# Chapter 37: The Inquisitor's Offer
The name echoed in the sterile silence of the infirmary. The Ashen Tithe. It sounded like a prayer, a final offering. But on Isolde's lips, it was a brand. Soren stared at the document, at the Synod's seal stamped next to his family's names. All the pain, all the sacrifice, the burning of his own flesh—it had all been for this. To win a prize only to hand it to his true masters. He had climbed the Ladder, only to find it led not to freedom, but to a more gilded cage. He finally found his voice, a dry, rasping whisper that cut through the tension. "What do you want?" Isolde's thin, cold smile was the only answer he needed. "Everything."
The word hung in the air, a final, damning pronouncement. Isolde deactivated the data-slate with a sharp click, the sound as decisive as a cell door slamming shut. She paced the length of the small infirmary alcove, her polished boots making no sound on the scuffed linoleum. The faint, antiseptic smell of the room did little to mask the cloying scent of her authority, a mix of old parchment and cold iron. Sister Judit remained where she was, a silent, unmoving statue of defiance, her hand still hovering near Soren's shoulder. The air crackled between the two women, a silent war of wills fought over Soren's broken body.
"'Everything' is such a crude word, Vale," Isolde said, her tone shifting from predatory to pedagogical, as if she were a patient tutor explaining an obvious truth to a dullard. "We don't want your soul. The Synod has no use for such a messy, intangible thing. We want your purpose. We want your fire. We want the very thing that makes you a danger to the world, and we want to aim it."
She stopped at the foot of his bed, her gaze sweeping over the ruin of his left arm. The bandages, already stained grey at the edges, were a testament to his Pyrrhic victory. "Your Gift is… remarkable. Unstable, certainly. A crude instrument. But its potential is immense. The Cinder-Rot that now consumes your arm, that others would see as a tragedy, is simply a feature. A leash. A reminder that your power is not your own. It belongs to a higher authority."
Soren's jaw clenched. Every instinct screamed at him to lash out, to channel the last dregs of his energy into a blast that would wipe that smug certainty off her face. But he couldn't. He was hollowed out, a spent shell. The only thing he could move was his eyes, and they burned with a hatred that felt hotter than any Cinder he had ever wielded.
"You see?" Isolde gestured to his face. "That defiance. That will. That is the fuel. The Ladder is a crucible, designed to forge weapons. You have been forged. Now, you will be wielded." She reactivated the slate, swiping to a new screen. It was a contract, stark and official. "The Ashen Tithe is a subsidiary of the Synod, a mechanism for acquiring… assets. Like your family. Their debt is considerable. A lifetime of servitude in the labor pits, at least. But it can be managed. It can be reduced."
She turned the slate toward him again. The text was a blur, but the numbers at the bottom were sharp and clear. A starting balance. And a line for deductions. "For every mission you complete for us, a significant sum will be struck from the principal. Succeed in enough operations, and your family will be free. You will even earn a stipend for yourself. A comfortable life, Soren. All you have to do is serve."
The offer was a viper, coiled in the grass of desperation. It was everything he thought he wanted, twisted into a new shape. Freedom for his family, but not for him. A cage, yes, but a gilded one, with his loved ones safe just outside the bars. The temptation was a physical ache, a siren song in the wreckage of his hopes. He could see it now: his mother, no longer worrying about the next debt collector. His brother, with a chance at an education, a real life. And the cost? His soul. His will. He would become a hound for the hunters who had cornered him.
"It's a lie," Sister Judit's voice was low but firm, cutting through Isolde's seductive poison. She finally straightened up, turning to face the Inquisitor fully. "You speak of service, but you mean slavery. You offer to manage a debt that you created. This is not a path to freedom; it is a deeper, more insidious prison."
Isolde's eyes narrowed, a flicker of annoyance in her otherwise placid expression. "Sister Judit, your piety is noted, but misplaced. This is a matter of security, not theology. The Vale asset is too dangerous to be left uncontrolled. His very existence challenges the Concord."
"The Concord is a lie!" Judit's voice rose, echoing slightly in the quiet ward. "A tool to keep the powerful in power and the Gifted in chains. You preach order while you sow chaos. You offer salvation while you deliver damnation." She looked down at Soren, her gaze intense, pleading. "Soren, listen to me. Do not listen to her. The Ashen Tithe is not just a debt-holder. It is a filter. It finds the strongest, the most desperate Gifted, and it breaks them. It turns them into Inquisitors, into assassins, into monsters. The freedom she offers is an illusion. The leash she speaks of will only tighten, until it chokes the life from you."
Isolde laughed, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. "Heresy. Spoken like a true acolyte of the Bloom-Wastes. Tell me, Sister, what is your alternative? That he languish here? That his family be dragged to the pits while he nurses a dead arm and a broken spirit? Your path is one of ruin. Mine is one of… purpose."
She was right. Judit's path led to nothing but immediate loss. Soren could feel the cold certainty of it settle in his gut. His family would be taken within the week. He would be left here, a cripple, a forgotten champion. His sacrifice would mean nothing. He closed his eyes, the image of his mother's tired face swimming behind his eyelids. The weight of her hand on his shoulder when he'd left for the Ladder. The hope in his brother's eyes. He had failed them.
"Look at me, Vale," Isolde commanded, her voice hardening. "This is your only choice. Serve the Synod, or watch everything you love burn. There is no third option."
"There is," Judit said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She took a step closer to the bed, her back to Isolde, shielding her words from the Inquisitor's direct line of sight. "There is another way. A path they fear. A path they call heresy because it threatens their very foundation."
Isolde scoffed. "Do not listen to her fantasies. She will lead you to the Bloom-Wastes, to madness and decay."
"Perhaps," Judit conceded, her eyes locked on Soren's. "Or perhaps she will lead you to the truth. The truth about the Bloom. The truth about the Gifts. The truth about the Cinders Cost itself. They tell you it is a price for power. A holy burden. It is not. It is a poison. A lock placed on your potential. And there is a key."
Soren's breath hitched. A key. The words were madness, the ravings of a disillusioned woman. But in the face of Isolde's perfect, soul-crushing logic, madness was the only thing that felt real. He had seen the Bloom-Wastes. He had felt its corrupting touch. He knew the power that lingered there. Could there be truth in Judit's words? A way to not just manage the cost, but to erase it?
"The Ashen Remnant," Isolde said, her voice dripping with contempt. "That is who she speaks for. A cult of nihilists who believe the Gifted are an abomination. They seek not freedom, but annihilation. They will use you, Soren, and when they are done, they will destroy you, just as they wish to destroy us all."
"The Remnant are a splinter group. A distortion," Judit shot back, never breaking eye contact with Soren. "The knowledge I speak of predates them. It is ancient. It is hidden. But it is real. I have a contact. Someone who can help you. Someone who can show you how to fight back, not just for your family, but for yourself. For every Gifted soul chained by the Concord."
Isolde stepped forward, her patience clearly at an end. She placed a hand on the bedrail, her knuckles white. "This is your last chance, Vale. Sign the slate. Accept the Synod's protection. Or I will have you declared a heretic, right here, right now. Your family will be seized. Your assets forfeit. And you will be taken to the Black Cells for… re-education. Choose."
The choice was a blade against his throat. On one side, the cold, certain steel of Isolde's contract. A life of service, of being a weapon aimed at targets of her choosing, but with the faint, distant hope of his family's safety. It was a slow death of the spirit, a surrender of everything he was. On the other side, Judit's outstretched hand. A leap into the dark, a path of heresy and rebellion, with no guarantees and the very real threat of annihilation. It was a gamble with the highest stakes, a desperate charge against an impossible foe.
He looked at Isolde. Her face was a mask of righteous certainty, the face of the system that had crushed his father, that had bound his family, that had engineered his entire life of suffering. He saw no compassion there, only the cold, calculating glint of a collector admiring a new specimen.
He looked at Judit. Her face was etched with worry, but also with a fierce, unwavering resolve. In her eyes, he saw not a savior, but a fellow prisoner. Someone who had looked into the abyss and decided to fight back. She was offering him not a guarantee, but a weapon. Not a path, but the chance to forge one.
His left arm throbbed with a deep, cold fire, a constant reminder of the cost of his power, of the chains he already wore. Isolde offered to manage those chains. Judit was offering a chance to break them.
The infirmary seemed to shrink, the world narrowing to the two women and the impossible choice they represented. The faint hum of the infirmary's machinery, the distant shouts from the arena corridors, the scent of blood and disinfectant—it all faded away. There was only the slate in Isolde's hand, promising a gilded cage, and the hand Judit offered, promising a heretical hope.
He had spent his life alone, trusting only his own strength, his own will. It had brought him here, to this bed, broken and trapped. His stoicism, his refusal to rely on anyone, had been his greatest strength and his most fatal flaw. He had tried to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and now it was crushing him.
Judit was right. He couldn't do this alone.
Slowly, painfully, he lifted his right hand. It trembled with the effort, the muscles screaming in protest. Every movement was agony. Isolde watched, a flicker of triumph in her eyes, expecting him to reach for the slate. She extended it toward him, the contract glowing softly, an invitation to damnation.
Soren's hand bypassed the slate. It moved past it, through the space between the two women, a slow, deliberate journey across an impossible chasm. His fingers, stiff and clumsy, found Judit's outstretched hand. Her grip was firm, warm, alive. It was the first real warmth he had felt since entering the arena.
He didn't look at Isolde. He didn't need to. He could feel the shock radiating from her, the sudden, sharp intake of breath. The cold certainty in her face had shattered, replaced by a fury so pure it was almost beautiful.
"You have made your choice, Vale," Isolde's voice was no longer calm and pedagogical. It was ice, sharp and deadly. "A foolish one. And a final one."
She tapped a command into her data-slate. "Guards. Take the heretic Sister Judit into custody. And secure the asset. He is now a prisoner of the Radiant Synod, charged with high treason."
The heavy thud of boots echoed in the hallway, growing louder. Judit squeezed his hand, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and exhilaration. "It's begun," she whispered. "Hold on."
The door to the alcove slammed open, two armored Wardens filling the frame, their halberds gleaming. They moved with practiced efficiency, their eyes fixed on Judit. Soren's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and defiance. He had made his choice. And now, he would pay the price.