# Chapter 35: The Price of Power
The roar of the crowd was a distant echo in the stone corridor. Soren leaned against the cool wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The victory had been clean, efficient, but now, in the quiet aftermath, the cost came due. A deep, grinding pain started in his bones, a cold fire that the armor's soothing touch couldn't reach. He clutched his arm, pulling back the leather of his tunic to look at his Cinder-Tattoo. The once-distinct lines, a map of his sacrifices, were blurring, the grey darkening and bleeding together into a single, solid patch of ominous black. It was a stain, spreading from the inside out. A soft footstep made him look up. A woman in the simple grey robes of a Synod acolyte stood there, her face pale and her eyes filled with a strange mix of pity and resolve. "The armor is a cage for the power," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the fading cheers, "but the cost is still eating you alive. There is another way, but the Synod calls it heresy."
Soren's first instinct was to shove her away, to snarl a warning. The Synod was the enemy, their acolytes the eyes and ears of his oppressors. But the pain was a vise, tightening around his ribs, stealing the air from his lungs. He could only stare, his mind racing. The black mass on his skin seemed to pulse in time with the agony, a silent, damning testament to her words. The armor had been his hope, Grak's masterpiece, a tool to focus the chaos. He had believed it was the answer.
"Who are you?" he managed, his voice a dry rasp. The corridor smelled of sweat, ozone, and the faint, sweet scent of the medicinal salves the arena staff used on the wounded.
"My name is Judit," she said, taking a hesitant step closer. She was young, no older than he was, with dark circles under her eyes that spoke of long nights and little faith. "I tend the wounded here. I have watched you since your first trial. I have seen what the Cost does to men and women who think they can beat it." Her gaze flickered to the blackened skin on his arm. "That is not victory. That is a tombstone being written on your flesh."
The Announcer's voice boomed from the arena, a distorted, triumphant sound. "An absolutely stunning display from Vale! He moves on to the second round of the Champion's Gauntlet, his confidence seemingly unshakable!" The irony was bitter enough to choke on. Unshakable. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams.
A guard in the livery of the Ladder Commission stomped down the corridor. "Next competitor! Vale, you're up in ten. The Warden of Chains is waiting." The guard's voice was bored, impatient. He didn't see the pain, didn't see the acolyte, didn't see the spreading rot beneath Soren's skin. He only saw a name on a roster.
Soren pushed himself off the wall, forcing his legs to hold him. The pain receded slightly, settling into a deep, thrumming ache that vibrated through his skeleton. He looked at Judit, his expression hard. "I don't have time for riddles."
"You don't have time for anything else," she countered, her voice gaining a sliver of urgency. "The armor channels the force, yes. It makes you a precise weapon instead of a wild explosion. But it doesn't negate the Cost. It just… redirects it. It bottles it up. And every bottle eventually breaks." She glanced down the corridor, then back at him. "Meet me in the old apothecary under the west stands after your next fight. If you can still walk."
With that, she turned and melted back into the shadows of the archway, her grey robes disappearing as if she were never there. Soren was left alone with the guard's impatient glare and the terrifying new knowledge blooming in his gut. The Warden of Chains. He knew the name. A brute who favored a flail tipped with weighted hooks, designed to snag and tear. A fighter who would test the limits of his new armor, and the limits of his body.
The walk back to the staging gate was a blur of sensory input. The clang of a blacksmith's hammer from a nearby repair stall, the murmur of other competitors waiting their turn, the smell of cheap ale from a vendor's cart. It all felt distant, filtered through the lens of his internal struggle. He had to win. He had to keep winning. The prize money for the Gauntlet was his only real chance. But now, every victory felt like a step closer to the grave Judit had described.
The gate screeched open. The roar of the crowd hit him like a physical blow, a wall of sound and heat. The sun, high and unforgiving, beat down on the sand of the arena. Across the circle, his opponent stood waiting. The Warden of Chains was a mountain of a man, his bald head gleaming with sweat, a thick iron collar around his neck. He spun his flail lazily, the hooks glinting with a cruel light.
Soren raised his gauntlets, the silver veins flaring to life. He focused his mind, drawing on the kinetic energy. It came easier now, a familiar current he could direct. The armor hummed, ready. He ignored the deep ache in his bones, the phantom feeling of his own skin turning to ash. He had a job to do.
The gong sounded.
The Warden charged, a surprisingly fast blur of muscle and metal. He swung the flail in a wide, horizontal arc, the hooks whistling through the air. Soren didn't dodge. He met it. He threw up a focused shield of kinetic force, a shimmering pane of invisible energy. The chain links slammed into it with a deafening clang, the force of the blow shuddering up Soren's arms. The armor absorbed the worst of it, the silver veins flaring brightly, but the impact still sent a jolt of pain through his skeleton.
The crowd roared its approval. They loved a good standstill.
Soren pressed his advantage, stepping into the space created by the blocked swing. He drove a fist forward, releasing a tight, concentrated bolt of power. It struck the Warden in the chest, knocking the big man back a step. It wasn't a knockout blow, but it was precise. It was efficient. It was the new Soren.
They traded blows for what felt like an eternity. The Warden was relentless, his flail a constant, whirring threat. Soren was a fortress, parrying, deflecting, and countering with sharp, stinging attacks. He was a machine, his movements economical, his focus absolute. But with every blast of power he unleashed, he felt the deep, internal ache intensify. It was like a toothache in his soul. The silver light of his armor seemed to dim a fraction with each expenditure, the effort of containing the backlash taking its toll.
He saw an opening. The Warden overcommitted to a downward strike, leaving his side exposed. Soren lunged, channeling a massive surge of energy into his gauntlet. He didn't aim for a knockout. He aimed for the man's weapon arm. The bolt of force, brighter and hotter than any before, struck true. There was a sickening crack of bone, and the Warden screamed, dropping his flail. The big man clutched his shattered arm, his face a mask of agony and disbelief.
The gong rang out, signaling the end of the match. The crowd's cheers were deafening. Soren stood over his fallen opponent, his chest heaving, the silver light of his armor fading to a dull glow. He had won again. He had been brilliant again. And he had never felt closer to death.
He stumbled back through the gate, his vision swimming. The corridor seemed to tilt, the stone floor rushing up to meet him. He caught himself on the wall, his fingers scraping against the rough stone. The pain was no longer an ache; it was a fire, consuming him from the inside. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
Finn was there, his face a picture of concern. "Soren! That was amazing! Are you alright? You look pale."
Soren tried to answer, but a wave of nausea washed over him. He pushed past the boy, stumbling into a small, curtained-off alcove used for private medical attention. He fell to his knees, the cold stone a small mercy against his feverish skin. He ripped back his tunic, his breath catching in his throat.
The black mass had grown.
It was no longer just a patch. It was a creeping, inky stain that had consumed the intricate patterns of his Cinder-Tattoo. It spread from his wrist up his forearm, a solid void of dead magic. The skin around it was tight, waxy, and cold to the touch. It was the physical manifestation of the Cost, the debt his body was paying, and the armor had only hidden the bill, not erased it.
He was so focused on the horrifying sight that he didn't hear the curtain rustle.
"I told you."
Soren's head snapped up. Sister Judit stood there, a small clay pot in her hands. Her expression was not one of pity now, but of grim understanding. She knelt beside him, the scent of herbs and antiseptic filling the small space.
"The armor is a cage," she repeated, her voice low and steady. "It holds the beast, but it doesn't feed it. It just starves it, and a starving beast will eventually eat its own cage. And you." She gestured to his arm. "That is the evidence."
"What is it?" Soren whispered, his voice trembling. "What's happening to me?"
"It's called Cinder-Rot," she said, opening the pot. A sharp, clean smell of mint and something else, something earthy and unknown, filled the air. "The accumulated Cost, when it has no immediate outlet, begins to congeal. It poisons the flesh, the bone, the spirit. It is a slow, irreversible decay. The Synod knows of it. They call it the Final Judgment, a holy ascension for those who have given their all. It is a lie. It is a death sentence."
She dipped her fingers into the salve. "This will not cure it. Nothing can. But it will soothe the fire for a time. It will give you clarity." She gently began to apply the cool salve to the edge of the blackened skin. The relief was instantaneous, a balm on the raw nerve of his soul. The fire in his bones receded to a dull throb.
"Why are you helping me?" Soren asked, his suspicion warring with his desperation. "You're Synod."
"I was Synod," she corrected, her eyes distant. "I believed. I tended to the 'holy martyrs' who burned themselves out for the glory of the trials. I watched them wither away, their minds going long before their bodies. I read the forbidden texts in the deep archives, the ones written before the Synod sanitized history. The Gift was not always a curse. It was not always a tool for war." She finished applying the salve and pulled back. "The Synod fears the truth. They fear what the Gifted could become if they were free from the Cost. That is why they created the Ladder, why they enforce the Concord. It is not to prevent war. It is to control us."
Soren looked from his arm, now sheathed in a thin layer of glistening salve, to her face. He saw the conviction there, the risk she was taking. This was not a trap. It was an offer.
"You said there was another way," he said, his voice stronger now.
Judit nodded, her expression grave. "A way that does not involve bottling the power. A way to live with it, to harmonize with it. The knowledge is scattered, suppressed. But it exists. In the Bloom-Wastes, in the forgotten places. It is a path of great danger, but it is a path of life, not decay." She stood up, tucking the clay pot into her robes. "Your next fight is soon. A man named Jex. He is fast and cruel. He will try to exhaust you, to make you burn yourself out. Do not let him. Fight smart. And when the Gauntlet is over, if you are still standing, find me. I will show you where to begin."
She left as quietly as she had arrived, leaving Soren alone in the alcove. The pain was manageable now, a distant echo. But the fear was a living thing. The choice was no longer just about winning money. It was about choosing how he would die: as a celebrated champion burning out in a blaze of glory, or as a heretic searching for a truth that could save him. He looked at his arm, at the ominous black stain that was now a part of him. The price of power was higher than he had ever imagined.