# Chapter 402: The Mirror of Regret
The roar that answered Soren's power was not a sound of challenge, but of inevitability. It was the grinding of tectonic plates, the groan of a world weary of their intrusion. The heavy footsteps beyond the waystation's crumbling wall ceased, replaced by a profound, crushing silence that was somehow more terrifying. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of petrichor and ozone, the smell of a storm that had broken a thousand years ago and never truly ended.
Nyra's hand was still clamped on Soren's arm, his muscles rigid as iron beneath her grip. His vacant stare was fixed on the now-murky pool, the shattered image of his father's disappointed face dissolving into grey sludge. He was a statue carved from grief, a perfect target for the thing waiting in the dark.
"Kestrel, the archway!" Nyra barked, her voice sharp with adrenaline. "Zara, what is that? What did he call?"
The former Ashen Remnant cultist was pale, her eyes wide with a terror that went beyond fear of a simple beast. "He didn't call anything. He screamed. And the Bloom answered. It's not a predator. It's a… a correction. A cleansing."
From the fissure Soren's power had cracked in the ground, a thick, black ichor began to seep. It wasn't water or oil, but something viscous and alive, glistening with a dull, malevolent light. It pooled on the flagstones, smoking where it touched the ancient stone, the acrid stench of dissolving rock filling their lungs. The chime of the crystal forest outside fell silent, as if holding its breath.
The thing beyond the wall moved. A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness, a shape that defied natural geometry. It was a mound of amorphous, corrosive flesh, glistening with the same black ichor that now flowed from the ground. It had no discernible head or limbs, but it pulsed with a slow, deliberate rhythm, like a diseased heart. Tendrils of the same sludge snaked from its main body, probing the air, tasting their fear. This was a Withering, a lesser manifestation of the Withering King's power, an immune cell sent to eradicate the infection of their hope and Soren's volatile soul.
"Move!" Kestrel yelled, grabbing Zara by the collar and hauling her backward toward the far side of the waystation, away from the approaching horror.
Nyra tried to pull Soren, but he was an anchor. "Soren, snap out of it! We have to go!" She slapped his face, the sound sharp and cruel in the suffocating silence. Nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the pool, his mind lost in the prison of his own making.
The Withering oozed through the archway, its bulk squeezing through the ancient stone with a wet, grinding sound. The very air around it seemed to warp and distort, the light bending as if space itself was sick. A tendril of black sludge lashed out, not at them, but at a crumbling pillar. The stone didn't break; it dissolved, turning to dust and smoke in an instant.
The sight finally broke through Soren's catatonia. His head jerked up, his eyes focusing on the creature. The manic, delusional drive from moments before was gone, replaced by a cold, stark clarity. He saw the threat. He saw the danger to Nyra and the others. And he saw the source of the problem.
"Me," he whispered, the sound raw. "It's here for me."
The Withering pulsed, a wave of psychic pressure washing over them. It was a feeling of absolute emptiness, a promise of unbecoming. Kestrel stumbled back, clutching his head, a thin line of blood trickling from his nose. Zara crumpled to her knees, retching.
Only Soren and Nyra remained standing. Nyra drew her blades, the steel gleaming faintly in the gloom. "We can fight it."
"No," Soren said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He finally pulled his arm from her grasp. He stood up, his posture straightening. The violet Cinder energy that had been flaring erratically around him now began to coalesce, sinking back into his skin. His Cinder-tattoos, which had been glowing with a feverish light, darkened to a deep, bruised purple. He was pulling it all in, gathering the storm. "You can't. It's not made of flesh. It's made of… endings. Your steel will just melt."
The Withering advanced, its slow, inexorable progress a countdown to their dissolution. Another tendril lashed out, this time toward Kestrel. Nyra moved, a blur of motion, her blades intercepting the appendage. The steel screamed as it met the corrosive magic, a shower of sparks erupting. Her blades held for a second, then began to warp, the edges turning black and crumbling like ancient parchment. She leaped back, the ruined metal smoking in her hands.
"Soren!" she shouted, desperation in her voice.
He turned to her, and for a moment, she saw the man she knew, the stoic fighter, the reluctant leader. But his eyes were filled with a terrible, weary resolve. "Get them out of here, Nyra."
"What? No! I'm not leaving you!"
"This isn't a fight you can win," he said, his gaze shifting to the approaching Withering. "It's a debt that has to be paid. My power… it's what it wants. It's the only thing that can hurt it." He took a step forward, placing himself between the creature and his friends. "I'm the beacon. I'm the target. I'm the weapon."
The Withering stopped, its mass of flesh quivering. It seemed to sense the shift in him, the concentration of power. The air crackled. The ground at Soren's feet began to blacken, not from the creature's ichor, but from the sheer intensity of the Cinder energy he was containing.
Nyra looked from Soren's resolute back to the terrified faces of Kestrel and Zara. He was right. They couldn't fight this. Running was their only chance. But leaving him felt like a betrayal of everything they had fought for, everything she felt for him.
"Soren, don't do this," she pleaded, her voice cracking. "We'll find another way."
"There is no other way," he said, not turning around. "Not in this place. Not for me." He flexed his hands, and the air around them shimmered, the heat becoming palpable. The scent of burning cinder filled the waystation. "Go. Now. That's an order."
The word 'order' struck her like a physical blow. He was shutting her out, retreating behind the mantle of a commander making a sacrifice. He was pushing her away to save her.
Kestrel, recovering, grabbed her arm. "He's right, Nyra. We have to go. Now."
With a sob of pure frustration, Nyra made the choice. She sheathed her broken blades and grabbed Zara, hauling the mystic to her feet. "Kestrel, with me! We run!"
They fled, scrambling over the rubble at the far end of the waystation, bursting out into the dissonant chime of the crystal forest. They didn't look back. They ran, the sound of their ragged breaths and crunching footsteps a frantic counterpoint to the silence that had fallen behind them.
Soren stood alone. He watched them go, a small part of him relieved. The rest of him was focused on the mountain of despair before him. He thought of his father's face in the pool—not the anger he had always imagined, but the profound, soul-crushing disappointment. *You were supposed to protect them.* The words echoed in his mind, not as a memory, but as a present judgment. He had failed. He had failed his father. He had failed his family. He had failed Nyra.
This was his chance to not fail. This was his chance to be the shield he was always meant to be.
The Withering surged forward, a tidal wave of corrosive nothingness.
Soren closed his eyes. He let go.
He didn't push the power out. He opened the floodgates. All the pain, all the guilt, all the rage and grief he had suppressed for years, all the Cinder Cost he had accumulated, he released it in a single, cataclysmic instant.
There was no explosion of fire or force. There was only light.
A pillar of pure, blinding white-violet energy erupted from Soren, engulfing the waystation and the Withering. It was a silent scream, a wave of absolute annihilation. The sound was not heard with the ears, but felt in the bones, a vibration that threatened to tear the very atoms of the world apart. The Withering didn't burn; it unraveled. Its amorphous form dissolved into nothingness, its corrosive essence neutralized by the overwhelming purity of Soren's sacrifice. The ancient stones of the waystation, the pool of regret, the very ground beneath his feet, all turned to light and then to ash.
For a moment, Soren was the center of the universe, a star of his own making, burning with the fuel of his own soul. He felt every nerve ending sear, every cell scream. He felt the Cinder Cost take its final, terrible payment. It was not a pain of the body, but a pain of the self, the feeling of being unmade.
And then, as quickly as it began, it was over.
The light vanished. The pillar collapsed in on itself, rushing back into the husk that was Soren Vale.
He fell to his knees, then forward onto his hands. The world swam back into focus—a world of grey ash and shattered crystal. The waystation was gone. The Withering was gone. The pool was gone. There was only a crater of glassy, blackened earth, and in the center of it, a man who had paid a price he could no longer afford.
He tried to push himself up, but his arms gave way. His strength was gone. His power was gone. He felt… empty. A hollow ache where the fire used to be. He looked down at his hands. They were pale, the skin almost translucent. The Cinder-tattoos that had marked his journey, his sacrifice, were gone. Not darkened, not faded, but simply vanished, as if they had been wiped clean from his skin. He was no longer a Gifted. He was just… Soren.
A wave of cold washed over him, a cold that had nothing to do with the ash-choked air. It was the chill of mortality, the sudden, terrifying realization of his own fragility. He was just a man now, lost and alone in the Bloom-Wastes, with nothing but the clothes on his back and the crushing weight of his memories.
He collapsed onto his side, the ash soft against his cheek. He could hear the chime of the forest again, a distant, mournful song. He closed his eyes, a single tear tracing a clean path through the grime on his face. He had saved them. But in doing so, he had destroyed himself.