# Chapter 834: The Queen's Decree
The light of the Anamnesis reached its zenith, a silent, blinding scream that threatened to tear the world asunder. The form above the altar solidified, the features becoming sharp and real. It was Soren. His eyes were closed, his expression peaceful, but the chest rose and fell with a slow, steady breath. He was whole. He was back. But as the first wave of triumphant relief washed over Nyra, the monastery shuddered with a violence that had nothing to do with the ritual. A deep, guttural roar, a sound of pure, primordial hatred, shook the very air. It came from outside the walls, from the Bloom-Wastes, and it was a sound of recognition. Of hunger. The beacon of Soren's rebirth had not gone unnoticed. The Withering King had come to claim his wayward son.
The blinding radiance of the ritual collapsed inward, sucked back into the figure hovering above the altar with a sound like a drawn-out sigh. The chamber was plunged into a sudden, profound gloom, the only light now the soft, internal glow of Soren's restored form and the faint, dying embers of the Cinder-Tattoos on the four figures who stood around the altar. A heavy silence fell, thick and suffocating, broken only by the ragged, shallow breaths of the dying. The air, moments ago electric with power, now felt cold, thin, and heavy with the scent of ozone and something else—something ancient and sterile, like old bone dust.
All eyes, or what was left of them, turned to Nyra.
She stood frozen, her body a statue carved from grief and awe. The sight of Soren, whole and real, was a physical blow, a punch to the soul that stole the air from her lungs. He was there. He was back. But the cost of his return was laid out around her in four living, fading monuments. Captain Bren, his grizzled face now a roadmap of new wrinkles, his skin thin as parchment, his hand still pressed to the altar as if it were the only thing holding him upright. Lyra, her fierce warrior's pride softened into a look of serene release, her body swaying gently, her scarred arms hanging limp at her sides. Boro, the mountain, now reduced to a crumbling hill, his massive frame slumped, his head bowed, his foundational duty fulfilled. And Finn. Small, brave Finn, his face pale as snow, his eyes closed, a faint, peaceful smile on his lips as he dreamed of his hero's return.
They had done it. They had given everything. And now, the final, terrible weight of the ritual fell upon her. The Anamnesis had restored the vessel, but the soul needed an anchor. It needed a voice. It needed a Queen's Decree.
The roar from outside echoed again, closer this time, rattling the stone teeth in the ancient walls. Dust rained down from the vaulted ceiling. The time for hesitation was over.
Nyra took a single, shuddering breath. The air tasted of ash and finality. She walked forward, her boots scuffing softly on the gritty floor, the only sound in the tomb-like silence. She moved not as a Sable League operative, not as a tactician, but as a woman delivering a eulogy and a coronation in the same breath. She took her place at the head of the altar, directly opposite where Soren's feet would rest. The cold stone seeped through her gloves, a grounding chill against the chaos in her heart.
She looked at the faces of her friends one last time. Bren met her gaze, his eyes clouded but clear. He gave a minuscule, almost imperceptible nod. A final order from a captain to his soldier. *Do it.* Lyra's eyes were closed, but her lips moved, forming a single, silent word. *Soren.* Boro was too far gone, his consciousness already adrift, but his presence was a steadfast, silent bulwark. And Finn… he was already gone, his life force a flickering candle in a hurricane, extinguished to fuel this impossible miracle.
A single, hot tear broke free, tracing a clean, burning path through the grime and ash on her cheek. It was not a tear of sorrow, but of terrible, solemn purpose. This was her price. This was her command. She raised her hands, palms down, hovering a few inches above the swirling, inert energy that composed Soren's form. The air crackled around her fingertips, the residual magic of the ritual responding to her will.
She closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of her dying friends, shutting out the fear of the monster at the gates. She reached inward, past the grief, past the guilt, past the love, and found the core of her training. The ancient words were there, etched into her memory, a legacy of her house and a tool she had never thought to use for something so real, so raw. They were not words of power, not in the conventional sense. They were words of authority, of definition, of law. They were the words used to bind a soul to a body, to declare a state of being and make it true.
Her voice, when it came, was surprisingly steady. It was a low, resonant alto that seemed to absorb the silence of the chamber rather than break it. The words were in a tongue that predated the Bloom, a language of earth and starlight, each syllable a weighty stone laid in the foundation of a new reality.
"*Anima… corpus…*" she began, the sounds rolling off her tongue like distant thunder. The air grew heavy, pressing down on her. The light within Soren's form flickered, a candle in a sudden draft.
"*Vinculum… firmiter…*" As she spoke, she felt a pull, a draining sensation that started in her chest and spread to her limbs. The ritual was not just taking from the sacrifices; it was demanding a final toll from the conductor. Her own life force, her own will, was the final catalyst. Her Cinder-Tattoos, the intricate patterns on her forearms, began to glow with a faint, silver light, a stark contrast to the dying embers on the others.
Outside, the roar was answered by a new sound—the shriek of tortured stone. The monastery was under attack. The walls were failing.
Nyra's eyes snapped open, her focus absolute. She would not be rushed. She would not be denied. She stared into the heart of the light, into the nascent form of the man she loved, and poured every ounce of her will into the words.
"*Per sanguinem et spiritum…*" The light from Soren's form intensified, pushing back against the gloom. The features sharpened, the skin gaining texture, the hair gaining substance. He was becoming real. The cost was immediate and visceral. A sharp pain lanced through her side, as if a rib had cracked. She staggered, her voice faltering for a fraction of a second.
Bren's hand on the altar flared with one last, defiant spark of gold. The energy flowed into her, a final, selfless gift from a dying soldier. It was enough. She straightened, her voice regaining its strength, now imbued with his final, stubborn will.
"*Ego te iubeo. Soren Vale. Resurge.*"
*I command you. Soren Vale. Rise.*
The final words hung in the air, a decree spoken with the authority of love and sacrifice. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, the light of Soren's form imploded, collapsing inward with a deafening crack of sound. The shockwave threw Nyra backward, slamming her against the far wall. The air rushed back into the space, thick and hot.
And on the altar, lying perfectly still, lay Soren.
He was naked, his skin pale and new, unmarked by the scars of his past life. His chest rose and fell with a strong, steady rhythm. His eyes were open. They were the same grey eyes she knew, but they were clear, unclouded by pain or shadow. They were the eyes of a newborn, seeing the world for the first time.
He was back.
A wave of dizzying relief washed over Nyra, so potent it almost buckled her knees. She had done it. They had done it. She pushed herself off the wall, her body aching, her head swimming, and took a step toward the altar.
That was when the world ended.
A cataclysmic explosion ripped through the chamber. The ceiling, the ancient, enchanted stone that had stood for centuries, simply disintegrated. A colossal, shadowy limb, wreathed in corrosive, black lightning, smashed through the roof, showering the chamber with tons of rock and debris. The limb was not of flesh and bone, but of coalesced hatred and decay, a thing of pure Bloom-waste magic given form. It crashed down where the altar had stood, pulverizing the ancient stone into dust.
Nyra screamed Soren's name, but the sound was swallowed by the roar of collapsing masonry. She threw herself flat as a chunk of rock the size of a cartwheel crashed through the space where she had been standing. The air filled with choking dust and the acrid stench of the Wastes.
Through the swirling chaos, she saw him. Soren, thrown clear of the altar by the impact, was lying on the floor, blinking slowly, his expression one of profound confusion. He was alive. He was vulnerable.
And above the gaping hole in the roof, a face of pure nightmare stared down. It was a visage of shifting shadows and malevolent green light, a pair of burning embers for eyes, and a maw that opened to release another world-shaking roar. The Withering King. He had not just found them. He was here.