London Undercurrent: Psychic Walker

The air in the White Tower Observatory's meditation chamber hung thick and still. Alan sat cross-legged on a cushion, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, trickling down his pale cheeks. Eyes screwed shut, brow furrowed, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body trembled with the strain. His entire consciousness was a drill bit, boring frantically into the seemingly bottomless dry well within him.

Harmonize… Guide… Not oppose… He chanted his grandfather's earliest teachings and Lena's parting plea silently. Lena's image, vanishing into the vampire stronghold, was seared into his mind. The profound worry and desperate need to be stronger were the only fuel driving his exhausted will.

But the response was only a void of silence. The Harmonizing energy that had once felt like a gentle stream was now a desiccated riverbed, devoid even of moisture. No matter how he strained, how he guided his breath, how he focused his intent, the bottom of the well remained dark, cold, unresponsive. Master Bohr's runic scanner beside him emitted a steady, unvarying hum, recording his futile struggle.

"Enough, Mr. Shaw." The voice of Eliot, Bohr's young assistant, was coolly detached. He adjusted his glasses. "Today's 'recovery guidance' period is concluded. Data indicates your core energy activity remains ninety-seven point three percent below baseline thresholds. Mental overexertion will impede recovery. Rest is advised."

Alan's eyes snapped open, bloodshot grey-blue orbs blazing with frustration and suppressed fury. He glared at Eliot, then at the softly glowing surveillance camera in the corner, before finally letting his head slump in defeat, overwhelmed by crushing helplessness. He pushed himself up using the wall, legs shaky, and stumbled back to the living area.

The oppressive sense of surveillance permeated the space. He felt like a dangerous specimen trapped in a gilded cage. Lena was in the lion's den, fate unknown; his grandfather was missing, clues vanished; and he, labeled a "hazard" or "research subject," was imprisoned in this cold tower, powerless to reclaim his own strength!

Rage and frustration boiled like magma in his chest, threatening to breach the dam of reason.

He had to do something! He couldn't just wait!

Alan's gaze swept the room, finally landing on the small, worn cardboard box on his nightstand. Salvaged by the Wardens from the ruins of Hundred Herbs, it contained his grandfather's few surviving possessions. Pain and worry over Lena had kept him from examining it closely before.

He walked over, picked up the box smelling faintly of herbs and smoke, sat on the bed, and carefully opened it. Contents were sparse: a few polished silver needles; a small sachet holding dried, unidentifiable leaves; a charred-edged, handwritten booklet resembling an Eastern herbal compendium; and… a heavy, brass-cased, old-fashioned pocket watch.

The sight of the watch punched the air from Alan's lungs. His grandfather had never been without it. He remembered the old man, sitting on the worn wicker chair outside the herbal shop at dusk, fingers tracing its surface, eyes gazing eastward with an expression Alan never understood.

The brass case was scarred by time, the lid slightly warped, perhaps by heat. With trembling fingers, Alan carefully opened it. The crystal face was shattered, the hands frozen at a catastrophic moment. The space below the dial, meant for a photograph, was empty.

He turned the watch over. The back, also brass, was engraved with intricate vine patterns. And at the center of the vines, a tiny, yet exquisitely clear glyph seized his attention!

It depicted two elements: a vividly rendered oak leaf, veins distinct, radiating vibrant life; the leaf was encircled by a band of sharp, protective thorns, lines sharp and resilient, conveying defense and vigilance. The oak leaf and thorns were seamlessly intertwined, forming a unique, organic seal.

This glyph… Alan's pupils constricted sharply! He knew it! At the entrance to Epping Forest, on the robes of Elder Iona of the Wildheart Circle! On the bark of the guardian trees and animated brambles! It was the mark of the Wildheart Circle!

His grandfather's pocket watch bore the Wildheart glyph!

Lightning struck his mind! Fragments fused: Ouroboros attacked Hundred Herbs for an Eastern scroll; Grandfather was a mysterious Eastern Anima physician in Warden records; the charred "Epping Forest" parchment found under his bed; Elder Iona speaking of Grandfather as an "old friend" who left with secrets and warnings of "balance" and "Glyph peril"!

Grandfather Sean was far more than a simple herbalist! He had deep ties to the Wildheart! He'd left them… likely to guard the secret linked to that scroll, a secret possibly pointing to a Prime Glyph! He'd hidden in London's East End, raising Alan in obscurity… and now he was missing, the trail seemingly leading back to its origin—Epping Forest!

The Wildheart Circle! They must hold clues to Grandfather's fate! Perhaps even answers about his own Harmonizing ability!

A surge of desperate energy, like an electric current, jolted through Alan. He couldn't wait any longer! Couldn't remain caged in this cold observatory, passively monitored and "guided"! Lena was risking everything for London; he had to act—for Grandfather, and for himself—now!

The suite door hissed open. Fenrir Silvermane strode in, radiating the chill of the outdoors, fresh from a perimeter patrol. "Hey, kid! Still wrestling with rocks?" He jerked a thumb towards the meditation chamber, his tone carrying the wolf's characteristic bluntness and disdain for "sitting still."

Alan's head snapped up. His eyes burned with an intensity Fenrir hadn't seen before, momentarily giving the werewolf pause.

"Fenrir!" Alan's voice was hoarse with urgency, clutching the watch with the Thorn-and-Oak glyph. "I need your help! Now! Immediately!"

Fenrir raised a shaggy eyebrow, amber wolf eyes flickering with curiosity and wariness. "Oh? What kind? Help you rip out these damn cameras?" He gestured around, his distaste for surveillance plain.

"No," Alan stood, his gaze locking onto Fenrir. "Help me get out of HQ! To Epping Forest! Now!"

"Epping Forest?" Fenrir frowned. "Tree-hugger and witch territory? What for? A death wish? And…" He pointed towards the door and the rune-etched walls, "...you think Renard and his blackshirts are gonna let you out for a stroll?"

"I have to go! It's about my grandfather!" Alan thrust the watch's back towards Fenrir. "Recognize this? Wildheart mark! My grandfather's! He was connected to the Druids! I need to find clues there! Thorne won't approve, Renard will block it! I have to do this myself… with your help!"

He rapidly laid out his discovery and reasoning, his tone desperate, pleading.

Fenrir listened, the mocking glint fading, replaced by a lupine understanding of blood ties and kinship. He looked at the watch, then at the fierce resolve and buried pain in Alan's eyes.

"Kid…" Fenrir's voice dropped low. "That old wood is no playground. The Wildheart ain't exactly welcoming to outsiders, especially city-smelling ones. And HQ…"

"I know the risks! But I have to go!" Alan cut in, eyes blazing. "Lena's playing with fire among the bloodsuckers! I can't sit here useless! I need answers! Fenrir, I'm begging you! Help me this once! Your speed, your feel for the wild… it's the only chance I have to find them fast and ditch HQ's trackers!"

At the mention of Lena, a complex shadow crossed Fenrir's lupine eyes. He was silent for a few heartbeats, weighing the odds. Then, a grin spread across his face—wild, reckless, and fiercely loyal. He clapped Alan's shoulder (controlled force this time).

"Alright! Got some spine after all! Charging into Druid turf! Count me in! Always hated those blackshirts snooping!" Excitement sparked in his eyes. "But listen up, in the woods, you follow my lead! Those old roots and vine-twisters play rough, worse than Renard!"

A plan crystallized swiftly. Alan contacted Simon immediately. The comms were encrypted, but Alan sensed Simon's tension.

"Alan? Are you insane? Now? Renard's got eyes everywhere!" Simon hissed.

"No time, Simon! I need one last favor!" Alan spoke rapidly. "Fenrir's busting me out! I need your jammer—the upgraded one! Can it scramble higher-level runic scans and bio-trackers? Doesn't need long—just enough to clear HQ perimeter! And… fake temporary clearance codes for two, for an East End outer patrol!"

Silence on the line, punctuated by frantic keyboard clatter. "...Alan, this is crazy! If you're caught…"

"Lena's taking crazier risks!" Alan shot back, voice steel. "Help us, Simon! Just this once!"

Another pause, then Simon's voice, resigned yet decisive: "...Fine! 'Ghost Cloak' prototype is here. Wider range, jams Anima Sensory Grid and low-tier tracking runes for about fifteen seconds! Codes… give me thirty! Listen: Fenrir gets you to B7 Service Access! Blind spot in the cams there! I'll loop ten seconds of feed! You have *ten seconds* to get through! Once the cloak is live, run for the East End boundary! Don't look back! I'll scrub your trail as best I can!"

"Thanks, Simon!" Warmth surged through Alan.

Action commenced under the cloak of night. During a shift change lull, a momentary dimming of corridor lights—Fenrir materialized like a phantom outside Alan's suite. He flashed a toothy grin at the door guards, unleashing a wave of primal alpha pressure. The guards froze, breath catching, minds blanking.

"Move!" Fenrir growled, grabbing Alan's arm. Alan felt himself yanked forward, feet barely touching the floor! Fenrir moved with preternatural speed, a blur in the dimly lit corridors, expertly avoiding patrols, hurtling towards B7 Service Access.

Alan's heart hammered against his ribs. He clutched Simon's upgraded jammer—a slightly larger black cube with extra micro-vents. As they neared the access point, he slammed the activation button!

HUM—!

A significantly stronger, yet still subliminal energy pulse erupted! Within a three-meter radius of Alan, all surveillance feeds instantly froze, distorted into static snow! The wall runes flickered erratically! The ambient energy markers used to track specific Anima signatures dissolved into chaotic noise!

"Now!" Fenrir roared, shoulder-charging the fire door open and dragging Alan through! Icy night air rushed in!

Ten seconds! A desperate sprint! Fenrir pushed his speed to the limit. Buildings blurred past; wind screamed in Alan's ears, drowning out his pounding heart. They were shadows melting into the night, weaving through the complex outer structures and perimeter walls of HQ, racing for the East End fringe!

As the fifteen-second cloak effect faded, they were already beyond the core surveillance perimeter, swallowed by the chaotic, dimly lit streets of the East End.

"Huuh… huuh…" Alan bent double, hands on knees, lungs burning. Fenrir panted lightly, amber eyes scanning their surroundings. "Shook 'em! For now!" He grinned, exhilaration in his eyes. "Where to now, East Ender?"

Alan straightened, gazing northeast into the night sky. Beyond the city's neon glare and clamor, lay the dark, rolling silhouette of ancient woodland—Epping Forest.

"Out of the city! To Epping Forest!" Alan's voice was iron. He touched the pocket holding the watch, feeling the outline of the Thorn-and-Oak glyph. "Fast as you can!"

"Hang on tight!" Fenrir's eyes flared green. His body expanded, fur sprouting, bones cracking softly. In seconds, a massive silver wolf, nearly two meters at the shoulder, muscles rippling under moonlight-dappled fur, stood before Alan. Fenrir lowered his body.

Alan scrambled onto the broad back, gripping handfuls of thick neck fur.

"Awooo—!" A deep, resonant howl, not of challenge but of wild excitement, split the night. Powerful hind legs launched the silver wolf forward like a living arrow. Carrying Alan, Fenrir burst through the fringe lights of the East End and onto the dark highway leading northeast, streaking towards the ancient forest, leaving the city's glow rapidly shrinking behind them.

Wind howled past Alan's ears. The city lights dwindled to smudges. Hunched on Fenrir's powerful, warm back, feeling the rhythmic surge of immense muscles, the suffocating weight of the Tower's watchfulness fell away. A thrilling mix of tension and freedom surged through him. His eyes were locked on the forest's dark mass ahead, growing ever clearer, a sleeping giant's spine against the horizon.

Epping Forest. The destination of Grandfather's trail. Domain of the Wildheart Circle.

As they drew nearer, an uncanny sensation began to stir within Alan. Faint at first, like distant tides or the deep pulse of the earth. Not sound, but pure energy awareness. Vast. Profoundly calm. Like the breath of eternity itself, thrumming with immense, ancient vitality. The forest loomed darker, more mysterious in the moonlight, as if every tree, every leaf breathed this potent, primordial force.

Fenrir slowed, finally halting on an overgrown track at the forest's edge. He shifted back to human form, steam rising from his bare torso, wolf eyes alert in the gloom, ears twitching to catch the forest's subtle sounds.

"Here." Fenrir's voice was low, resonant with lupine respect for wild territory. "From here, we walk. Watch your step, kid. I feel them… guardians." He nodded towards shadows denser than night—twisted trees and root systems coiling like giant serpents on the forest floor.

Alan dismounted, boots sinking into the soft, damp loam. A rich scent of earth, decay, moss, and strange blossoms washed over him. The city's taint ended here.

He took a deep breath. The vast, serene pulse of Anima intensified, a warm tide enveloping him, gently lapping at the dry well within. In the presence of this immense, ancient, life-saturated energy, he felt infinitesimally small, yet… strangely attuned. As if something dormant inside had stirred.

He pulled out his grandfather's watch, thumb tracing the Thorn-and-Oak glyph. Under the cold moonlight, the etched lines seemed to hold a faint, almost imperceptible warmth.

Grandfather… I'm coming, Alan thought. He lifted his gaze, peering beyond the forest's shadowed edge, into the deep, secretive heart of the ancient woodland.

A vast, serene, yet vibrantly alive pulse of Anima, like the breath of a slumbering behemoth, resonated from the forest's depths. It carried ancient whispers and an endless, compelling call.

Clutching the watch, resolve hardening in his eyes, Alan took his first step into the shadow of the ancient forest.