# Chapter 107: The Inquisitor's Wrath
The world returned in a haze of pain and the antiseptic smell of herbs. Soren's eyes fluttered open to a stone ceiling, rough and damp. He was on a cot, his body bandaged tightly, a dull throb emanating from every inch of his skin. He tried to sit up, but a firm hand on his shoulder pushed him back down. "Easy, son," Captain Bren's voice rumbled. "You've earned the rest." Soren looked past him. Nyra was there, standing by a small table, her face etched with a relief so profound it looked like pain. But it was the feeling inside him that was truly terrifying. The constant, low-level hum of his Gift, the curse that had defined his entire life, was gone. There was only silence. A vast, empty, terrifying silence. He was free. And he was broken. "It worked," he rasped, his voice a dry whisper. Nyra nodded, her eyes glistening. "It worked. The whole city knows." She paused, her gaze dropping to his chest, where the dark, cracked Cinder-Tattoos now seemed faded, inert. "But Soren… the Shroud's Breath. What did it do to you?"
Before he could answer, the ground trembled. Not the distant rumble of a city in chaos, but a sharp, focused vibration that shook the dust from the ceiling stones. A low, resonant hum filled the air, a sound that felt like pressure against the eardrums, a frequency that promised violence. It was a sound Soren knew, a sound that had haunted his nightmares since the caravan. It was the sound of a Synod portal opening, but this one was different. It was larger, more powerful, and it was not in the arena below. It was here.
The hidden infirmary, a secret Sable League bolthole carved deep beneath the Ladder's foundations, was supposed to be secure. Yet, the air grew thick with the scent of ozone and hot metal, the telltale signature of a high-level Gift being deployed. Captain Bren was on his feet in an instant, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his body coiled. "They found us," he growled, his voice tight with disbelief. "How in the hells did they find us?"
Nyra was already moving, grabbing a small, compact crossbow from the table and checking the tension. "Valerius," she said, her voice stripped of its earlier warmth, replaced by the cold clarity of a spymaster. "He doesn't need trackers. He can feel the disruption. The broadcast, the Shroud's Breath… it's like a beacon to him."
The humming intensified, and a section of the far wall, solid stone just moments ago, began to dissolve. It didn't crumble or break; it simply unmade itself, particles of rock turning to black sand and swirling into a vortex of nothingness. From this swirling void stepped a figure, and the temperature in the room plummeted. It was High Inquisitor Valerius. He was not flanked by guards. He was alone. But his presence was more overwhelming than an entire legion. He wore his simple Inquisitor's robes, but they seemed to drink the light from the room, and the air around him shimmered with a barely contained power that made the teeth ache.
His eyes, cold and grey as a winter sky, swept the room. They dismissed Captain Bren, a mere mortal soldier. They flickered over Nyra, a spark of annoyance in their depths. Then they settled on Soren, lying helpless on the cot. A thin, cruel smile touched Valerius's lips. It was not the smile of a man who had lost. It was the smile of a predator who had finally cornered his prey.
"The heretic who would be a king," Valerius said, his voice a soft, dangerous purr that carried no magical amplification, yet filled every corner of the small space. "And the sparrow who sings lies to the flock. I must admit, your little spectacle was… impressive. A masterful piece of theater. But all plays must end."
Soren pushed himself up on his elbows, every movement sending fresh waves of agony through his body. He was powerless, a husk, but he would not die on his back. He met the Inquisitor's gaze, his own eyes burning with a defiance that came from a place deeper than any Gift. "The truth isn't a lie," Soren rasped, his voice a raw, broken thing. "And the people have heard it."
Valerius laughed, a dry, grating sound. "The people? The masses are sheep. They will follow whichever shepherd holds the whip. You have shown them a moment of fire, but they will flock to the Synod for shelter from the flames you have started. You have not freed them. You have terrified them. And a terrified populace is a compliant one." He took a step forward, and the stone floor beneath his foot blackened, a spiderweb of frost spreading from the point of contact. "Your broadcast was a signal, yes. But not to the people. It was a signal to me. It told me exactly where to find the source of the rot."
Captain Bren shifted, angling his body between Soren and the Inquisitor. "You'll have to go through me, Valerius."
Valerius didn't even look at him. He simply raised a hand. With a flick of his fingers, Captain Bren was lifted off his feet and slammed against the far wall with a sickening crunch of stone and bone. He slid to the floor, unconscious, his sword clattering uselessly beside him. Nyra fired her crossbow. The bolt, a masterwork of Sable League engineering, flew straight and true. It stopped an inch from Valerius's chest, hovering in the air, then clattered to the floor, its metal head turned to rust.
"Your toys are useless, little sparrow," Valerius said, his attention now fully on Nyra. "Your family's League has meddled in affairs it does not comprehend for the last time. Your father will answer for this insolence."
Nyra stood her ground, her crossbow now useless, but her chin held high. "My father will be pleased to know his investment paid off. The Synod's corruption is exposed. You can't put that genie back in the bottle."
"Can't I?" Valerius mused. He turned his gaze back to Soren, and for the first time, a flicker of something other than cold arrogance entered his eyes. It was a look of… avarice. Of scientific curiosity. "The Shroud's Breath. A theoretical weapon. A myth. And you, a gutter rat with no training, managed to wield it. Do you have any idea what you have done? What you have become?"
He took another step, now standing directly over Soren's cot. The sheer pressure of his presence made it hard to breathe. "You think you have lost your Gift? You have not. You have scoured it clean. You have burned away the dross, the impurities that afflict all lesser Gifted. You have touched the heart of the Bloom itself. You are a vessel, emptied and waiting to be filled."
Soren stared up at him, a dawning horror warring with his pain. "You're insane."
"Am I?" Valerius knelt, his face inches from Soren's. The smell of cold, sterile power was overwhelming. "The Withering King stirs in his prison beyond the wastes. The Bloom was not an end, but a beginning. A seeding. And the prophecy… it speaks not of a hero to defeat the king, but of a vessel strong enough to contain him. A perfect, empty shell. You have, in your ignorance, forged the very key to our salvation. And our damnation."
He reached out a hand, his fingers hovering just above Soren's chest, over the faded Cinder-Tattoos. "I will not kill you, Soren Vale. That would be a waste. I will take you. I will break you down and rebuild you. You will become the foundation of the new world, the Divine Bulwark made flesh. You will house the king's power, and I will be the one who wields it."
The air crackled. Valerius's power began to coalesce, a sphere of absolute blackness forming in his palm, a void that promised to unmake Soren's very soul. Nyra, seeing the finality in his eyes, did the only thing she could. She threw herself at him, not with a weapon, but with her body, a desperate, futile attempt to break his concentration.
He didn't even flinch. He simply waved his other hand, and she was thrown back as if by an explosion, crashing into a shelf of medical supplies. Glass shattered, and she cried out, slumping to the ground amidst the debris.
"Such loyalty," Valerius sighed, his focus returning to Soren. "A touching sentiment. Now, hold still. This will be excruciating."
The sphere of blackness descended. Soren, broken and powerless, could only watch it come. He had failed. He had saved his family's name only to lose himself, to become a puppet for the true monster. He closed his eyes, bracing for the end.
But the end did not come.
Instead, a new sound erupted. A roar, not of a man, but of an animal. A primal, furious bellow that shook the very foundations of the infirmary. The wall opposite Valerius's portal exploded inward, not dissolving, but shattering into a million pieces of rock and dust. Standing in the gaping hole, silhouetted against the flickering torchlight of the tunnels beyond, was a figure of impossible size. It was ruku bez, the mute giant from the wastes, his eyes burning with a feral light. And beside him, holding a wicked-looking pickaxe, was Grak the dwarven blacksmith.
"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" Grak roared, his voice a gravelly thunder.
Valerius paused, the sphere of blackness still hovering over Soren. He looked at the newcomers, a flicker of genuine surprise on his face. "The dregs. The refuse of the city. You bring rats to a god's feast."
Ruku bez charged. He moved with a speed that defied his size, his Gift—a raw, uncontrollable surge of physical might—flaring around him like a storm. He slammed into Valerius, and for the first time, the Inquisitor was forced to move. He was thrown back, not by the sheer force, but by the chaotic, untamed nature of the giant's power. It was anathema to his own precise, controlled abilities.
Valerius landed gracefully, his smile gone, replaced by a look of cold fury. "You will all die for this."
The battle was joined. Grak, though Giftless, was a whirlwind of dwarven fury, his pickaxe swinging with deadly accuracy, forcing Valerius to dodge and parry. Ruku bez was a force of nature, his powerful fists smashing anything that got in his way. But Valerius was the High Inquisitor. He was a master of combat, his nullifying Gift a perfect counter to their brute force. He moved like a dancer of death, his hands weaving patterns of energy that deflected blows, sapped strength, and sent his attackers reeling.
Soren watched from the cot, his heart a hammer of helpless rage. He saw Grak stumble, his movements slowing as Valerius's power leeched his stamina. He saw ruku bez roar in frustration as his wild swings met only empty air, the Inquisitor a ghost in the storm. They were losing. They were all going to die because of him.
He had to do something. He had no Gift. He had no strength. But he had his mind. He had his will. He looked at the chaos, at the desperate struggle, and he saw it. The one thing Valerius, in his arrogance, had overlooked. The one thing that was still Soren's to command.
The broadcast.
Nyra's hijacked signal was still active. The equipment, though damaged in her fall, was still live. The entire city was still listening. Still watching.
"NYRA!" Soren screamed, his voice cracking with the effort. "THE MIC! GET TO THE MIC!"
Nyra, struggling to her knees amidst the broken glass, understood instantly. She saw the console, its lights still blinking. She saw Valerius, his back partially turned as he engaged Grak and ruku bez. It was a chance. A slim, desperate chance.
She crawled, ignoring the pain in her side, her eyes locked on the console. She reached it, her fingers fumbling for the main transmit switch.
Valerius saw her movement. "No!" he snarled, abandoning his fight with the others. He turned, his hand raised to unleash a killing blow.
But he was too late.
Nyra slammed her hand down on the switch. "Soren!" she yelled, her voice now amplified, echoing not just in the room, but through every speaker in the Coliseum, through every public broadcast crystal in the city. "Speak!"
Soren took a shuddering breath. He looked at Valerius, who was now frozen, his hand outstretched, his face a portrait of disbelief. He looked at Grak and ruku bez, battered but standing. He looked at Nyra, her face streaked with soot and blood, her eyes blazing with defiant hope.
And he spoke. His voice, weak and broken, carried by the magic of the broadcast, reached every corner of the city.
"People of the Riverchain," he said, each word a monumental effort. "You have seen the truth. The Synod is not your salvation. It is your cage. They do not protect you from the Bloom. They feed on it. And now, their High Inquisitor stands here, not to face a warrior, but to murder a broken man and his friends. He fears you. He fears the truth. Do not let him win. Rise."
Valerius roared in frustration, a sound of pure, impotent rage. He unleashed his power, not at Soren, but at the console. A bolt of black energy shot from his hand.
But as it flew, the world dissolved.
The stone walls of the infirmary vanished. The pain in Soren's body faded. The sounds of battle were replaced by a deafening silence. He was standing in a grey, endless plain of ash under a sky the color of a bruise. Before him stood a figure, tall and regal, clad in armor that seemed woven from shadow and starlight. It was the Withering King. His face was a void, his presence an absolute cold that promised the end of all things.
*You called,* a voice echoed in Soren's mind, not a sound, but a thought, ancient and vast. *You emptied the vessel. You opened the door.*
Soren felt a pull, a terrible, irresistible suction, as if his very essence was being drawn toward the figure. He was the key. Valerius was right. He was the empty vessel.
*No,* a new voice said. It was his own, but it wasn't. It was the voice of the survivor, the caravan guard, the man who had fought for everything he had. It was the voice of his will. *You will not have me.*
He focused on that feeling, the feeling of emptiness inside him. It wasn't a weakness. It was a space. A space he could control. He imagined a wall. A wall of pure, indomitable will, forged in the ashes of his past and the love for his family. He built it in his mind, brick by brick, memory by memory. His father's sacrifice. His mother's smile. His brother's laughter. Nyra's trust.
The pull lessened. The Withering King's form flickered.
*You cannot contain me,* the voice hissed.
"I don't have to," Soren thought back. "I just have to say no."
With a final, titanic effort of will, he slammed the wall into place. The connection was severed. The vision shattered.
He was back in the infirmary. Valerius's bolt of energy had hit the console, exploding it in a shower of sparks. The broadcast was dead. But in that split second, the message had been sent. The city had heard.
Valerius stood trembling, not with exertion, but with shock. He had felt it. He had felt the connection, the brief, terrifying moment when the Withering King had reached for Soren. And he had felt Soren reject it. He looked at Soren, his eyes wide with a new emotion. Fear.
"You… you refused," Valerius whispered, his voice filled with a horror that went beyond his plans failing. It was the horror of a fundamental law of the universe being broken.
Soren managed a weak, bloody smile. "The game is over, Valerius."
The Inquisitor's face contorted, the fear replaced by a final, absolute fury. He raised both hands, the air around him crackling with enough power to level the entire block. "THEN I WILL UNMAKE YOU ALL!"
But as he prepared to strike, the ground shook again. This time it was not his power. It was the sound of heavy boots, of armored bodies storming the tunnels. A new figure appeared in the hole ruku bez had made. It was Prince Cassian, his face grim, his royal armor dented. Behind him, a squad of Crownlands Wardens, their shields emblazoned with the lion of the Crownlands, poured into the room, their crossbows leveled at Valerius.
"High Inquisitor," Cassian said, his voice ringing with authority. "In the name of the Crownlands, you are under arrest for treason and crimes against the Concord. Stand down."
Valerius looked at the Prince, then at the Wardens, then at Soren. He was surrounded. Outnumbered. His plan, his power, his prophecy, all crumbling around him. He let out a laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated madness. "Treason? The only traitors are those who cannot see the truth! The Bloom is coming! The King rises! And you are all just dust!"
He raised his hands to unleash one final, cataclysmic blast. But before he could, a dozen crossbow bolts slammed into him. They were not ordinary bolts. They glowed with the same nullifying energy as his own Gift. He staggered, his power flickering and dying. He looked down at the bolts protruding from his chest, a look of profound, utter betrayal on his face. Then, he dissolved. Not into sand, but into a thousand motes of black light, which swirled for a moment and then vanished, leaving only his empty robes to fall to the floor.
Silence descended on the ruined infirmary. Prince Cassian rushed to Soren's side. "Soren? Are you…"
Soren looked past him, at Nyra, who was helping a groaning Captain Bren to his feet. He looked at Grak and ruku bez, standing guard over the spot where Valerius had fallen. He was alive. His friends were alive. The city was free.
He was still broken. He was still powerless. But he was not defeated.
"We're okay," Soren said, his voice a raw whisper. "We're okay."