# Chapter 87: The Bloom's Child
The shriek of the Bloom-spawn tore through the resonant hum of the Labyrinth, a sound of grinding glass and tearing metal that vibrated in their teeth. It moved with a speed that defied its jagged, crystalline form, a blur of green light and corrupted flesh. Kestrel's warning was lost in the cacophony as the creature closed the distance in three lurching, impossibly fast strides. The scavenger's scavenged rifle roared, the sound a dull pop compared to the monster's cry. The slug, a scavenged piece of anti-materiel ordnance, struck the creature's chest dead-center.
The impact kicked up a shower of green sparks but did nothing to slow its charge. The slug flattened against the crystalline carapace with a pathetic *thwump*, falling to the floor like a discarded coin. The Bloom-spawn didn't even seem to notice. Its head-locus, that single malevolent point of light, remained locked on Nyra.
"Move!" Soren yelled, his voice a raw rasp. He shoved her aside, his body screaming in protest from the effort. The movement sent a fresh wave of fire through his arm, the black lines of his Cinder-Tattoos feeling like they were being branded into his bone. He stumbled, catching himself on the wall, his vision swimming.
The creature's charge carried it past where Nyra had been standing. Its massive, serrated crystal arm, intended to cleave her in two, instead smashed into the cavern wall. The impact was deafening. A web of cracks spread through the crystal, and the entire chamber shuddered. Chunks of glowing rock rained down from the ceiling. The air filled with the sharp scent of ozone and the acrid stench of burnt, corrupted flesh.
Nyra rolled to her feet, her mind racing, cataloging the threat. *Immune to kinetic force. Extreme speed. Target fixation.* Her tactical gifts, her ability to see patterns and predict movements, were useless against something this alien, this direct. It wasn't a soldier or a Ladder fighter; it was a force of nature. She drew her blade, a slender, perfectly balanced dueling sword, but it felt like a toothpick against a tidal wave. "Kestrel, fall back! Soren, we need to create distance!"
But Kestrel was already moving, scrambling for a better angle, his face a mask of disbelief and fear. He fumbled with a bandolier of grenades, his usual cocksure demeanor shattered. "Nothing works! It's like hitting a mountain!"
The Bloom-spawn dislodged its arm from the wall with another screech of grinding crystal. It turned its head-locus toward Soren, who was still leaning against the wall, struggling to stay upright. The green light flared, and the creature took a step toward him, its skeletal claws clicking on the floor. It seemed to sense his weakness, his depleted energy.
"Hey! Over here!" Nyra shouted, striking the flat of her blade against a nearby crystal pillar. The *ping* of the steel was swallowed by the Labyrinth's hum, but the creature paused, its head swiveling back toward her. The fixation was absolute. It had chosen its target.
It charged again.
This time, Nyra was ready. She didn't try to meet it head-on. She sprinted, her feet light on the crystalline floor, using the pillars for cover. The Bloom-spawn followed, a juggernaut of destruction. It smashed through one pillar, sending a cascade of green shards exploding across the chamber. The air grew thick with shimmering dust, catching the light in a million points. Nyra felt a sharp sting as a shard sliced her cheek. She ignored it, her focus absolute. She was leading it on a chase, trying to buy Soren a precious few seconds to recover.
She feinted left, then darted right, her movements a blur of calculated precision. The creature was fast, but it was clumsy, its momentum a liability. It skidded on the scree of its own making, its crystalline hooves scraping for purchase. It was an opening.
"Kestrel, now!" she yelled, hoping he was in position.
From a raised ledge on the far side of the chamber, Kestrel fired again. This time, he aimed for the creature's legs. The rifle barked, and the slug struck the joint of the creature's rear leg. There was a sharp *crack*, not of bone, but of crystal fracturing. The Bloom-spawn stumbled, its charge broken. It let out a furious shriek, whipping its head-locus around to find the new threat.
It worked. They could hurt it. Not much, but they could hurt it.
A flicker of hope died in Nyra's chest as the creature's leg began to regenerate. The fractured crystal flowed like molten glass, knitting itself back together in seconds. The glowing fluid from its claws dripped onto the floor, and where it landed, the crystal itself began to bubble and warp, growing new, jagged spires. The touch was a contagion.
Soren pushed himself off the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Every nerve ending screamed. The Cinder Cost was a physical weight, a gravity pulling him down. He could feel the new scar on his arm, a patch of deadened skin that radiated a cold, hollow ache. He watched Nyra lead the monster on a deadly chase, a lone dancer against a brute. He saw Kestrel's desperate, useless shots. He was the only one who could end this. But he had nothing left. To use his Gift again now, in this state, would be more than a Pyrrhic victory. It might be his last act.
The Bloom-spawn, its attention now divided, made a decision. It ignored Kestrel on the ledge and turned back to the more immediate threat: Nyra. It didn't charge this time. It lowered its center of gravity, its skeletal claws flexing. It began to stalk her, its movements more deliberate, more intelligent. It was learning.
Nyra backed away, her sword held in a high guard. Her mind was a whirlwind of calculations. Angles, distances, reaction times. None of them were in her favor. The creature was too fast, too strong, too resilient. Her only advantage was her agility, but the chamber was a confined space. She was being herded.
She glanced at Soren. He was watching, his face pale, his body trembling. He was trying, she could see it. He was gathering what little strength he had left. But it wouldn't be enough. Not in time.
The Bloom-spawn lunged, not with its massive crystal blade, but with its smaller, skeletal hand. It was a feint. Nyra dodged left, anticipating the blow, but the creature's other arm came around in a wide, sweeping arc. The crystal blade caught her across the back, not a direct hit, but a glancing blow.
The impact threw her forward, slamming her into a crystal wall. The air was driven from her lungs in a pained gasp. A sharp, burning pain spread across her shoulder blades. It felt like she'd been hit with a white-hot branding iron. She struggled to her feet, her vision blurring. Her environmental suit was shredded, the fabric beneath it blackened and smoking. The touch of the crystal was more than just a physical blow; it was a poison.
The creature advanced, its slow, deliberate pace more terrifying than its frantic charge. It knew it had won. The green light in its core pulsed with a slow, hungry rhythm. It raised its skeletal claws, the glowing fluid dripping onto the floor, each drop sizzling as it ate away at the crystal.
Soren saw it all. He saw Nyra stumble, saw the creature corner her against the wall. He saw the claws rise for the killing blow. He tried to move, to shout, to do *something*. But his body was a prison of pain and exhaustion. His legs wouldn't obey. His voice was a strangled croak.
And then, the world dissolved.
The green light of the Labyrinth, the sharp scent of ozone, the creature's predatory hum—it all vanished, replaced by the choking grey of a dust storm. He was a boy again, huddled behind the splintered wheel of a caravan wagon. The air was thick with the screams of the dying and the guttural roars of their attackers. He could smell blood and burning canvas.
He saw his father, a broad-shouldered man with a kind face, standing in the open. He wasn't a fighter, but he held a heavy iron wrench, his knuckles white. He was facing a man in the dark robes of the Radiant Synod. The Inquisitor.
"Please," his father begged, his voice lost in the storm. "Take the cargo. Take everything. Just let my family go."
The Inquisitor smiled, a cruel, thin-lipped expression. He held a hand out, not in peace, but in command. A shimmering wave of force, invisible but undeniable, slammed into his father, lifting him off his feet. He crashed to the ground twenty feet away, his body broken.
Soren tried to run to him, but his mother held him back, her arms like iron bands around his chest. "No, Soren! Look away!"
But he couldn't look away. He watched as the Inquisitor walked toward his father's prone form. He watched as another figure emerged from the swirling dust, a younger man, an acolyte, his face eager and cruel. This acolyte held a crystal, a shard of green light just like the one in the monster's core.
"He's a Gifted," the Inquisitor said, his voice dismissive. "Untrained. A waste."
The acolyte knelt beside Soren's father, who was trying to crawl, trying to reach his son. The acolyte pressed the glowing crystal against his father's back.
There was no scream. There was only a horrible, sizzling sound, like meat on a griddle. Soren watched, frozen in horror, as the green light spread through his father's body. His skin turned grey, then crystalline. His struggles ceased. In seconds, where his father had been, there was only a grotesque statue of jagged, grey-green crystal, its face frozen in a silent scream.
The acolyte stood up, his face flushed with triumph. He looked directly at Soren, his eyes meeting the boy's through the dust. He smiled.
It was the face of a younger High Inquisitor Valerius.
The vision shattered. Soren was back in the Labyrinth. The monster was real. Nyra was real. The crystalline claws were descending toward her.
And the monster's face, the cluster of unformed shards, was no longer a faceless horror. In his mind's eye, it was the face of the acolyte, the face of Valerius, smiling as he murdered Soren's father.
A sound tore from Soren's throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage and grief. It was not a shout. It was a roar. It was the sound of a dam breaking, of a lifetime of stoic pain and suppressed memory erupting in a single, cataclysmic moment.
The Bloom-spawn froze, its claws inches from Nyra's face. It turned its head-locus toward Soren, as if surprised by the sheer force of the sound emanating from the broken man.
Soren took a step. Then another. The pain was still there, a raging fire in his body, but it was now fuel. The memory was fuel. The rage was fuel. He was no longer just Soren Vale, the debtor, the survivor. He was the son of a man murdered by the Synod. He was the Bloom's child, born in ash and fire, and he would not be denied.
He raised his trembling hand, not in a controlled gesture, but in a claw of pure, unrestrained fury. The black lines of his Cinder-Tattoos on his arm began to glow, not with their usual faint red light, but with a terrifying, incandescent white. The air around his hand began to warp and shimmer, the very fabric of the Labyrinth's energy bending to his will.
The Bloom-spawn let out a confused, hesitant shriek. For the first time, it sensed a power greater than its own. It abandoned Nyra and turned to face this new, far more dangerous threat.
But it was too late.