# Chapter 236: The Traitor's Reveal
The weight of Bren's words settled over the room like a shroud. Suicide mission. The phrase echoed in Soren's mind, a cold counterpoint to the fire of his resolve. He looked at Finn, whose face was a mask of pale determination, and saw the boy who had followed him out of the pits, the squire who polished his armor with a fierce pride. He was asking this boy to die for him. As the meeting broke and the team began to disperse, gathering gear and sharing last quiet words, Soren noticed Finn slip away to the bar. He watched as the boy, with a furtive glance back toward the war room, passed a small, folded piece of parchment to a heavy-set man nursing a single mug of ale. The man wasn't a regular. He was a stranger, his clothes too fine for this part of town, his eyes cold and assessing as he pocketed the note and left without a word. A cold knot formed in Soren's gut. It wasn't just a mission anymore. It was a test, and failure was already inside the walls.
The tavern, usually a sanctuary of noise and camaraderie, felt charged with a new, silent tension. The air, thick with the smell of spilled ale, woodsmoke, and roasting meat, now seemed to carry the metallic tang of fear. Soren watched the stranger push through the heavy oak door, his movements unhurried, confident. He didn't look back. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong. The plan was too new, too sensitive. Who could possibly know? And why would Finn, of all people, be the one to leak it? The boy worshipped him. The dissonance was a splinter in his mind, sharp and irritating.
He pushed himself away from the wall, his movements fluid and deliberate. He caught Nyra's eye as he moved, giving a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. She was deep in conversation with Bren, pointing at a section of the schematic, but she registered his signal, her brow furrowing in a silent question. He couldn't explain. Not yet. He had to know. He had to see it with his own eyes. The tavern's common room was a labyrinth of tables and shadows, but the path to the door was clear. He moved through the dispersing crowd, his hand resting near the hilt of his knife, a familiar weight that offered little comfort.
The night air hit him like a slap, cold and damp, carrying the scent of wet cobblestones and the ever-present, faint odor of ash from the city's forges. The alley behind the tavern was a narrow canyon of brick and rot, illuminated by a single sputtering gas lamp that cast long, dancing shadows. The stranger was halfway down, his heavy footsteps echoing in the confined space. He wasn't running. He wasn't hiding. He was just… leaving.
Soren didn't call out. He didn't announce himself. He simply moved, his boots making no sound on the slick stones. He was a creature born of the wastes, a survivor who had learned to hunt and be hunted in the grey dust. The city was just a different kind of waste. He closed the distance in a few silent strides, his hand shooting out to grab the man's shoulder, spinning him around. The man's eyes widened in surprise, not fear. He was bigger than Soren, broad-shouldered with a thick neck, but his surprise gave Soren the edge.
"Who are you?" Soren's voice was low, a dangerous rumble that was swallowed by the alley's oppressive darkness. He drove the man back against the damp brick wall, the impact knocking a grunt from his lungs. The smell of expensive cologne, cloying and out of place, clung to the man's coat.
"I don't know what you mean," the man wheezed, his composure cracking. He tried to push Soren away, but Soren's grip was like iron, his forearm pressed against the man's throat.
"The note," Soren said, his voice dropping even further. "The boy. Finn. What was it?"
The man's eyes darted left and right, looking for an escape that wasn't there. "Just a message. A personal matter."
Soren's patience snapped. He slammed the man against the wall again, harder this time. The man's head struck the brick with a sickening thud. "Don't lie to me. My people are preparing to die. I will not have a snake in my nest." He reached into the man's coat, his fingers finding the folded parchment. He pulled it free. The paper was thick, creamy, the kind used by merchants and officials. It felt alien in his hand, a symbol of a world he had spent his life fighting against.
He unfolded it. The handwriting was a neat, precise script. It wasn't a confession. It wasn't a detailed plan. It was a list. *Target: Ranking Spire. Diversion. Main force: Soren, Bren, Boro, Lyra. Infiltration: Nyra, Kestrel. Objective: Rescue asset, sabotage project.* It was a perfect, concise summary of their entire strategy. A cold fury, pure and absolute, washed over Soren. It was everything. Everything they had just planned. He crumpled the paper in his fist, the parchment crackling like a fire threatening to ignite.
"Who do you work for?" Soren demanded, his voice dangerously quiet. He pressed his forearm tighter, cutting off the man's air. The stranger's face began to turn purple.
"The… the broker…" the man gasped, his eyes bulging. "Mara… The debt broker…"
The name hit Soren like a physical blow. Mara. The woman who held his family's contract. The one who had sold their lives to the Crownlands. It wasn't the Synod. It wasn't a rival house. It was the oldest, most primal enemy of all: debt. He let go of the man, who collapsed to his knees, coughing and retching, sucking in great, ragged breaths of the foul air. Soren stared down at him, the crumpled note still in his hand. The pieces were clicking into place, each one more painful than the last.
"Get out of my sight," Soren said, his voice devoid of all emotion. "If I ever see you again, I'll kill you."
The man scrambled to his feet and fled, stumbling away into the labyrinthine streets, his expensive coat flapping behind him like a broken wing. Soren was left alone in the alley, the sputtering gas lamp casting his shadow long and distorted against the wall. The cold knot in his gut had turned to ice. He turned and walked back toward the tavern, each step heavier than the last. He wasn't just a general sending soldiers to their deaths anymore. He was a brother who had been betrayed by the one person he thought he could trust implicitly.
He pushed back into the tavern's warmth. The noise seemed distant, muffled, as if he were underwater. Most of the team had already gone, leaving only a few stragglers and Lena, the tavern's owner, wiping down the bar. Finn was there, standing by the hearth, staring into the flames as if they held the answers to all his fears. He looked up as Soren approached, his face hopeful, then confused as he saw the expression on Soren's face. The hope died, replaced by a dawning, animal terror.
"Soren? What is it? Is something wrong?"
Soren didn't answer. He just walked up to the boy, stopping a foot away. He held out his hand, the crumpled note resting in his palm. He didn't have to say a word. Finn's eyes locked onto the paper, and all the color drained from his face. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked from the note to Soren's eyes, and the sheer, unadulterated agony he saw there made him flinch.
"I… I can explain," Finn stammered, his voice trembling so badly it was barely a whisper.
"Explain what, Finn?" Soren's voice was flat, empty of the fury that churned beneath the surface. "Explain how you sold us? Explain how you took the lives of everyone in this room and handed them to a debt broker?"
"No! It wasn't like that!" The boy's voice cracked, tears welling in his eyes. "I would never! I was trying to help!"
"Help?" Soren laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "You call this help? You just gave them our entire plan! They'll be waiting for us. They'll slaughter us before we even get near the Spire."
"They promised!" Finn cried, the tears now streaming down his face, tracing clean paths through the grime on his cheeks. "They said they were from the Sable League! They said they knew about the mission, that they were allies. They said they needed confirmation of the plan to ensure our safety, to make sure the Crownlands didn't interfere."
Soren felt a wave of disgust so profound it almost buckled his knees. The League. Of course. They were playing him from every angle. They had given him an ultimatum, and when he'd tried to seize control, they had simply planted a mole to ensure he still played his part. And they had used Finn. They had used the boy's loyalty, his desperation to save his family, and twisted it into a weapon.
"You believed them?" Soren asked, his voice laced with incredulity. "After everything we've talked about? After everything they've done? You believed a stranger who offered you a deal that was too good to be true?"
"He said he knew my family!" Finn's voice rose to a desperate shriek. "He knew my sister's name! He knew where they were being held! He said the debt would be forgiven. All of it. He said it was the only way to make sure you were safe, that they wouldn't double-cross you. He said this was how we protected you from them."
The logic was so twisted, so born of a child's desperate hope, that it was almost understandable. Almost. Soren looked at the boy, at the raw, pleading terror in his eyes, and saw not a traitor, but a victim. A fool, perhaps, but a victim nonetheless. He had been used, just as Soren had been used. The anger began to recede, replaced by a profound, soul-crushing weariness. He was so tired of the games, of the lies, of the way every act of trust was met with betrayal.
"Finn," Soren said, his voice softer now, but no less heavy. "There is no safety. There is only the fight. And you just handed them a sharper sword."
The boy collapsed, his legs giving out from under him. He fell to his knees on the grimy tavern floor, his body wracked with sobs. "I'm sorry," he wept, the words torn from his throat. "I'm so sorry, Soren. I just wanted to help. I wanted to save them. I wanted to be like you."
Soren looked down at him, at the broken boy who had wanted so badly to be a hero. He saw his own reflection in Finn's desperation—the same gnawing fear of loss, the same willingness to do anything, to pay any price, to protect the people he loved. But Soren had learned the hard way that some prices were too high, that some deals were made with devils. And he had failed to teach Finn that most crucial lesson.
He knelt down, his joints protesting, the weight of his armor and his responsibility settling on him. He placed a hand on Finn's shaking shoulder. The boy flinched but didn't pull away. The tavern was empty now, save for the two of them and Lena, who had retreated to the kitchen, giving them their privacy. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and Finn's heartbroken sobs.
"They told me they would keep you safe," Finn cried, his voice muffled by his hands. "They said it was the only way."