# Chapter 255: The First Test
Nyra's question was a shard of ice in the suffocating heat of the room. It wasn't an accusation, but a scalpel, precisely aimed at the rotten core of Soren's desperate gambit. The air crackled, the silence stretching until it hummed with tension. Talia's lips thinned, a flicker of something—relief, perhaps—in her eyes. Isolde looked from Nyra to Soren, her expression a maelstrom of hope and terror. Bren stopped cleaning his knife, the small blade held perfectly still, his gaze locked on Soren, waiting for the verdict.
Soren felt the weight of their stares, a physical pressure on his shoulders. He had wanted to create a crucible to burn away the traitor, but he had succeeded only in turning his own people against him. Nyra was right. His logic was a circle, feeding on itself. He had built a prison of paranoia and locked them all inside. He could see it now, the flaw in his own design. He had been so focused on the enemy within that he had forgotten how to lead the allies beside him.
He let out a slow breath, the sound barely audible. The fight went out of his posture, replaced by a cold, weary resolve. He looked at Nyra, truly looked at her, and saw not a challenger but a lifeline. "You're right," he said, his voice losing its sharp edge, settling into something harder, more grounded. "We don't know. And I can't lead you into the dark while I'm the only one holding the torch." He turned his gaze to the old soldier, whose weathered face was a testament to a hundred battles and a thousand betrayals. "Captain Bren. I have a mission for you. One that only you can do."
Bren's eyes narrowed. He slid the knife back into its sheath with a soft click. "I'm listening."
Soren pushed a rough, hand-drawn map across the table. It depicted the city's western perimeter, a section of wall that overlooked the grey expanse of the Bloom-Wastes. "The Synod's supply lines," Soren said, tapping a point on the map. "They've been moving materiel through the old aqueduct gate three nights a week. We need to know what it is, how much, and where it's going. I need you to get eyes on it."
Talia leaned forward, her expression skeptical. "The aqueduct gate? That's a death trap. The Inquisitors use that route. It's one of the most heavily patrolled sections of the wall." Her voice was laced with the condescension of a strategist pointing out a rookie's mistake. "My intel says they use the eastern sally ports for non-essential supplies."
"Your intel is what they want you to believe," Soren countered, his gaze unwavering. "They've shifted their pattern. This is the new route." He slid a sealed parchment across the table to Bren. "This contains the patrol schedule I've acquired. It shows a thirty-minute gap between the outer and inner watch rotations at 0200. That's your window."
Bren picked up the parchment, his calloused fingers feeling the texture of the wax seal. He didn't break it. He just held it, his eyes scanning Soren's face. The old soldier was no fool. He could see the test in Soren's eyes, the desperate gamble. He could feel the flawed nature of the intel, the slight wrongness of it, like a note played just out of tune in a familiar song. The patrol schedule was too convenient, the window too perfect. It was bait. And by giving it to him, Soren was dangling him as the hook.
A heavy silence descended. Bren was the linchpin. If he refused, Soren's authority would shatter completely. If he accepted, he was walking into a potential ambush, all to prove a point. Isolde watched him with wide, pleading eyes. Talia watched him with cool, analytical interest, as if he were a piece on a game board. Nyra simply watched, her face unreadable, trusting the process to reveal the truth.
Bren's jaw tightened. He looked down at the map, then at the sealed parchment in his hand. He thought of the men he'd lost to bad intel, of the commanders who'd used him as cannon fodder. He thought of the oath he'd sworn to Soren, not to a man, but to the cause of freeing the Gifted. This was part of that cause. A dirty, ugly part, but necessary.
He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floorboards. "When do I leave?"
"Now," Soren said, his voice flat. "Be back by dawn."
Bren gave a curt nod, his gaze lingering on Soren for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. It was a look that held a universe of unspoken words—disappointment, understanding, and a grim, unwavering loyalty. He tucked the map and parchment into his tunic, pulled up the hood of his cloak, and moved to the door. Without a backward glance, he slipped out into the night, the click of the latch echoing in the profound silence he left behind.
The room felt colder, emptier. The four of them sat around the table, the space where Bren had sat a gaping wound in their ranks. The test had been administered. Now all they could do was wait for the results.
Nyra broke the silence. "You sent him to die."
"I sent him to find the truth," Soren corrected, his voice low. "If the schedule is real, he'll be back with the information we need. If it's a trap, it means the information was leaked from this room. The Synod will be waiting for him."
"And if he's killed?" Talia's voice was sharp as glass. "You've sacrificed your most loyal soldier for a hunch."
"Then his death will tell us everything we need to know," Soren shot back, his anger flaring. "It will tell us the traitor is real, and that they're willing to kill to protect their secret. It will tell us that every move we make is being watched. His sacrifice would not be in vain."
"Spare me the rhetoric," Talia snapped. "This isn't strategy, it's butchery. You're letting your fear dictate your actions. You're no better than the Synod Inquisitors you claim to fight."
Isolde flinched at the comparison, her hands clenching into fists in her lap. "He's just trying to protect us," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Is he?" Talia retorted, turning on her. "Or is he trying to burn down everything we've built because he's afraid of a ghost? A ghost, I might add, whose message conveniently appeared right when you were about to destroy the Synod's greatest weapon."
The accusation hung in the air, poisoning what little trust remained. Soren felt a surge of frustration, the urge to lash out, to force them to see the world as he did—a nest of vipers where every shadow held a threat. But he held it back. Nyra's presence was a dam against his own destructive impulses. He had made his move. He couldn't unsay it, couldn't undo it. All he could do was see it through.
He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Wait here," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He walked to the far corner of the room, where a small, grimy window looked out onto a deserted alley. He leaned against the wall, the rough brick cool against his back, and watched the moonlight paint the cobblestones in shades of silver and grey. He could feel the eyes of the others on his back, a mixture of anger, fear, and pity. He ignored them. He focused on the mission, on the ticking clock, on the fate of the man he had just sent into the darkness.
The hours bled into one another, a slow, agonizing crawl. The tavern below fell silent, then stirred with the faint sounds of the pre-dawn clean-up. The lantern on the table sputtered, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mock their vigil. Nyra eventually stood and began to pace, her movements silent and fluid. Talia sat perfectly still, her eyes closed, as if meditating or simply conserving energy. Isolde prayed, her lips moving silently, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white.
Soren remained at the window, his senses stretched to their limit. He listened for the city's waking sounds—the distant rumble of a cart, the cry of a watchman, the first tentative call of a dawn bird. Each sound was a marker, a step closer to the moment of truth. He replayed his conversation with Bren, the look in the old soldier's eyes. Had he seen understanding or condemnation? Had he seen a commander or a monster? He didn't know. The uncertainty was a gnawing ache in his gut.
As the first grey light of dawn began to seep into the sky, a new sound reached him. The soft, deliberate tread of boots on the cobblestones in the alley below. He tensed, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his blade. The footsteps stopped directly below the window. There was a pause, then the faint scrape of a boot against the wall. A signal.
Soren moved to the door and unlocked it, pulling it open just enough to peer out. Bren stood there, his cloak spattered with mud and something darker. His face was etched with exhaustion, but his eyes were sharp, clear. He was alone.
Soren opened the door wider, and Bren stepped inside, bringing with him the chill of the pre-dawn air and the faint, coppery scent of blood. The three women at the table turned, their expressions a mixture of shock and relief.
"You're back," Isolde breathed, her voice filled with wonder.
"I'm back," Bren confirmed, his voice a low rasp. He shrugged off his cloak, revealing a long tear in his leather tunic and a deep, bloody gash on his forearm.
Talia was on her feet in an instant, her professional demeanor overriding her anger. "You're wounded."
"It's nothing," Bren said, waving her off. He looked directly at Soren, ignoring the others. "The patrol schedule was garbage."
Soren's heart sank. A trap. He had been right. And he had sent Bren to his death.
"The gap was there," Bren continued, his voice steady. "But it was a kill box. Two Inquisitors in ambush positions, a full squad of Templars in reserve. They weren't there for a supply runner. They were there for someone they expected to be using that exact route at that exact time."
Talia's eyes widened. "The information was leaked."
"Without a doubt," Bren said. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, leather-bound ledger. It was stamped with the Radiant Synod's sigil—a sunburst pierced by a sword. He tossed it onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud. "I didn't stick around to chat. I caused a distraction on the far wall and slipped through the sewers. One of the Inquisitors got a little too close." He gestured to the gash on his arm. "He dropped this."
Soren stared at the ledger, his mind racing. The test had worked. It had proven the leak was real. But the cost…
"I'm sorry, Bren," he said, the words feeling inadequate. "I put you in danger."
Bren met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "You did what you had to do. We're at war, Soren. In war, people get used as bait." He paused, his eyes flicking to Nyra, then back to Soren. "But there's something you should know." He picked up the ledger and flipped it open to a marked page. "This isn't just a patrol ledger. It's a manifest. And it's not a supply list."
He turned the book around and pushed it toward Soren. On the page, under a column marked 'Asset Transfer,' was a single, handwritten entry. A name. Soren's name.
Soren felt the blood drain from his face. Beside him, he heard Nyra's sharp intake of breath.
"They're not moving supplies," Bren said, his voice grim. "They're moving people. Or at least, planning to. And they knew I was coming. The whole thing was a message." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It wasn't a trap for me, Soren. It was a message for you."