel leading away from the mill.
"Go!" Caleb urged, and John didn't hesitate.
The Darkness swallowed them whole into the tunnel. Narrow walls enclosed them. Damp, cold air brushed their cheeks. John could barely see a few feet in front but kept moving behind Caleb. Echoes sounded of their pursuers, growing faint as they pushed deeper into the tunnel.
What seemed hours had passed by, and at last they broke into open air, gasping. The tunnel gave out into the woods, well away from the mill. The forest was heavy, trees rising above them, the higher branches making some shadow from the ever-watchful eyes of the Order.
They scarcely had time to take the relief when, as they stopped to breathe, a shadowy figure moved silently back again to stand before them. All the blood drained from John's face; now he realized who stood before them, the leader of the Order, his eyes gleaming at them with malevolent intention.
"You've run long enough, John." Smooth but cold was how the figure spoke. "Hand over the Heart of Aether, and I might let you live."
John's hand went straight to the artifact in his pocket, but he made no move. "I won't give it to you."
The leader's smile was cruel and twisted. "You don't really have a choice. Hand it over; otherwise, I'll make sure that everyone you've ever cared for gets to suffer. This town, your friends, your family—they will all pay the price for your rebels."
His heart was now beating faster with the realization that he had never, even in his wildest dreams, thought he would ever have to make such a decision. It was as if the artifact had gained weight inside his pocket and was pulsing its power into him. On one hand, he could not let this fall into the Order's hands; on the other, he could not afford to put in danger the lives of those dear to him.
John knew he was running out of time as the leader's men closed in all around. He needed to make a decision, and he needed to make it right then.