# Chapter 116: The Mentor's Plea
The words hung in the stale air of the tavern's private room, a desperate prayer offered to a god of ruin. Soren's gaze remained fixed on Rook Marr, his expression a mask of cold granite. The man before him was a ghost from a life he had tried to bury, a specter of betrayal wearing the face of his former mentor. The frantic hammering of Marr's heart was almost audible, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of the tavern's muffled roar. Free his family. The phrase was a litany, a curse, and a siren's call, all at once. It was the axis upon which his world spun, the single, driving force that had kept him breathing through the ash and the blood.
"Why?" Soren's voice was a low rasp, the sound of stone grinding on stone. He didn't move, didn't blink. He let the weight of his silence press down on the man across from him. "You sold me to the Synod's dogs, Rook. You left me to bleed out in a pit for a few silver and a pat on the head from a new patron. Why should I believe a single word that comes out of your mouth now?"
Marr flinched, the question striking him with physical force. He looked down at his hands, splayed on the scarred wooden table. They were trembling. "Because this time, I'm not selling you," he rasped, his voice cracking with a sincerity that was almost more terrifying than his lies. "I'm buying a chance. My son's life is the price. I have nothing left to lose, Soren. Nothing. But you… you still have a family to save." He looked up, his eyes raw with a terror so profound it was almost holy. "The Gauntlet is a monster, yes. It will chew you up and spit you out. But the prize is real. It's a fool's hope, I know, but it's the only one that leads straight to freedom. No more Ladder, no more debts, no more Synod. Just gone. Let me help you get there."
Soren finally leaned back, the wooden chair groaning in protest. The movement sent a sharp, hot spike of pain through his side, a grim reminder of the price of his last desperate gamble. He studied Marr, truly studied him. The man was a ruin. The fine clothes of a House Marr retainer were gone, replaced by a stained tunic and frayed cloak. His face was gaunt, etched with new lines of despair that hadn't been there months ago. This wasn't the calculating opportunist who had betrayed him. This was a cornered animal, and cornered animals were the most dangerous of all.
"The Gauntlet," Soren said, tasting the word. It sounded like a trap. "An off-the-books Trial. There's no such thing. The Concord of Cinders governs every sanctioned match. The Commission watches everything."
A bitter, humorless smile touched Marr's lips. "The Commission watches what the Synod wants it to watch. The Gauntlet isn't sanctioned. It's… an indulgence. For the very rich and the very desperate. It's run by a man called Silus. He deals in things the League and the Crownlands won't touch. Fights, artifacts, information. He created the Gauntlet as a way for patrons to settle grudges or make wagers without the Synod's prying eyes. No rankings, no records, no rules except one: the last one standing wins the pot."
"And the pot?"
Marr's eyes gleamed with a feverish light. "Enough to buy a small territory. Enough to pay off your family's debt a hundred times over and disappear. The entry fee is steep, and the participants… they are not Ladder climbers, Soren. They are monsters. Ex-Inquisitors, disgraced champions, things the Synod has created and then discarded. But the winner… the winner is a ghost. A wealthy ghost."
Soren's mind raced, calculating the odds. It was madness. A death wish. But the image of his mother's face, worn down by endless labor in the Crownlands' textile mills, flashed in his mind. His brother, Finn, not yet a man, already bound to the same fate. The convoy mission with Nyra was a certainty. A brutal, bloody certainty. This… this was a lottery ticket to hell, with the prize being heaven.
"Where is it?" Soren demanded.
"That's the thing," Marr said, leaning forward again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It moves. It's held in the Bloom-Wastes, in a shielded facility. Silus uses the ambient corruption to mask his signature from the Synod's scryers. The next one is in two nights. He's bringing in a 'special attraction' for the main event. Someone he thinks will draw a huge crowd."
"Who?"
Marr hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the door. "He didn't say. But the whispers are… unnatural. Something from before the Concord. Something the Synod itself fears."
The door to the private room creaked open. Soren's hand instinctively went to his side, where his weapon should have been. Nyra stood in the doorway, her face pale but her eyes like chips of ice. She took in the scene in a single glance: Soren, tense and wounded, and Rook Marr, the ghost from his past, leaning across the table like a starving man offered a crust of bread.
"Soren," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "What is he doing here?"
The air in the small room crackled, the fragile alliance forged in the infirmary moments ago threatening to shatter. Marr recoiled from the venom in her tone, shrinking back into his chair. He recognized her, Soren realized. He knew who she was, or at least what she represented.
"He was just leaving," Soren said, his voice flat.
"No," Marr blurted out, desperation overriding his fear. "No, I'm not. We were just making a deal."
Nyra stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click that sounded like a coffin lid shutting. She didn't look at Marr. Her eyes were locked on Soren. "A deal? With him? After everything he's done? Soren, this is a Synod trap. It has to be. They send him here with a story designed to prey on your desperation, to pull you away from the mission."
"Is it?" Soren challenged, turning his full attention to her. "Or is it a real option? One that doesn't involve us dancing on Corvin's strings? One that could actually solve my problem instead of just creating a new one for the League?"
The accusation hung between them, sharp and ugly. Nyra's face tightened, a flicker of hurt in her eyes before it was replaced by her usual pragmatic mask. "This isn't about the League. This is about survival. The convoy mission is a known quantity. We have a target, a timetable, and a goal. This… this Gauntlet… it's a ghost story. A fairytale for fools."
"A fool's hope," Marr interjected, his voice pleading. "But it's real. I swear it. Silus is a pig, but he's an honest one. He pays his winners. I can get you to the entrance. I can get you in."
Nyra finally turned her gaze on Marr, her lip curling in disgust. "And how much is your cut, Rook? Or are they paying you in your son's life? A promise you're foolish enough to believe?"
The mention of his son struck Marr like a physical blow. He paled, his bravado crumbling. "That's not… that's different."
"Is it?" Nyra shot back, taking another step into the room. "The Synod has your son. Suddenly you appear with an offer that's too good to be true, an offer that just happens to pull Soren away from a direct strike against the Synod. It's transparent. It's pathetic."
Soren watched them, a war raging inside him. Nyra's logic was sound. It was the same cold, calculating pragmatism he had admired and resented in her. It was the voice of survival. But Marr's desperation… it felt real. It was a mirror to his own soul. He knew what it was to be willing to do anything, to bargain with anyone, to save the people you loved.
"Tell me more about this Silus," Soren said, ignoring Nyra for the moment, his focus returning to Marr. "How do you know him? How do I know this isn't just an ambush?"
"I… I worked for him, briefly," Marr stammered, glancing nervously at Nyra. "After House Marr cast me out. It was… dirty work. But I saw the books, Soren. I saw the payouts. He deals in absolutes. You win, you get paid. You lose, you're dead. There's no middle ground. He doesn't care about the Synod or the League. He only cares about the spectacle, the wager."
"And the participants?" Nyra pressed, her voice laced with skepticism. "Who are they?"
"Like I said. Monsters," Marr said, a shudder running through him. "The last winner was a woman called Anya. A Gifted healer. They said she could mend any wound, but her Cost was that she had to take the pain into herself. She won by letting her opponents beat themselves to death against her, then walked away with the pot, her body a canvas of agony. She hasn't been seen since. Probably bought her way into some private sanatorium to recover."
The story sent a chill down Soren's spine. The Cinder Cost was a universal burden, but some were crueler than others. To absorb the pain of others… it was a horrifying power.
"See?" Nyra said, her voice softening slightly, taking on a persuasive tone. "It's a meat grinder. You're wounded, Soren. You're in no condition to face something like that. The convoy mission is our best shot. We hit them, we hurt them, and we get the data Corvin promised. It's a clean, strategic victory."
"There's nothing clean about this," Soren countered, gesturing vaguely to the world outside their room. "There's no strategy that will save my family if I fail. The Gauntlet is a risk. But the reward is absolute. The convoy is just another fight in a war I'm tired of fighting."
The tension was a palpable thing, a third presence in the cramped space. Nyra's jaw was set, her mind clearly working through angles, trying to find a way to pull him back from the brink. Marr was watching him with the desperate hope of a drowning man who had just been thrown a rope.
"Let me think about it," Soren said, the words feeling like ash in his mouth.
"Think?" Nyra's voice rose in disbelief. "Soren, there's no time to think. The convoy moves tomorrow night. If you're not with me, the mission is off. I can't do it alone."
"Then don't," Soren said, his voice hardening. "This is my choice, Nyra. My family."
He saw the hurt flash in her eyes again, deeper this time. He was pushing her away, just as he always did. He was choosing the solitary path, the path of the lone wolf, because trusting others had only ever brought him pain. But this time, it felt different. This wasn't just about pride. It was about a shortcut, a chance to end it all.
"Fine," she said, her voice clipped, all emotion carefully suppressed. She turned to leave. "But when this ghost story of his gets you killed, don't expect me to mourn you." She paused at the door, her back to him. "And when the Synod takes your son, Marr," she said without turning, "I hope you remember that you helped them find another weapon to break."
She was gone. The door clicked shut, leaving Soren alone with the trembling remains of his mentor.
Soren let out a long, slow breath, the sound barely audible over the renewed pounding of his own heart. He looked at Marr, who was staring at the closed door, his face a mask of despair.
"She's right, you know," Marr whispered. "It's probably a trap."
"Probably," Soren agreed. "But it's the only game in town where the prize is freedom." He pushed his chair back and stood, his body protesting with a symphony of aches. "You said you can get me in."
Marr looked up, a flicker of hope returning to his eyes. "Yes. I know a man. A smuggler who runs the Bloom-Wastes. He can take us to the coordinates Silus gave me."
"Good," Soren said. He walked to the door, his hand resting on the handle. He didn't look back. "Take me to him. Now."