# Chapter 162: The Collar's Key
Torvin burst from the isolation ward not as a liberator, but as a refugee from a nightmare. His face was a bloodless mask of terror, his eyes wide with a horror that transcended mere fear. He scrambled backward, his boots slipping on the grated floor, his gaze locked on the doorway from which he'd fled. "It's not a man!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "It's a… a forge of flesh!"
The thing that filled the doorway answered him with a low, guttural snarl that vibrated through the deck plates. It was a hulking amalgamation of mismatched parts, a grotesque tapestry of failed Synod ambition. One arm was a massive, piston-driven limb of dark iron, the other a writhing tentacle of grafted muscle. Its torso was a patchwork of scarred skin and bolted armor plates, and from its shoulders sprouted three heads, each contorted in a silent scream. Multiple, glowing red eyes, all fixed on the living warmth of the corridor, swiveled in their sockets with malevolent intelligence. This was the Synod's secret: not just prisoners, but living weapons they couldn't control.
The rhythmic thunder of armored boots from the opposite end of the corridor resolved into a squad of crimson-armored Inquisitors, their halberds leveled. At their head strode Isolde, her face a stony mask of fury, a fresh bandage wrapped around her forearm where Nyra's blade had found its mark. Her eyes, cold and hard as winter flint, fell upon Soren, then Nyra, then the monstrosity blocking the other exit. A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps even a sliver of fear—crossed her features before being subsumed by her fanatical resolve. The pincer was complete. There was no way out.
"Go," Soren rasped again, shoving Nyra behind him with more force than she thought he possessed. He was a wall of gaunt muscle, his body trembling not from weakness, but from a desperate, coiled tension. "I'll hold them."
"Don't be a fool, Vale," Nyra shot back, her shortsword coming up, its edge glinting in the emergency lighting. "You can't even stand straight."
"I don't need to stand," he grunted, his eyes scanning the corridor, not with panic, but with the cold, calculating gaze of a survivor. "I just need to buy a second."
Isolde raised a hand, her voice cutting through the tense air. "Surrender. Both of you. The abomination can be… dealt with. You, however, will face the full judgment of the Synod." Her gaze lingered on Soren, a possessive, covetous look that made Nyra's skin crawl. "Your potential will not be wasted."
The monster from the ward took a lurching step forward, its piston-arm hissing. Torvin fumbled at his belt, pulling a compact pistol, his hands shaking too badly to aim properly. "It's drawn to the power dampeners," he panted, gesturing at the field generators lining the walls. "Or maybe it just hates the Synod. Hard to tell."
Soren's eyes weren't on the monster or the Inquisitors. They were locked on Isolde. He saw the way she held herself, the subtle glow of a control panel on her vambrace, the intricate wiring that ran from her gauntlet to the pauldron on her shoulder. He remembered the jolt, the searing pain, the way the collar had activated not by a word, but by a gesture from her. It wasn't just a lock. It was a leash. And she held the other end.
"Nyra," he said, his voice low and urgent, a stark contrast to his weakened state. "Her armor. The left gauntlet. The control for the collar is tied into her command systems."
Nyra risked a glance, her tactical mind instantly processing the information. She saw the panel, the slight hum of energy emanating from it. It was a vulnerability. A key. But getting to it was a suicide run. The Inquisitors formed a solid wall of crimson steel and unwavering faith. Between them and Isolde was a kill zone ten feet wide.
"I can't get to her," Nyra breathed, the weight of their situation pressing down.
"You don't have to," Soren said, a grim plan forming in the sharp, desperate edges of his mind. He looked at the groaning metal of the floor, the sparking junction box where Torvin's EMP had done its work, the heavy, reinforced bulkhead door to their left. "I will."
Before Nyra could protest, he moved. It wasn't the explosive grace of a Gifted warrior; it was the brutal, functional momentum of a man who had nothing left to lose. He charged, not toward Isolde, but toward the sparking junction box. The Inquisitors, trained to expect a direct assault, were a half-second too slow in adjusting their aim. A halberd sliced through the air where he'd been, its razor edge humming. Soren slammed his shoulder into the wall next to the junction, ignoring the flare of pain that shot through his body. He wrenched a heavy, loose power cable from the housing, the raw, sizzling end whipping in his hand like a venomous snake.
"Cover me!" he yelled at Torvin.
Torvin, finally finding his nerve, fired his pistol. The shot went wide, pinging off the monster's iron arm, but it was enough of a distraction. The three-headed abomination turned its attention to the new threat, its multiple eyes fixing on the former Inquisitor.
Soren didn't hesitate. He swung the live cable in a wide arc. It didn't reach the Inquisitors. Instead, it connected with the metal housing of the bulkhead door control panel. There was a deafening *CRACK* of arcing electricity. The lights in the corridor flickered and died again, plunging them into the strobing chaos of emergency red lights and the angry blue sparks from the fried panel. With a groan of stressed metal and a hiss of hydraulics, the heavy bulkhead door began to slide shut.
Isolde's eyes widened in alarm. "Seal it! Don't let them separate!" she screamed at her squad.
But it was too late. The door slammed shut with a final, echoing boom, a sound of absolute finality. They were trapped. The Inquisitors were on one side. They were on the other, with the monster.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their own ragged breathing and the low snarl of the abomination. Soren leaned against the wall, the spent cable dropping from his numb fingers. He had bought them seconds, not minutes. The monster took another step, its piston-arm raising to crush him.
"Now, Nyra!" Soren shouted, his voice raw.
He had done his part. He had created the chaos, the single, fleeting moment of distraction. He had forced Isolde's squad to be on the wrong side of a door. He had given Nyra her opening. Now it was her turn.
Nyra didn't think. She acted. She moved like a ghost, a blur of motion in the flickering red light. She didn't charge the monster; she used it. She vaulted off its hunched back, using the creature as a stepping stone, her boots finding purchase on a patch of bolted armor. The abomination roared in surprise, its multiple heads snapping at her, but she was already airborne. She flew over Soren's head, a dark comet aimed at the one weak point he had identified.
Isolde saw her coming. The Inquisitor's reflexes were lightning fast. She raised her gauntlet, not to activate the collar, but to defend herself. A shimmering barrier of golden light, her Gift, flared to life. But Nyra wasn't aiming for Isolde's body. She was aiming for the key.
Nyra twisted in mid-air, her shortsword a silver line in the gloom. She didn't try to pierce the shield. She aimed for the control panel on the vambrace itself. The blade, honed to a razor's edge and imbued with her own focused will, struck the device.
There was no clang of metal on metal. There was a piercing shriek of overloaded circuits and a shower of brilliant, white sparks. Isolde screamed, a sound of pain and shocked disbelief, as her Gift flickered and died. The control panel on her gauntlet exploded, shrapnel tearing into her arm.
At that exact moment, the dead weight around Soren's neck pulsed. A single, weak flicker of light ran around the collar. Then another, stronger this time. The runes etched into the metal band, which had been dark and inert, began to glow with a faint, ominous orange light. The connection was broken. The lock was turning.
Soren felt it like a dam bursting inside him. The pressure that had been crushing his very soul vanished, replaced by a tidal wave of raw, untamed power. It flooded his veins, a torrent of fire and ash. The weakness in his limbs evaporated, replaced by a terrifying strength. The world sharpened, the scent of ozone and blood filling his nostrils, the frantic beating of his own heart a war drum in his ears. His Cinders-Tattoos, which had been dull grey smudges on his skin, began to glow, first a soft orange, then a brilliant, searing crimson.
The monster, finally turning its full attention to the new source of power, lunged. Its piston-arm shot forward, a blur of black iron aimed at Soren's chest.
Soren didn't even flinch. He raised a single hand.
The air between him and the abomination warped, shimmering with heat. The piston-arm slammed into an invisible wall of pure force and stopped dead, the metal groaning under the strain. The creature's three heads screamed in unison, a sound of fury and confusion.
Soren's eyes, now glowing with the same inner fire as his tattoos, met Nyra's. She had landed in a crouch, clutching her side, her face pale but her expression fierce. He gave her a single, sharp nod. A promise. An end.
He turned his gaze to the sealed bulkhead door. He could hear the Inquisitors on the other side, shouting, trying to cut through, trying to get back to their commander. He could feel the vibrations of their tools on the metal. He could feel everything.
He took a step forward, and the deck plates beneath his feet cracked. The power was too much. It was a wildfire, burning him from the inside out. Every cell in his body screamed in protest. The Cinder Cost was immediate and excruciating, a price paid in advance. But he didn't care. They were trapped. The only way out was through.
He raised both hands, palms facing the wall of the corridor. The air grew thick, heavy, smelling of a forge at full blast. The red emergency lights seemed to dim, swallowed by the brilliant crimson aura that now enveloped Soren. The monster, sensing a power far greater than its own, tried to scramble back, but it was too late.
"Get down!" Soren roared, his voice no longer human, but a booming echo of pure energy.
Nyra didn't hesitate. She threw herself and the still-stunned Torvin to the floor, covering her head.
Soren unleashed the wave.
It wasn't a focused blast. It was an uncontrolled, explosive expulsion of every ounce of power he had. It tore from his hands in a horizontal cone of incandescent force. The sound was deafening, a roar like a volcano erupting. The monster was caught in the full brunt of the wave, its flesh and metal form instantly vaporized, not even a scream left in its wake. The wave hit the bulkhead door, not to open it, but to obliterate it. The reinforced metal, designed to withstand explosions, peeled apart like wet paper. The wall itself buckled, groaned, and then blew outward.
The entire side of the transport ripped open.
Cold night air and the swirling grey ash of the wastes rushed in. The shriek of tearing metal was followed by the blare of a hundred different alarms as the ship's hull was breached. The corridor was exposed to the open sky, the stars above blurred by the ever-present cinderfall.
And then, silence, broken only by the howl of the wind and the groaning of the crippled ship.
Soren stood in the new opening, a silhouette against the night. His arms were still raised, but they were trembling violently. The brilliant crimson aura around him flickered and died. The light in his eyes faded. His Cinders-Tattoos, which had been burning a dangerous, deep red, now glowed with a terrifying, final intensity before darkening to a near-black shade, like burnt blood.
He took a single, staggering step forward. His strength was gone, consumed in that one, monumental act. The power that had saved them had exacted its price. He collapsed, his body limp, falling forward into the darkness and the swirling ash.