# Chapter 149: The Ghost of the Synod
The bolt flew, a silent streak of malice aimed at the heart of the sanctuary. Time seemed to fracture, the glowing tip a malevolent star in the gloom. There was no choice. No time to weigh options. Instinct, raw and primal, took over. Soren shoved Nyra hard, sending her stumbling into the infirmary. "Go!" he roared, the sound tearing from his throat as he lunged after her. He didn't look back to see if the bolt had hit its mark or ricocheted into the sewer. The only thing that mattered was the space between the archway and the man inside.
They crashed through the curtain of hanging rags, the world dissolving into a chaos of shouts and the coppery tang of blood. The infirmary was a larger space than Soren had imagined, a long, low cavern carved from the brick and stone of the city's foundations. Row upon row of makeshift cots lined the walls, each occupied by a still form. The air was thick with the scent of poultices, sweat, and the acrid, burnt-sugar smell of the Cinder Cost. The man they sought was on his feet, a wooden bowl clutched in one hand, his gaunt face a mask of shock and fury. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice a dry rasp.
"They're here!" Soren gasped, pointing back the way they came. "Hunters. In the sewer."
Before the man could respond, the soft *hiss* was followed by a sickening, wet thud from the archway. The bolt had struck the stone frame, its glowing head burrowing deep into the brick. A viscous, green ichor began to ooze from the wound, sizzling as it ate away at the mortar. The air grew thick with a noxious, chemical scent that burned the lungs. This wasn't a weapon for killing. It was for cleansing.
The three hunters moved with a chilling synchronicity, their obsidian masks reflecting the sickly grey light of the sewer. One raised a hand, and a crossbow-like device unfolded from his gauntlet. The other two drew long, slender blades that seemed to drink the light around them. They weren't here to capture. They were here to cleanse. Soren felt a cold dread crawl up his spine, a primal fear that had nothing to do with Wardens or Inquisitors. This was something else. Something older. He looked at Nyra, saw the same stark realization in her eyes. They had walked into a trap, but the trap wasn't for them. It was for the man inside, for the ghosts he tended. And they were now caught in the snare with him. The hunter with the crossbow took aim, not at them, but at the open archway of the infirmary. There was a soft *hiss*, and a bolt tipped with a wickedly barbed, glowing head shot through the air, aimed directly at the heart of the sanctuary.
The second bolt struck the floor just inside the entrance, exploding in a shower of green fire that sent a wave of blistering heat through the room. The wounded on the nearest cots cried out, a chorus of weak, pained moans. The gaunt man moved then, his shock turning into a cold, hard fury that seemed to age him a decade in a single breath. He dropped the bowl and snatched a heavy iron crowbar leaning against a supply crate. "Get them back!" he bellowed, his voice ringing with an authority that belied his frail appearance. "Against the far wall! Now!"
Soren and Nyra didn't need to be told twice. They herded the few able-bodied patients—two men with bandaged heads and a woman whose arm was a blackened stump—toward the rear of the infirmary. The hunters advanced, their steps silent and deliberate. The two with the blades fanned out, moving to flank the cots, while the crossbowman reloaded with a smooth, practiced motion. They moved through the rows of beds not like soldiers, but like exterminators, their obsidian masks scanning the invalids with chilling indifference.
"We can't let them reach the back!" Nyra hissed, her eyes darting around the room, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. She grabbed a wooden stool and hurled it at the nearest hunter. The man simply tilted his head, letting the stool shatter against the brick wall beside him without breaking stride.
Soren's mind raced, his tactical training taking over despite the searing pain in his side. They were outmatched. Outnumbered. Outgunned. The only advantage they had was the terrain. The infirmary was a maze of cots and supply crates. "Use the beds!" he yelled to the man with the crowbar. "Tip them over. Slow them down!"
The man—Torvin, it had to be Torvin—understood instantly. He swung the crowbar with surprising strength, catching the leg of a cot and sending it toppling over into the path of the advancing hunters. The two blade-wielders were forced to sidestep, their fluid momentum broken for a fraction of a second. It was enough. Soren grabbed another cot and heaved, his muscles screaming in protest. The heavy frame crashed to the floor, creating a makeshift barricade.
The crossbowman fired again. This time, the bolt punched through the wooden frame of a cot, embedding itself in the stone wall behind. The green fire sputtered, failing to ignite. The hunter paused, tilting its head in what looked like mild curiosity. Then, it discarded the crossbow with a clatter, drew a blade of its own, and joined the advance.
They were closing the distance. One of the blade-wielders reached the barricade and simply vaulted over it, landing in a crouch. It rose, its obsidian mask turning toward a young man on a cot, no older than seventeen, whose cinder-tattoos were a sickly, pulsating yellow. The blade rose, poised to strike.
"No!" Torvin screamed, launching himself forward.
Soren acted on pure impulse. He snatched a heavy clay pitcher from a nearby table and threw it with all his might. It struck the hunter on the side of the head, shattering into a dozen pieces. The hunter staggered, a sharp, metallic *clang* echoing from beneath the mask. It turned its featureless face toward Soren, and for the first time, he felt the weight of its full, undivided attention. It was like being stared at by a void.
The distraction was all Torvin needed. He swung the crowbar like a club, catching the hunter in the small of its back. There was a grunt of pain, a sound shockingly human, and the hunter stumbled forward. Torvin swung again, this time connecting with the hunter's knee. The leg buckled with an audible crack, and the hunter went down.
But the other two were already past the barricade. One of them engaged Torvin, their blades clashing against the crowbar in a shower of sparks. The other headed straight for the huddled group of patients at the back of the room. Nyra stood in its path, holding a small, sharp scalpel she'd snatched from a medical tray. It was a pathetic weapon, but her eyes were blazing.
"Get away from them," she said, her voice low and steady.
The hunter paused, its head tilting again. It raised a hand, not with its blade, but open-palmed. A faint, shimmering distortion began to form in the air around its fingers.
"Nyra, look out!" Soren shouted, scrambling over the overturned cot. He didn't have a plan. He only knew he couldn't let her face that thing alone. He was halfway across the room when the hunter at the back of the infirmary, the one Torvin had struck, rose to its one good knee. It drew a small, circular device from its belt and hurled it toward the ceiling.
It hit the stone with a metallic *tink* and exploded. Not with fire or shrapnel, but with a blinding, deafening wave of pure white light and sound. Soren's vision went blank, his ears filled with a high-pitched ringing. He stumbled, his sense of balance gone. He crashed into a supply shelf, sending jars and bandages raining down around him. He could hear shouting, the clash of metal, and the terrified cries of the wounded, but it was all muffled, distant, as if he were underwater.
He blinked, trying to clear the spots from his eyes. The ringing in his ears began to subside, replaced by a wet, gurgling sound. He pushed himself up, his head swimming. The scene that came into focus was a nightmare.
The two hunters were standing over the body of the third. The one with the broken leg lay motionless in a pool of its own black blood, its obsidian mask shattered to reveal a pale, tattooed face contorted in a silent scream. One of the remaining hunters held a short, thick dagger, its blade slick with the same black fluid. It had killed its own.
The other hunter turned its attention back to the room. It ignored Torvin, who was leaning against a wall, bleeding from a gash on his arm. It ignored Nyra, who was on her knees, dazed and disoriented by the flash. It walked toward the young man with the pulsating yellow tattoos, the one it had been sent to kill. The blade rose.
Soren knew he was too far away. He had no weapon. No Gift. Nothing. He was useless. A wave of despair, cold and familiar, washed over him. He was going to fail. Again.
Then, a new sound joined the chaos. A low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate up from the very stones of the floor. From the deepest shadows at the back of the infirmary, a figure emerged. It was huge, a mountain of muscle and scarred flesh, easily seven feet tall. It was naked from the waist up, its skin a roadmap of old wounds and faded, grey cinder-tattoos. Its head was shaved, and its face was a mask of simple, ferocious protectiveness. It was ruku bez. The gentle giant they had left behind, somehow found his way here.
The hunter turned its masked face toward the new threat. It was a fatal mistake. ruku bez moved with a speed that defied his size. He crossed the distance in three long strides, his massive hand closing around the hunter's head. There was a sickening crunch of bone and armor. ruku bez lifted the hunter into the air as if it were a child's doll, squeezed once, and then hurled the limp body against the far wall. It hit with a wet slap and slid to the floor, leaving a dark smear on the bricks.
The last hunter froze, its head swiveling between the body of its comrade, the towering form of ruku bez, and the two figures by the door. For the first time, its movements seemed hesitant. It took a step back, then another. Without another sound, it turned and fled, disappearing back into the labyrinth of the sewer.
Silence descended on the infirmary, broken only by the ragged breathing of the survivors and the faint moans of the wounded. Soren sank to his knees, the adrenaline that had sustained him finally draining away, leaving only pain and exhaustion. Nyra crawled over to him, her hand finding his. ruku bez stood guard over the young man he had saved, a silent, unmoving sentinel.
And Torvin, the ghost they had come to find, slowly lowered his crowbar. He looked at the bodies of the hunters, at the devastation, and then at Soren and Nyra. The hard fury in his eyes had been replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. He walked over to them, his steps slow and unsteady.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "And what in the seven hells have you brought to my door?"
"We brought you a warning," Nyra said, pushing herself to a sitting position. "We're looking for Torvin. A former Inquisitor."
The man flinched as if she'd struck him. "There is no one here by that name. Just a forgotten healer who tends to forgotten people."
"We know who you are," Soren said, forcing himself to his feet. "We know you were cast out by Valerius. We know you questioned the Divine Bulwark project."
The man's eyes widened in genuine shock. "How could you possibly... that information is sealed. It's impossible."
"Not for the Sable League," Nyra said, her voice regaining some of its strength. "We know about the project's primary objective. We know about the failsafe protocol designated 'Ember-Sigh'. We know Valerius has been diverting Concord funds to finance it under the guise of 'sanctuary maintenance'."
Torvin stared at her, his mouth agape. The names, the specific codes—they were keys that unlocked a door he had long since tried to weld shut. He looked from Nyra to Soren, then to the bodies on the floor. The hunters. The Ashen Remnant. They had found him. And these two strangers, these outcasts, had fought and bled to protect his sanctuary. The last of his resistance crumbled. He sank onto a nearby cot, his head in his hands.
"Torvin," he said, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. "My name is Torvin. And you have no idea what you've stumbled into."
"We know enough to know we're on the same side," Soren said, leaning against the wall for support. "Valerius is our enemy, too."
Torvin looked up, his eyes haunted. "Is he? I questioned the Bulwark because I believed it was an abomination. A perversion of the Gift. Valerius cast me out, branded me a heretic, and left me for dead in the wastes. He believes the Gift is a divine right, to be honed and weaponized. He sees the Bulwark as the ultimate expression of that power." He paused, his gaze drifting to the young man ruku bez was guarding. "But the Remnant... they believe the Gift is a curse. A sickness. They don't want to control it. They want to eradicate it. Root and stem."
He stood and walked over to the dead hunter, kicking its shattered mask aside. "They are the true believers. The fanatics who think the Bloom was a holy cleansing, and we, the Gifted, are the lingering infection. They've been hunting me for years, picking off my patients one by one. Tonight, thanks to you, they failed." He turned back to them, a flicker of something new in his eyes. Not hope, not yet. But a grim, shared purpose.
"You fought for them," he said, gesturing to the cots. "You fought for me. Why?"
"We need your help," Nyra said simply. "We need to know everything you know about the Divine Bulwark. About Valerius's plans."
Torvin was silent for a long moment, the weight of his secrets pressing down on him. He looked at Soren, at the pain etched on his face, at the stubborn fire in his eyes. He looked at Nyra, at the sharp intelligence that saw right through his defenses. He looked at ruku bez, the gentle giant who was a living embodiment of the power they were all fighting over.
"Very well," he said, his voice low and heavy. "I will help you. I will tell you everything. But first, you must understand. You have to know what you're truly up against." He took a deep breath, as if the words themselves were a poison he had to expel.
"Do you know what the Bulwark truly is?" he asked, his voice trembling with a terrible, ancient fear. "It's not a weapon. It's a vessel."