Two figures emerged from the shadows on the tracks to confront the party: a gaunt man and a haggard woman, their faces etched with hardship. As the Hollow Knight drew near, their MetaTECs flared with the telltale sign of an incoming alert.

“What blasphemy is this?” the man growled, his voice harsh and filled with resentment. His finger, grimy and skeletal from malnutrition, jabbed accusingly at the Hollow Knight. His stature, once likely imposing, had been reduced to a mere shadow of its former self by the ravages of starvation.

“Call it what you will,” Warren retorted, his voice firm and unyielding. “Desperation or otherwise, this Hollow Knight played a crucial role in retaking Canterbury. She stands with us against her own kind.”

The man’s eyes, hollow and weary, softened slightly as he gave a begrudging nod.

“Desperation indeed. These are strange and dire times.”

He extended a thin, trembling hand towards Warren.

“I am Pitor Lightbringer, and this is my wife, Hell Witch Shahara.”

Shahara offered a cautious nod of acknowledgment, her gaze wary but not unkind. Her attention remained fixed on the Hollow Knight, her unease barely concealed.

“Pitor,” Captain Marshall interjected, sensing an opportunity for valuable information, “you mentioned these times are strange. In what way?”

Pitor’s eyes flicked towards the Captain, and he fell into a heavy silence, his thoughts clearly troubled.

“It is Pitor’s silence that speaks volumes,” Shahara said, her voice steady and reassuring. “He witnessed the fall of Brixton station last year. The memory still haunts him.”

Pitor’s voice was a pained whisper as he spoke.

“I failed them, Shahara. Those who perished under my watch, they died while I survived...”

“Enough,” Shahara said softly but firmly. “Do not diminish their sacrifice. You did not flee; you retreated to survive and bring their memory with you. Their legacy endures through you.”

“They emerged from the tunnels,” Pitor said, his voice strained and laden with despair. “Creatures unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed. They trampled over the warding runes on the lower platform and slaughtered without hesitation. They weren’t sprites; they were something far more sinister—living flesh twisted with malevolence. They killed and carried the bodies away.”

The gravity of Pitor's words hung heavily in the air, enveloping the group in a sorrowful silence. Shahara placed a gentle hand on Pitor’s gaunt arm, and he seemed on the brink of tears, his anguish palpable.

Warren broke the silence, his tone measured but firm.

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“With all due respect, it appears you’re struggling to sustain yourselves here,” he said, gesturing around the compound. The scant vegetables in the planters and the meager flock of chickens revealed the stark reality of their situation.

“Your resources seem insufficient for the number of people here. Canterbury offers sanctuary,” Warren continued, his voice resolute. “It’s a few days’ march south and then east. We could offer you refuge and support.”

Shahara shook her head, her expression filled with weariness. “We had hoped to leave, but the journey is too perilous for us at the moment.”

“But with two of you,” Warren countered, “two Magus should be able to protect more than just this handful of people—”

“The woman is pregnant,” the Hollow Knight interjected, her voice soft yet commanding. She stepped forward, her gaze fixed on Shahara. “I can sense the life within her. It is faint, like a flickering candle, but it is undeniably there.”

Shahara instinctively shielded her belly with a protective gesture. Warren’s face softened with genuine empathy.

“Congratulations to both of you,” he said, his voice warm despite the dire circumstances. “A child is a beacon of hope, especially in these trying times.”

"But you can’t stay here," Captain Marshall commanded, her tone brooking no argument. "For one, the food situation is dire. You’ll run out in no time if you remain."

Pitor’s face was etched with worry.

"But how can we undertake a journey? I can’t protect everyone. I can’t bear the thought of losing Shahara, especially after everything she’s done to heal me."

Captain Marshall’s gaze was steady, her voice unwavering.

"Firstly, Lightbringer, you need to accept that you can’t save everyone. Your wife is right—you were fortunate to escape Brixton alive. You found her, and now you have a child on the way. Secondly, trust in Shahara. She has survived and thrived without your protection before. She is a formidable Magus in her own right."

Pitor’s expression softened with reluctant understanding.

"If it helps," Captain Marshall continued, "I’ll leave three of my men behind. They can assist your people in preparing for the journey."

"Captain, that might not be prudent," Cypher interjected, his voice laced with concern. "Leaving additional men here could jeopardize our own mission."

Captain Marshall’s face flushed with restrained anger. She inhaled deeply, choosing her words with precision.

"If that were the case, Runelord," she said, her voice edged with bitterness, "we wouldn’t have stationed the bulk of our forces at Canterbury in exchange for the Warlock’s aid. And do not presume to overstep your authority, Magus. I hold operational command here. The disposition of my men is my decision alone. Furthermore," she glanced at the Hollow Knight, "we’ve acquired a new ally. Though her combat prowess is unproven to us, the Warlock vouches for her strength. That is sufficient for me. Is that clear?"

Cypher met her gaze with a steely look, his frustration evident but contained.

"Understood, Captain."

"Good. Taylor, you’re in charge of the exfiltration. I want everyone ready to depart in two days."

"Understood, Captain," Taylor replied promptly. "I’ll conduct a medical assessment and start gathering the necessary provisions for the journey."

Captain Marshall nodded, her face set with resolve. The plan was in motion, and every moment counted.

“Cooper, Turner,” Captain Marshall commanded with a sharp edge in her voice, “attend to their armor and weapons. You two are among our finest runesmiths. I expect no less than level three sigils of concealment and displacement. If necessary, tattoo them directly onto their skin.”

The two Runeguard nodded in silent acknowledgment, their expressions determined as they accepted their task.

With their orders set, the party departed from South Bromley station and began the trek north toward Brixton. They were offered a sparse ration of food and water for their journey, but it was politely declined. The decision was made: should the party fail to return within two days, the survivors of South Bromley would start their own march south toward Ashford.

The unspoken fear of the dangers awaiting them there loomed large, but no one voiced it.