CHAPTER 179: HEADING TO NEW MISSION

The smell of garlic fried rice drifted through the apartment before the first bell rang across Elandra. Inigo had been up since dawn, rice drained and drying in a shallow bowl, garlic sweating gently in oil until the edges just blushed. He tipped the grains into the pan and worked them with a wooden spatula, scattering the rice so each grain caught the heat, the hiss and pop as familiar as the fryer at Mcronald’s. Comforting. Grounding.

Steam curled from the kettle. Two chipped cups waited—tea for Lyra, bitter coffee for him, dark as the cast‑iron pan. He cracked two eggs with one hand, let them frill at the edges, then slid them over the rice and folded the yolks in, streaks of gold marbling the white. A handful of chopped scallions, a clatter of plates, and the most important pre‑mission ritual in two worlds was almost complete.

Lyra emerged from the washroom braided and battle‑ready: light leather vest, sleeves rolled, bow already strung, quiver worn loose enough to run, tight enough to keep fletching from snagging doorframes. She took in the table and smirked. "You’re spoiling me."

"You eat like a bird if I don’t," Inigo said, setting a plate in front of her. "And Thorne’s not getting me before I’ve had my silog."

"It’s not a real mission until we’re fed," she conceded, dropping into her chair.

"It’s not a real day until we’re fed," he countered, and they both let that be the law of the kitchen.

They ate unhurried, the city stirring beyond the shutters—vendors calling in the plaza, wagon wheels starting their daylong groan over cobbles, gulls heckling each other from the river quarter. The first bell belonged to people like them, the ones who preferred to move before the streets clogged and the world remembered its to‑do list.

When the plates were clean, Inigo set the sealed envelope on the table between them. The wax caught a sliver of morning light.

"You ready?" he asked.

Lyra traced the edge of the seal with a thumb. "You’re the one who wanted to wait."

"Waiting makes the food taste better," he said. "Now... go ahead."

The seal cracked softly. Lyra unfolded the letter and skimmed. "North gate, an hour after the second bell. Travel papers to Cindralock Outpost." She kept reading, eyes narrowing a hair. "Urgent escort. Alchemists’ branch."

Inigo took the chit she slid over, the paper carrying that faint smoke‑and‑ink smell that clung to Thorne’s desk. "Cindralock’s three days by cart," he said. "What do they keep there?"

"A cliffside garrison. Wind. Not a lot else," Lyra said, leaning back. "But if the alchemists want it quiet, it’s either valuable, volatile, or both."

Inigo folded the paper, tucked it inside his vest. "Speed and discretion," he murmured. "We’ll pack light."

They cleared the table on automatic—cups into the washbasin, pan rinsed and set back on the ring, rice pot inverted to dry. When everything was in its place, the world felt more negotiable.

"JLTV?" Lyra asked as she buckled her bracer.

"JLTV," he said without hesitation.

She smirked. "Thorne did say horses."

"Thorne says a lot of things," Inigo replied, and the corner of her mouth tilted higher. "Besides, two days on springy seats is better than three days in a saddle, and the JLTV has what we need for return cargo—suspension, tie‑downs, protected space. We can keep volatile crates steady and out of sunlight."

"And if we’re tailed," Lyra said, "we don’t have to outrun them on a road crowded with carts."

"Exactly."

They locked up and set off through lanes still half asleep. The air held the last cool sip of night, the sun painting the roofs in a pale wash. They cut through the western plaza on habit, pausing outside Mcronald’s. Riko already had the shutters up; Maddy was stacking trays with the kind of seriousness that made Inigo almost laugh. He didn’t tap the window or wave them over. Let them run it. Let them own it.

Lyra watched for a heartbeat, fondness softening her mouth. "They’ll be fine," she said.

"They’d better be," he answered, then ruined the mock severity with a small smile neither of them mentioned.

The guildhall’s doors were propped wide, banners snapping lazily over the square. Inside the main hall, the usual tide: armor clink and ledger scratch, someone laughing too loudly, someone nursing a bandaged hand with stubborn pride. A junior clerk spotted them and gestured upstairs. "He’s waiting."

Thorne’s office was spare, sunlight cutting across floorboards and the broad back of a map pinned with little lead dragons. He’d already rolled his sleeves. He looked like a man mid‑task and happy about it.

"Inigo. Lyra," he said, and when they reached the desk, he didn’t waste words.

"Three nights ago, partial collapse in the alchemy wing at Cindralock," he said, tapping a red‑ink point near a cliff line. "Vaults compromised. No casualties. They’ve retrieved what they can. One vault is still sealed—unstable materials. They’ll breach it by the time you arrive. I want those goods in Elandra as soon as they’re out."

"Compromised how?" Inigo asked, leaning over the map.

"Bad bracing, thaw‑freeze cycles shifting ground," Thorne said. "Unkind luck. The outpost’s braced the rest, but they don’t want to risk a second cave‑in keeping the wrong cargo on‑site."

"’Wrong cargo’ meaning?" Lyra prodded.

Thorne’s mouth tightened. "Experimental stabilizers. Volatile if mishandled. Liquid and powder both. Safe when sealed. Consider them vipers in jars."

"Noted," Inigo said. "We’re meeting their breaching team, taking custody, coming home fast."

"Yes," Thorne said. "You’ll attract attention if word’s leaked that the outpost is moving sensitive goods. I’m not crying ’ambush,’ but opportunists breed like weeds. Smugglers, scavengers... people who like to profit from other people’s bad days."

"Horses?" Lyra asked out of habit.

"Horses," Thorne said, then paused. He knew them. "Or whatever contraption you prefer outside the city walls, as long as you don’t panic the guard at the gate."

"Noted," Inigo said again, straight‑faced. "We’ll keep our contraptions polite."

Thorne slid a pouch across the desk. "Travel stipend. Feed, supplies. You leave at the second bell."

Inigo weighed the pouch, then tucked it into his belt. "Why us?"

"Because couriers deliver," Thorne said, "and you two notice. Also—the alchemists requested you."

That was new. Lyra’s brows rose. "Us by name?"

Thorne didn’t elaborate, which meant he couldn’t or wouldn’t. "Safe travels," he said instead, and the meeting was over in his mind.

They were back in the marble‑echo of the hall a moment later. Lyra adjusted her strap. "He’s hiding something," she said.

"He’s compartmentalizing," Inigo said. "Which is a polite kind of hiding." He made a face. "We’ll get the whole of it once we touch glass and powder."

They hit the market like any other team gearing up—rations, water, a new oilskin tarp because the last one had been sacrificed to a campfire in the wet. Lyra picked up dried mint "so road tea doesn’t taste like boiled regret," and Inigo bought a fresh whetstone, the gritty feel against his thumb feeling like promises kept. At a locksmith’s stall he bought eight stout tie‑down straps and a coil of braided rope—the practical sort of preparation that wasn’t glamorous but kept disasters theoretical.

The second bell rolled over the city as they reached a scrubby field just shy of the north gate. Inigo pulled a narrow, black‑edged scroll from his inner pocket, broke the wax seal stamped with a gear‑and‑wing insignia, and let the cool, glassy interface unfold in the air only he could see. His fingers moved through options as surely as they moved across a grill, muscle memory from a life that didn’t exist here anymore.

Summon: JLTV Tactical Vehicle — Confirm?

He tapped once.

Light traced a hard outline on empty earth—angles, seams, the suggestion of mass—then the suggestion filled, and weight arrived with a low, engineered groan. A tan‑painted JLTV settled onto the field with a puff of dust, blocky and unapologetic, armored panels soaking sunlight like a cat on a roof. The doors thunked when he tried one. Real. Ready.

Lyra didn’t flinch; she’d seen this miracle often enough. She did run her hand along the hood, the way she sometimes did with the Apache, a ritual hello. "I’ll never get tired of watching you pull an armory out of your pocket," she said.

"Convenient," he said, and opened the rear to check the cargo bay—space enough for crates, a pair of fold‑down benches, a rack already outfitted with anchor points. "We’ll use the rear benches for bracing, lash the crates to the midline. If something blows, we don’t want shrapnel flinging free."

"Comforting to hear you plan for ’if something blows,’" Lyra said dryly.

"Planning for failure keeps failure shy," he replied, which got him the kind of look that meant she hated that he was right.

They loaded the mundane gear—rations, water, extra fuel can, tarp, straps—then Inigo reached into the under‑seat storage and pulled the familiar weight of his M4. He confirmed mag, racked the charging handle for that small, honest sound that steadied him, and slung it across his chest. He clipped a sidearm at his hip, loaded two smoke grenades and a pair of flashbangs into his vest pouches, then checked the quick‑release on his plate carrier.

Lyra adjusted her quiver, slid a fresh bundle of arrows into place, tested the click of her bowstring with a pluck that sung the room for an instant. She glanced at the rifle—not hungry for it, not wary of it, just curious. "Offer still stands?" she asked.

"When we get back," Inigo said. "Range day. G36C for starters."

She nodded like the future had just added a tiny, bright star to its sky.