# Chapter 115: A Ghost from the Past
The blue glow of the data-slate finally died, plunging the infirmary back into the familiar gloom lit by a single sputtering candle. The air, thick with the scent of antiseptic herbs and damp stone, felt charged with the weight of their bargain. Soren pushed the slate across the rough wooden table, the scrape of its casing loud in the silence. He leaned back, the movement pulling at the still-healing gash on his side, a sharp reminder of his physical limitations.
"A suicide mission," Nyra repeated, her voice a low murmur. She wasn't looking at him, but at the candle flame, her reflection wavering in the polished steel of a nearby instrument tray. "He played us perfectly. He knew we were desperate enough to agree to anything."
"He gave us a target, Nyra," Soren countered, his tone flat, devoid of the anger that had fueled him in the Sump. It was now a cold, analytical precision. "He just made us pay for the ammunition. The convoy leaves tomorrow night. We can't do this alone. Not like this." He paused, the admission costing him a sliver of his hard-won self-reliance. "I know someone. A scavenger. A guide who knows the wastes and the roads between. They call him Kestrel Vane. If we're going to do this, we need him."
Nyra finally turned to face him, her expression unreadable. "Kestrel Vane? I've heard the name. A ghost who trades in secrets and salvage. He'll be expensive, and he'll be hard to find. Soren, there's an easier way." She took a step closer, lowering her voice. "My handler. Talia. The League has resources for this. Demolitions experts, spies, people who do this for a living. One message, and we could have a team in place by dawn."
"No." The word was a stone wall. "I will not owe the League anything more than I already have. This is our mess. We'll clean it up our way." He pushed himself to his feet, a wave of dizziness forcing him to grip the edge of the table. "I need some air."
He didn't wait for a reply, shrugging on a borrowed cloak and slipping out of the infirmary's hidden door. The main taproom of The Gilded Mug was a different world. The low-ceilinged space was alive with the boisterous clamor of off-duty dockworkers, weary merchants, and the quiet desperation of Ladder drifters nursing their last coppers. The air was a thick stew of spilled ale, woodsmoke from the hearth, and the savory aroma of Lena's mutton stew. A bard in the corner plucked a melancholy tune on a lute, its notes barely cutting through the din.
Soren found an empty table in a shadowed alcove, his body aching with every step. He ordered a watered-down ale, the mug cool and heavy in his hands. He watched the room, his tactical mind automatically mapping exits, identifying potential threats, assessing the flow of power. It was a habit, a survival instinct etched into his soul. His gaze fell upon the tavern's bouncer, a man who stood by the door like a carved mountain of flesh and worn leather. He was immense, easily seven feet tall, with a breadth that made the doorway seem narrow. His face was a mask of placid indifference, his eyes—small and dark like chips of obsidian—missed nothing. He didn't wear the insignia of any house or guild. He was simply there, a silent, immovable force.
Soren felt a strange pull, a sense of kinship he couldn't explain. The man carried a burden, a heaviness that went far beyond his physical size. It was in the slump of his shoulders, the way he held his hands, curled slightly as if grasping something that was no longer there. It was the posture of a man who had lost everything, a feeling Soren knew intimately. As if sensing his stare, the giant's eyes met his. There was no aggression, only a deep, profound weariness. The man gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod before turning his attention back to the room.
A young barmaid, her face smudged with flour, approached Soren's table. "Another ale, sir?"
"Information," Soren said, his voice low. "Who is he?"
The barmaid followed his gaze to the bouncer. "That's ruku bez. Just… ruku. He doesn't speak. Lena found him wandering the Bloom-Wastes a few years back, half-dead. He's loyal. Doesn't cause trouble. Just keeps the peace."
Ruku bez. The name meant nothing, but the story did. A survivor. Like him. Soren nodded his thanks and the girl moved on. He finished his ale, the bitter taste doing little to wash away the grit of his situation. He needed to find Kestrel Vane, but he had no idea where to start. The city was a labyrinth, and he was a wounded rat in a maze full of cats.
He was about to retreat back to the relative safety of the infirmary when a figure detached itself from the deepest shadows near the hearth and moved toward his table. The man was hooded and cloaked, his movements economical and deliberate. He slid into the seat opposite Soren, the tavern's noise seeming to fade into a dull hum around them. Soren's hand instinctively went to the small of his back, where a knife should have been. He found only empty air. A spike of adrenaline cut through his exhaustion.
"Looking for someone, Soren?" The voice was a rasp, like stones grinding together. It was familiar, a ghost from a life he had tried to bury.
The hooded figure reached up and pulled back his cowl. The firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, the grey streaking his dark hair, the haunted look in his eyes. It was a face Soren had once trusted, a face that had taught him how to fight, how to survive in the Ladder's lower rungs. It was the face of his first patron, the man who had sold him out for a better offer from the Synod.
Rook Marr.
But the arrogant, calculating man Soren remembered was gone. In his place was someone haggard and afraid. His eyes darted around the room, and his hands, resting on the table, trembled slightly.
"You," Soren breathed, the word laced with ice. "You have a lot of nerve showing your face here."
"I had to find you," Marr said, his voice urgent. "I've been looking since the arena. Since what happened to you." He leaned forward, his gaze pleading. "Soren, I know you have no reason to listen to me. But I'm not here for me. I'm here for you."
Soren let out a short, harsh laugh. "The last time you were 'here for me,' I ended up in a death match with a Synod's pet monster. Forgive me if I'm not convinced."
"That was a mistake," Marr said, his voice cracking. "A bad calculation. I thought… I thought it was the only way. I was wrong. They're not what they seem. The Synod. They're not just playing politics. They're building something. Something terrible." He glanced over his shoulder again, a tic of pure, unadulterated fear. "They're closing in. I've heard whispers. Inquisitors are asking questions about you. About your Gift. They know you're not just another fighter."
Soren stared at him, his expression unreadable. Marr was terrified. It wasn't an act; Soren had seen enough fear to know the real thing. "What do you want, Rook?"
"A way out," Marr whispered, his eyes locking onto Soren's. "For both of us. There's a Trial. Not a sanctioned one. Off the books. No Commission oversight, no Synod judges. It's a high-stakes, high-reward game run by the old families, the ones who remember the time before the Concord. They call it the Gauntlet. The winner takes a purse that could buy a small territory. Enough to disappear. Enough to free your family for good."
Soren's heart hammered against his ribs, a traitorous drumbeat of hope. Free his family. The words were a siren's call. "And what's the catch?"
"The catch is that no one survives the Gauntlet," Marr said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "It's a meat grinder. But you… you're different. Your Gift… it's not like the others. It might be the only thing that can get you through the other side." He leaned in closer, the scent of stale wine and desperation clinging to him. "I can get you in, Soren. I know the man who runs it. I've already made the deal. All you have to do is say yes."
A fool's hope. That's what it was. A desperate, impossible gamble offered by a man who had already proven his treachery. Every instinct screamed at him to walk away, to throw Marr out and finish his own plan. But the image of his mother's face, of his brother's forced smile, flashed in his mind. The deadline was a noose around his neck, tightening with every passing day. This convoy mission was a long shot, a fight against impossible odds. The Gauntlet was the same, just with a different prize.
"Why?" Soren asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "Why help me now? What's in it for you?"
Marr's face crumpled. "My son. My boy, Finn… he has a Gift. A small one. The Synod took him. Said he was a candidate for their 'Sanctuary Program.' I know what that means. It's a lie. They're taking them, Soren. They're taking the Gifted and twisting them into… something else. I help you, you get strong enough to make them listen. Strong enough to get him back. It's the only chance I have left."
The confession hung in the air between them, raw and painful. Soren looked past Marr, across the room, to the silent giant by the door. Ruku bez was watching them, his dark eyes filled with an unnerving intelligence. He gave another slow, deliberate nod, as if acknowledging the weight of the choice laid before Soren. A path of betrayal with a familiar face, or a path of sabotage with a reluctant ally. Both led through fire.
"It's a fool's hope, Soren," Marr repeated, his voice desperate, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. "But it's the only one you have left. I can get you in."