# Chapter 265: A Mercy Killing
The silence in the arena was a living thing, a fragile membrane holding back a tidal wave of sound and violence. Soren knelt on the sand, his gaze locked on Rook's still face, the ghost of that final, choked syllable echoing in his mind. *So… ren…* A name, or just the death rattle of a machine? He didn't know. The Inquisitors began to move again, their purpose renewed, their focus narrowed to a single point: him. The leader raised her device, the blue light now a brilliant, angry star. From the Synod's box, a figure stood, his gesture sharp and final. There would be no capture. No trial. Only erasure. As the first energy bolt crackled through the air, a new sound erupted from the city—the deep, groaning clang of every alarm bell in the Crownlands ringing at once. A darkness, deeper than twilight, began to bleed across the sky as the city's lights, one by one, died. Nyra. She had answered his unspoken prayer. The arena plunged into panicked darkness, and in that moment, Soren had a choice: die here avenging a ghost, or run and become the nightmare the Synod so feared.
He chose to run.
The first energy bolt, a searing spear of blue light, sliced through the space his head had occupied a heartbeat before. It slammed into the sand, fusing it into a glowing, glassy crater. The crowd, already teetering on the edge of hysteria, finally broke. The fragile membrane of silence shattered into a cacophony of screams. The darkness was absolute, a suffocating blanket broken only by the angry flashes of Inquisitor fire and the dim, emergency glow of the Ladder Commission's sigils high on the arena walls.
Soren scrambled backward, his body a symphony of pain. Every muscle screamed, his ribs throbbed with a fire that made breathing a chore, and the Cinder-Tattoos on his arms felt like brands pressed against his skin. He ignored it all, his mind a razor-sharp point of focus. Survival. He moved low, staying in the shadows cast by the fallen Ironclad, a hulking tomb of steel and flesh. The Inquisitors were disciplined, their movements precise even in the chaos. They weren't firing blindly; they were triangulating his position, tracking the faint residual energy of his Gift.
Another bolt sizzled past, close enough for him to feel the heat on his cheek. He needed a target, a distraction. His eyes fell upon the Announcer's podium, a gilded cage of brass and crystal now dark and silent. An idea, born of desperation and Rook's own cynical lessons, sparked in his mind. Rook had always said the spectacle was as important as the fight. Break the spectacle, and you break the control.
Soren gathered the dregs of his power, a painful, scraping sensation deep in his bones. He didn't have much left, not for a grand display. He would have to make it count. He aimed not at the Inquisitors, but at the massive, reinforced crystal that served as the Announcer's magnifier. He poured his will into a single, focused shard of kinetic force, a needle of pure energy. It flew silently through the dark, invisible until it struck.
The result was instantaneous and deafening. The crystal didn't just shatter; it exploded. A storm of razor-sharp fragments sprayed outwards in a wide arc, accompanied by a high-pitched shriek that tore through the air. The Inquisitors instinctively raised their arms to shield their faces, their formation breaking. The crowd roared, a wave of sound that was part terror, part exhilaration. It was the opening Soren needed.
He bolted. He didn't run for the competitor tunnels, which would be swarming with Wardens and Synod agents. He ran for the stands, for the churning sea of panicked humanity. He vaulted the low retaining wall, his abused muscles protesting violently, and landed in a throng of bodies. The smell of sweat, cheap ale, and fear was overwhelming. Hands grabbed at him, shoving, pulling. He was just another body in the chaos, anonymous and invisible.
He fought his way through the press, using his elbows and shoulders not to injure, but to create space. The darkness was his ally. He could hear the Inquisitors shouting orders, their voices clipped and angry. He could see the faint blue glow of their weapons scanning the crowd. They were hunting him.
"Find him! The heretic cannot escape!"
The voice was amplified, laced with a cold fury that Soren recognized instantly. High Inquisitor Valerius. He wasn't just watching; he was directing the hunt personally. The realization sent a chill down Soren's spine that had nothing to do with his injuries. This wasn't just about containing a scandal anymore. This was personal.
He stumbled up the steep tiers of the seating, his hand slick with his own blood where it dripped from a gash on his forehead. The arena was a labyrinth of terror in the dark. He could hear the cries of the trampled, the shouts of the Wardens trying and failing to maintain order. The city-wide alarms continued their mournful, relentless tolling, a funeral dirge for the Crownlands' fragile peace.
He reached a concourse, a wide walkway where vendors had been selling roasted meats and sugary pastries just minutes before. Now, their stalls were overturned, their wares trampled into the stone. A few flickering emergency lights cast long, dancing shadows. He needed to get out. He needed to find Nyra.
As he paused to get his bearings, a figure detached itself from the shadows ahead of him. It wasn't an Inquisitor. It was a Warden, his Crownlands-issue armor dented, his face pale but determined. The man held a shortsword, its point wavering but aimed at Soren's chest.
"Stop right there, Ladder scum," the Warden gasped, his breath coming in ragged bursts. He was young, no older than Soren's brother. "You're under arrest for… for whatever that was."
Soren didn't have time for this. He didn't want to hurt a man just doing his job, a pawn in a game far bigger than himself. "I'm not your enemy," Soren said, his voice a low growl. "The Synod is. They did that to him. They're going to do worse to all of us if you let them."
The Warden's eyes flickered towards the arena floor, where the emergency lights cast a monstrous shadow from the Ironclad's corpse. He swallowed hard, his grip on the sword tightening. "Lies. The Synod are the keepers of the peace. You're the one bringing chaos."
Before Soren could reply, another figure emerged from the shadows behind the Warden, moving with a silent, fluid grace. A blade flashed in the dim light, not aimed to kill, but to incapacitate. The Warden grunted, his eyes rolling back in his head as the pommel of a dagger struck the base of his skull. He crumpled to the ground without a sound.
Nyra stepped over the fallen Warden, her face a mask of grim determination in the flickering light. She was dressed in dark, practical leathers, her Sable League finery gone. In her hand, she held a pair of loaded crossbows, which she offered one of to Soren.
"You always did like to make an entrance," she said, her voice tight with a mixture of relief and exasperation. "Or in this case, an exit. Come on. The city is on lockdown, but I have a way out."
Soren took the crossbow, the familiar weight of the weapon a small comfort. He looked back towards the arena, towards the silent, fallen form of his mentor. A part of him screamed to go back, to retrieve the body, to give Rook a proper burial, not let him become another piece of evidence for the Synod to dispose of.
"We can't leave him," Soren said, the words thick in his throat.
"We can't save him, Soren," Nyra replied, her voice softening slightly. She understood. Of course, she understood. "He's gone. The best thing we can do for him now is make sure his death wasn't in vain. We have to get the truth out. We have to burn them down for what they did."
Her words were a bucket of cold water, dousing the embers of his grief and fanning the flames of his anger. She was right. Vengeance was a luxury. Survival was a necessity. And the war was just beginning.
"Lead the way," he said, his voice hard as steel.
Nyra nodded and turned, melting back into the shadows. Soren followed, his body protesting every step. They moved through the service corridors of the arena, a maze of steam pipes and forgotten storerooms. The alarms were louder here, a constant, oppressive pressure. They could hear shouts in the distance, the heavy tread of armored boots.
"They're sweeping the lower levels," Nyra whispered, her hand on a rusted iron door. "We have to go up. The rooftops are our only chance."
She pushed the door open, revealing a narrow, spiral staircase. They climbed, the metal groaning under their feet. Soren's vision swam, the edges blurring. The Cinder Cost was demanding its due, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that threatened to pull him under. He gritted his teeth, forcing one foot in front of the other. He would not fail. Not now.
They emerged onto the roof of the arena's outer ring. The wind whipped at them, carrying the smell of ash and distant smoke. Below, the city was a tapestry of darkness, punctuated by the frantic sweeping of searchlight beams and the angry red glow of fires. The lockdown was absolute. The Crownlands' Wardens were out in force, their golden armor gleaming in the fires as they established checkpoints on every major thoroughfare.
"It's a fortress," Soren muttered, leaning against a stone parapet for support.
"A fortress with a sewer system," Nyra said, a grim smile touching her lips. She pointed towards a distant district, where the lights were still on, a small island of order in the sea of chaos. "The Sable League enclave. They have their own private guard and their own power. They won't let the Wardens in without a fight. We just have to get to the storm drains in the old textile district."
"Across the city," Soren said, stating the obvious. "In this."
"In this," Nyra agreed. She pulled a small, leather-wrapped bundle from her pack. Inside were two grappling hooks and coils of thin, but strong, silk rope. "The League prepares for contingencies. You're not the first asset I've had to extract."
They moved across the rooftops, a pair of shadows against the bruised, smoke-filled sky. The city was a warzone. They saw looters smashing shop windows, their faces illuminated by the flames they set. They saw Wardens clashing with desperate citizens, the ring of steel on steel a grim counterpoint to the sirens. The Concord of Cinders was broken, its promise of controlled violence shattered by the Synod's hubris.
As they leaped from one rooftop to another, a searchlight beam swept across their path. They froze, flattening themselves against the cold stone. A voice, amplified by a speaking trumpet, boomed from below.
"In the name of the Radiant Synod and the Concord of Cinders, surrender the heretic Soren Vale! Harboring him is an act of treason against the Crownlands and will be met with immediate execution!"
Valerius was not just hunting him; he was turning the entire city against him, painting him as the cause of this chaos. It was a brilliant, ruthless move.
"They're going to turn the people against me," Soren said, his voice low.
"They're trying," Nyra corrected. "But people aren't stupid. They saw what they did to Rook. They saw the Ironclad. Fear can only override the truth for so long. We just need to survive long enough for the truth to take root."
They reached the edge of the textile district. The roofs here were lower, more cluttered. Below, they could see the target: a large, circular grate set into the cobblestones of an alleyway, the entrance to the storm drains. But the alley was not empty. A squad of Inquisitors was there, four of them, their blue-gauntleted hands glowing with suppressed energy. They were guarding the obvious escape routes.
"A trap," Soren breathed.
"Or an opportunity," Nyra countered, her eyes scanning the scene. "They're expecting us to try and fight our way through. They're not expecting us to cause a distraction." She looked at Soren, her expression unreadable in the dim light. "How much of that Gift do you have left?"
"Enough for one last trick," Soren said, though he wasn't sure if it was a boast or a prayer.
"Good," she said. "I'm going to draw their attention. When I do, I need you to hit that water tower." She pointed to a rusted, cylindrical tank perched on the roof of a nearby warehouse. "Bring it down. The flood should give us the cover we need to get to the grate."
Before he could protest, she was already moving. She took a running start and leaped from their rooftop, landing silently on a narrow awning across the alley. She unslung her crossbow, loaded a bolt, and fired. It wasn't aimed at the Inquisitors, but at a stack of oil barrels piled near the warehouse entrance.
The bolt struck, and the barrel exploded in a shower of flaming oil. The Inquisitors whirled, their training taking over as they moved to investigate the new threat. It was the opening Soren needed.
He closed his eyes, reaching deep inside himself, past the pain and the exhaustion, to the core of his power. It felt like grabbing hold of a live wire. The Cinder-Tattoos on his arms blazed with a searing, white-hot light. He focused all of his remaining will, all of his rage and grief, into a single, concussive blast. He didn't aim at the tower itself, but at its rusted, corroded legs.
The impact was silent but immense. The metal groaned, warped, and snapped. For a moment, the massive tower seemed to hang in the air, defying gravity. Then, with a slow, majestic finality, it toppled. Thousands of gallons of water crashed down into the alley, a tidal wave that slammed into the Inquisitors, sweeping them off their feet and carrying them down the street in a torrent of debris.
"Now!" Nyra yelled.
Soren didn't need to be told. He scrambled down the side of the building, using a drainpipe as a slide. He hit the ground running, his boots splashing through the ankle-deep water. Nyra landed beside him a moment later. Together, they waded to the grate. It was heavy, locked with a rusted iron mechanism.
"Stand back," Nyra said, pulling a small, cylindrical device from her belt. She pressed it against the lock. There was a sharp hiss, and the lock glowed cherry-red before melting into a puddle of slag.
They pulled the grate open, revealing a dark, gaping hole that smelled of damp earth and decay. Without hesitation, they slid into the darkness below, pulling the heavy grate back into place just as the sound of more Inquisitors echoed down the street.
They were in. They were alive. For now. They stood in the dripping darkness of the storm drain, the sounds of the city's chaos muffled and distant. Soren leaned against the cold, slimy wall, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion that had been clawing at him. He slid to the ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Nyra knelt beside him, her hand on his shoulder. "We made it," she said softly.
Soren looked up at her, his vision blurry. "We did," he rasped. "But what now, Nyra? Where do we go from here?"
Her face was grim, but her eyes burned with a cold, hard light. "Now," she said, her voice echoing in the darkness, "we go to war."