# Chapter 157: The Inquisitor's Prize
The dust was the first thing he truly registered. It was a fine, grey powder, the pulverized remains of the Rusty Flagon, and it coated his tongue with the taste of chalk and forgotten violence. It filled his lungs with each ragged, shallow breath, a constant, abrasive reminder of the world that had just collapsed around him. Soren lay on his back, staring up at a jagged hole in the ceiling where the tavern's second story used to be. The night sky, bruised purple and starless, stared back. The wail of Veridia's alarms was a distant, fading scream, the sound of a world he was no longer part of.
Pain was a constant, roaring companion. It was a fire in his side where a steel beam had pinned him, a lesser fire in his limbs where his Gift had burned him from the inside out. The Cinder Cost was a leaden weight in his bones, a profound exhaustion that went beyond the physical. He could feel the faint, dark splotches on his skin, his Cinder-Tattoos, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, each pulse a reminder of a life force spent. He had given everything. He had won. He had bought them time.
A shadow fell over him, blotting out the wounded sky. He didn't need to look up to know who it was. He could feel her presence like a sudden drop in temperature, a sterile, hateful cold that was the antithesis of his own smoldering power.
Inquisitor Isolde.
She circled him slowly, the sound of her polished boots crunching on the debris a crisp, deliberate counterpoint to the groaning of settling timbers. Her Synod-issue armor was pristine, the silver sigil of the sunburst on her breastplate gleaming in the faint light. Her face, framed by the severe cut of her dark hair, was a study in cold satisfaction. Her eyes, the color of winter ice, swept over his broken form, not with pity, but with the appraising gaze of a scholar examining a rare and dangerous specimen.
"Soren Vale," she said, her voice a silken, venomous purr. "The Cinder-Heart of the Undercity. The ghost of the ash plains. Look at you now. Just a man, bleeding in the dirt." She stopped her pacing and crouched beside him, her proximity a violation. The scent of ozone and sterile soap clung to her, an alien perfume in this world of dust and blood. "You caused us quite a bit of trouble. But in the end, you were predictable. You always protected the weak. It's the flaw in your design."
Soren tried to spit, but his mouth was too dry. He managed a wet, choking sound. "They got away," he rasped, the words scraping his throat. It was a victory, small and bitter, but it was his.
Isolde's lips curved into a thin, cruel smile. "Oh, I know. We let them." She reached out a gloved hand and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. The touch was gentle, which made it infinitely more terrifying. "Did you really think the High Inquisitor would be so foolish as to commit his entire force to a single tavern? The skiff, the sewer route… it was all anticipated. Your little escape was a valve, releasing pressure so the real prize could be secured."
A cold dread, far deeper than the pain in his side, began to seep into Soren's soul. His sacrifice, his noble, desperate stand, had been nothing more than a planned diversion. He hadn't outsmarted them. He had played his part perfectly.
She stood, her movement fluid and economical. From a pouch on her belt, she produced a device. It was a collar, made of a dull, black metal that seemed to drink the light around it. It was seamless, with no visible clasp or lock, and etched into its surface were faint, silver lines that resembled a circuit board or a arcane diagram. It hummed with a low, malevolent energy.
"Your Gift is a fascinating anomaly, Vale," she continued, her voice taking on a lecturing tone, as if she were addressing a classroom of acolytes. "Unrefined. Volatile. It draws directly from the ambient Cinder of the world, a wellspring that should have burned you out years ago. But you endure. You adapt. You are a testament to a kind of resilience the Synod has long sought to understand and, ultimately, to control."
She knelt again, this time behind his head. Soren tensed, every muscle screaming in protest. He tried to struggle, to buck her off, but his body was a broken ruin, unresponsive to his will. He was a prisoner in his own flesh.
"Hold him," she commanded.
Two armored guards stepped forward, their boots heavy on the rubble. They seized his arms, their grips like iron vices, pinning him to the ground. The rough stone scraped against his back. He could smell the stale sweat on their leather uniforms, feel the cold indifference radiating from them. They were cogs in a machine, and he was the raw material.
Isolde brought the collar closer. The humming intensified, and the air grew thick, charged with a static that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He could feel the pressure of it against his chest, a physical weight pushing him down.
"This is a Null-Collar," she explained, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A masterpiece of Synod engineering. It doesn't just block a Gift. It resonates with it, creating a feedback loop that turns the user's own power against them. It will sever your connection to the Cinder. It will make you… normal."
With a deft, practiced motion, she pressed the collar to the back of his neck. There was no click, no snap. Instead, there was a blinding, searing pain. It wasn't the hot, familiar burn of his own Gift, but a cold, invasive agony, like liquid ice being injected directly into his spine. The silver lines on the collar flared with a brilliant, actinic white light.
Soren's back arched off the ground, a strangled scream tearing from his throat. It felt as if his very soul was being torn from its moorings. The smoldering ember of his Cinder-Heart, the core of his being, flickered violently, then was snuffed out. The world, which he had always perceived as a tapestry of energy and potential, went flat and grey. The connection to the ash, to the memory of fire, was gone. He was blind. He was deaf. He was empty.
The pain receded, leaving a hollow, echoing void. He sagged against the rubble, his body trembling uncontrollably. The guards released him, and he lay there, panting, the feeling of loss more profound than any physical wound. He was just a man now. A weak, broken man.
Isolde rose to her feet, looking down at him with an expression of triumphant contempt. "See? Perfectly manageable." She nudged his shoulder with the toe of her boot. "High Inquisitor Valerius sends his regards. He has been following your progress with great interest. You see, he has a project. A sacred endeavor to create the ultimate guardian for the Concord. A warrior who cannot be broken, who cannot be corrupted. A living shield."
She began to circle him again, her voice filled with the fervor of a true believer. "The first subject showed promise, but he was… flawed. Too independent. Too bound by his own pathetic morality. He could not withstand the final process. But you, Vale… you are different. Your resilience, your very defiance, is the key. You are stronger. You are the perfect foundation."
Soren's mind, reeling from the shock of the collar, struggled to process her words. A project? A guardian? What was she talking about? Then, a memory surfaced, a fragment of a conversation overheard in a tavern, a whispered rumor about a Synod program gone wrong. The name came to him like a curse.
"The Divine Bulwark," he breathed, the words a hollow echo in the sudden silence.
Isolde stopped, her smile widening. "So you've heard the whispers. Good. It will save us the tedious exposition. Yes, the Divine Bulwark. The pinnacle of the Synod's power. An immortal warrior, infused with the controlled essence of the Bloom itself. But the process requires a vessel. A Gifted of immense power and fortitude. Your friend was a flawed prototype, Vale." She leaned in close, her voice a venomous hiss. "You will be the perfection he seeks."
The full, horrifying weight of his fate crashed down upon him. Death would have been a mercy. A release. This was something else entirely. This was to be unmade, to have his very identity hollowed out and used as a container for their monstrosity. He was not a prisoner. He was a component. A resource.
He looked up at her, at the fanatical light in her eyes, and the last vestiges of his despair burned away, replaced by a pure, cold hatred. He would not break. He would not let them turn him into their weapon. He would find a way. He would endure. He would survive, and he would make them pay.
Isolde saw the change in his eyes, the flicker of defiance in the ashes of his power. She simply laughed, a light, musical sound that was utterly devoid of warmth. "Spirited. Excellent. Valerius will be pleased." She turned away, her cloak swirling around her. "Prepare him for transport. The High Inquisitor is waiting."
The guards hauled him to his feet. His legs buckled, unable to support his weight. They dragged him, his heels scraping through the dust and broken glass, away from the ruins of the Rusty Flagon and toward a future more terrifying than any death he had ever imagined.