# Chapter 663: The Paranoia's Furnace
The sigil seemed to burn in Nyra's mind, a brand of pure fanaticism. The Ashen Remnant. She had read the League's reports: zealots who saw the Bloom not as a cataclysm, but as a holy fire meant to cleanse the world of the Gifted. They wouldn't want to control the shard; they would want to shatter it, to unleash its energy in a wave of anti-magic that would scour the land. The foundry wasn't just a factory anymore; it was a bomb, and Rook Marr was the fool holding the match. "They're not here to stop him," Nyra said, her voice cold as the winter winds off the wastes. "They're here to help him finish the job." She looked from Isolde's grim face to ruku bez's exhausted form. The race was on, but the finish line was now the edge of an abyss.
They moved forward with the agonizing slowness of ghosts, sticking to the deep shadows cast by the rusted hulks of industrial machinery. The landscape here was a maze of conveyor belts and shattered pipes, the ground uneven and treacherous underfoot. Every step crunched on broken glass and slag, a sound that seemed deafening in the oppressive quiet. The air grew hotter the closer they got, a dry, blistering heat that tasted of sulfur and ozone. It wasn't the natural warmth of a forge; it was a sick, feverish heat that made the skin prickle and the eyes water.
ruku bez lumbered behind them, his massive frame swaying slightly. The giant man was running on fumes, his skin pale and sheened with a cold sweat. The Cinder Cost was taking its toll, dark veins spiderwebbing across his neck and temples. He hadn't spoken since the ambush, saving every ounce of strength for the fight to come. Nyra caught his eye and gave a sharp, negative gesture when he reached for the heavy maul strapped to his back. *Not yet. Silence first.*
They crested a final ridge of slag and scree, and the foundry sprawled out before them.
It was a monstrosity of black iron and brick, a cathedral to industry gone wrong. But it was the scene outside that froze Nyra's blood. A perimeter had been established not by guards or fences, but by faith. Dozens of figures in tattered, grey robes knelt in the dirt, forming a perfect circle around the building. They were motionless, their heads bowed, but the sound that rose from them was a low, rhythmic thrumming—a chant in a guttural language that hurt the teeth and set the teeth on edge. The sound vibrated in Nyra's chest, a physical pressure that made her want to retch.
Above them, the foundry was no longer dark. It pulsed with a sickly, violet light that bled through the cracks in the brickwork and the vents in the roof. It throbbed in time with the chanting, a slow, irregular heartbeat of corrupted energy.
"They're guarding it," Isolde whispered, her hand tightening on her blade. "A living shield. If we charge them, they'll swarm. If we use magic, the shard might react."
"We can't fight a cult and a madman at the same time," Nyra agreed, her eyes scanning the structure. The main doors were wide open, spilling the violet light out onto the ash, but the crowd was thickest there. "We need a back door."
She pointed toward the western face of the foundry, where a massive air intake duct rose from the ground like the throat of a great beast. A rusted grille covered the opening, but the metal was buckled, as if something had exploded from inside recently. It was high up, near the roofline, but accessible via a treacherous climb up a series of maintenance ladders that looked more like rust than steel.
"ruku," Nyra whispered, touching the giant's arm. He looked at her, his eyes dull but focused. "You stay here. Watch the perimeter. If they move, if they start to pour inside... you make noise. You be the mountain."
ruku bez nodded slowly. He understood. He was too loud for stealth, but he was an immovable object when he needed to be. He settled into a crouch behind a pile of scrap, his massive hands resting on his knees, a silent sentinel in the dark.
Nyra turned to Isolde. "With me."
They moved to the base of the ladder. The metal was hot to the touch, vibrating with the hum of the machinery inside. Nyra went first, testing each rung before putting her full weight on it. The rust flaked off under her gloves, coating her fingers in a gritty red dust. She climbed quickly, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The heat intensified as she rose, the air shimmering with distortion.
Isolde followed, her movements precise and economical. She didn't look down, her eyes locked on Nyra's boots. They reached the platform without incident, the chanting of the cultists below a distant, muffled drone from this height.
The grille was hanging by a single bolt. Nyra drew a dagger, sliding the blade between the metal bars to pry it loose. With a screech of tortured metal that made her wince, the grille gave way. She caught it before it could fall, lowering it gently to the platform.
The opening yawned before them, a tunnel of darkness blasted by a hot, sulfurous wind. The smell was overpowering—a stench of burning hair, molten metal, and something sweet, like overripe fruit.
Nyra looked at Isolde. The Inquisitor's face was pale in the violet glow reflecting from the tunnel. "I go in alone," Nyra said softly. It wasn't a question. "Two sets of footsteps on the metal grates inside will echo like thunder. I need you on the roof, covering the exit. If Rook has guards, or if the Remnant has sentries inside..."
Isolde hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. Her pragmatism won out over her pride. "I'll watch the vent. If you scream, I'm coming in."
Nyra squeezed her shoulder once, then slipped into the darkness.
The tunnel was steep and slick with condensation. She slid down the metal chute, controlling her descent with her boots and gloves. The heat grew unbearable, searing her lungs with every breath. The violet light grew brighter as she descended, pulsing violently.
She spilled out onto a catwalk high above the main floor of the foundry.
The sight below stole the breath from her lungs.
The main floor was a vast, cavernous space dominated by a massive furnace at the far end. But the fire inside wasn't the orange of coal or the yellow of coke. It was a deep, bruised purple, churning with black smoke. The heat radiating from it was intense enough to distort the air, making the machinery below look like it was melting.
And in the center of it all was Rook Marr.
He stood on a platform directly in front of the furnace, his back to Nyra. He wore a heavy leather apron that was stained black with soot and grease, his sleeves rolled up to reveal arms that were scarred and trembling. His hair, once the colour of iron, was now plastered to his skull with sweat.
He was screaming.
Not in pain, but in a manic, terrifying ecstasy. He held a pair of iron tongs in his hands, gripping something that glowed with a light so bright it hurt to look at directly—the shard. He was thrusting it toward the open maw of the furnace, pulling it back, then thrusting it again, as if fighting a physical resistance.
"Burn!" he shrieked, his voice cracking, echoing off the high ceiling. "Burn it out! Burn the taint! Purge the weakness!"
Nyra crouched low on the catwalk, her heart hammering against her ribs. She needed to get closer. She needed to understand what he was doing before she made a move. If she attacked now, he might drop the shard. If that thing hit the molten metal below...
She moved silently along the walkway, keeping to the shadows. The metal grid of the floor vibrated under her boots, but the roar of the furnace and Rook's screaming masked the sound.
As she drew closer, she could see the state of the foundry. It was a ruin. The machinery was twisted, as if a great force had warped the metal. Tools lay scattered on the floor, some melted into puddles. And on the walls, scrawled in charcoal and ash, were words. *Cleanse. Purify. Burn the Sin.*
Rook Marr wasn't just trying to destroy the shard. He was trying to use it. Or destroy himself with it.
She reached a position directly above him, near a series of large pulleys and chains used to haul ore carts. From here, she could see his face. It was gaunt, the skin stretched tight over his skull, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in a week, fueled only by terror and a desperate, manic hope.
He pulled the shard back from the fire, the purple light flaring. The metal of the tongs was glowing red hot, beginning to soften. He didn't seem to notice the heat burning his hands.
"Why won't you break?" he sobbed, his voice suddenly dropping from a scream to a broken whisper. "Why won't you die?"
He slammed the shard against the side of the furnace. A shockwave of purple energy rippled outward, blowing the soot off the floor and rattling the catwalk where Nyra crouched. She gripped the railing, fighting to keep her balance.
The shard wasn't breaking. It was hungry. Nyra could feel it, a pressure in the back of her mind, a whisper of cold malice. It was feeding on the heat, feeding on Rook's desperation. It was growing stronger.
Rook turned back to the fire, his trembling hands raising the shard high. The flames inside the furnace roared, the purple light turning almost white. The heat was so intense now that the paint on the railing was peeling, bubbling and popping.
"I can fix this," Rook muttered, his eyes glazed over, seeing something that wasn't there. "I can fix everything. The debt... the betrayal... the boy..."
Nyra frowned. *The boy?* Soren?
Rook Marr had been Soren's mentor once, a man who had trained him, then sold him out for a better deal from the Synod. Was this guilt? Was this penance?
He shoved the shard deep into the heart of the fire.
The reaction was instantaneous. The furnace didn't consume the shard; it rejected it. A pillar of violet fire erupted from the hearth, blasting the ceiling. Dust and debris rained down. Rook was thrown back, crashing into the control panel. Sparks showered down, but he scrambled to his feet almost instantly, ignoring the blood trickling from a gash on his forehead.
He rushed back to the furnace, reaching in with the tongs, heedless of the flames licking at his leather apron. He grabbed the shard, dragging it out. It was pulsing now, a rhythmic throb that matched the beating of Nyra's heart.
"Clean!" he yelled, his voice raw, tearing at his throat. He looked at the shard, then at the fire, then at his own hands, which were blistering and blackening. "It's almost clean! Just a little more fire, and all my sins will burn away!"
Nyra realized with a jolt of horror that he wasn't trying to destroy the shard to save the world. He was trying to destroy it to save himself. He believed that if he could burn this corruption, the physical manifestation of his betrayal, the universe would forgive him. He would be absolved.
It was a suicide pact. The energy building in the shard was unstable. If he pushed it much further, it wouldn't just burn him. It would take out the block. Maybe the entire district.
She had to move. Now.
She drew her twin short swords, the steel whispering against the leather scabbards. She checked her footing on the catwalk. She had one shot. If she missed, if he reacted and threw the shard into the molten metal...
Rook Marr raised the shard again, his eyes wide, tears streaming down his face, cutting tracks through the soot. He was smiling, a terrible, broken smile.
"Forgive me," he whispered to the fire.
Nyra leaped.