# Chapter 294: The Bastard's Pride
The world dissolved into an incandescent roar. Soren felt his very being unspool, the cinder-tattoos across his body burning with a light so bright it was dark. He was no longer a man but a conduit, a vessel for a cataclysm. The marble floor beneath his feet turned to slag, the air crackled and screamed. Above him, the great keystone groaned, a final, mortal protest before it shattered. The sound was lost in the inferno. A rain of stone and dust began to fall, then a torrent. The last thing he saw before the world was blotted out was the grey figure of The Ironclad, standing directly beneath the epicenter of the sky's fall, its implacable form finally swallowed by the chaos. Then, silence. A profound, ringing silence broken only by the sound of his own ragged, burning breaths. He was on his knees, his arm a charred ruin, his strength gone. From the swirling dust ahead, a figure emerged, his scimitar held in a white-knuckled grip, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. Kaelen Vor had survived.
The dust settled in a thick, choking grey blanket, muffling sound and blurring the edges of the devastated hall. The air was still hot, carrying the acrid scent of burnt stone, vaporized dust, and the metallic tang of Soren's own blood. He knelt in a crater of his own making, the marble around him fused into a jagged, glassy obsidian. His left arm was a nightmare of blackened flesh and cracked skin, the cinder-tattoos there now dark, lifeless voids against the char. Every breath was a struggle, a fire in his chest that threatened to consume him from the inside out. The Cinder Cost had been exacted in full, a brutal, unforgiving tithe. He had won. He had saved them. And he was broken.
Through the haze, Kaelen's form solidified. He was covered in dust, his fine enforcer's armor scuffed and dented, but he was whole. His squad was not. Two of his men lay crushed under fallen masonry, their still forms twisted at unnatural angles. The other two were struggling to their feet, dazed and wounded. Kaelen's eyes, however, were fixed solely on Soren. The predatory glee, the smug confidence, was gone. In its place was a cold, murderous rage. His prize was ruined. His men were dead. The clean capture ordered by Valerius had become a fiasco.
"You," Kaelen's voice was a low growl, stripped of its earlier taunting melody. It was the sound of grinding stone. "You ruined it."
Soren tried to push himself up, but his muscles screamed in protest. His vision swam. He managed to get one foot under him, then the other, rising to a swaying, unsteady stand. He let his ruined arm hang limp at his side, his right hand fumbling for the hilt of his longsword. The simple, familiar grip was a small anchor in the storm of his pain. He didn't answer. There was nothing to say. This was no longer about the Ladder, about prize money, about the Synod's machinations. It was about pride. Kaelen's pride, wounded and bleeding, now demanded a sacrifice.
"I was going to take you to Valerius myself," Kaelen continued, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. The dust puffed around his boots. "He wanted you alive. A grand spectacle. But now…" He raised his scimitar, the blade catching a sliver of light from a hole in the new ceiling. "Now, I'll just bring him your head."
The remaining enforcers, seeing their leader's intent, began to circle, their spears leveled. They were wolves moving in for the kill on a wounded stag. Soren's gaze flickered from one to the other, then back to Kaelen. He was trapped. Outnumbered. Exhausted. A grim, familiar calm settled over him. This was the caravan all over again. This was the moment when all that was left was the fight.
He shifted his weight, the glassy ground crunching under his boots. He raised his sword, the motion sending a fresh wave of agony through his side. He ignored it. He had to. He focused on Kaelen, on the tell-tale shift of weight, the micro-expression of pure hatred that tightened the corners of his rival's eyes. He wouldn't survive this. Not really. But he would make them pay. He would make Kaelen pay.
Kaelen lunged. It was not a graceful Ladder flourish, but a brutal, straightforward charge. His scimitar, a blur of silver, aimed for Soren's neck. Soren's body, honed by a hundred fights, moved on pure instinct. He twisted, his ruined arm screaming as he used it to deflect the enforcer on his left, shoving the man into his companion. The scimitar hissed past his ear, close enough to slice a few stray hairs from his temple. The air grew frigid in the blade's wake. Kaelen's Gift, a chilling aura that sapped strength and slowed movement, washed over him. It was like trying to fight through waist-deep snow.
Soren retaliated with a clumsy, powerful slash of his own. Kaelen parried it easily, the screech of steel on steel a sharp, violent sound in the quiet ruin. He was toying with him, testing the extent of his injuries. Soren knew it. He feinted left, then dropped low, sweeping his leg out. It was a desperate move, but it connected. Kaelen stumbled, his balance thrown for a precious second. Soren surged forward, ignoring the fire in his lungs, and drove his shoulder into Kaelen's chest.
They went down in a heap of tangled limbs and clattering armor. The impact knocked the wind from Soren's lungs, but he held on, his good hand scrabbling for purchase on Kaelen's gorget. He needed to end it. He needed to land a single, decisive blow. Kaelen, however, was a seasoned pit fighter. He drove his knee into Soren's wounded side. The world exploded in a nova of pure, white-hot agony. Soren's vision went white, his grip slackening. Kaelen shoved him off, rising to his feet with a contemptuous kick to Soren's ribs.
Soren rolled with the kick, the glassy ground shredding his leather armor. He came up against a fallen pillar, using it to pull himself to his feet. He was gasping, blood flecking his lips. The two enforcers were advancing again, their spears forming a deadly pincer. Kaelen just watched, his arms crossed, a cruel smirk returning to his face. He was going to let his dogs finish it.
No. Not like this.
The thought was a spark in the inferno of his pain. Nyra. Boro. His mother, his brother. He had not sacrificed himself for this. He had not burned his own life away to be run down by nameless enforcers. A new kind of heat began to build, deep in his gut. It wasn't the uncontrolled cataclysm from before. It was smaller, focused, a core of pure, incandescent will. He couldn't bring down the ceiling again. But he could burn.
As the first enforcer lunged, Soren pushed off the pillar. He didn't meet the spear point. He met the shaft. His good hand closed around the wood, the splinters digging into his palm. He twisted, using the man's own momentum to spin him around into the path of his partner. The two enforcers collided in a clatter of armor and confused shouts. Soren didn't hesitate. He slammed his free hand, palm flat, against the chestplate of the first man.
He didn't unleash a wave. He pushed a single, searing pulse of cinder-energy directly into the metal. The enforcer's eyes went wide. His armor glowed cherry-red, then white-hot, in an instant. The man screamed, a high, thin sound cut short as the superheated metal cooked him alive within his shell. The smell was horrific. The second enforcer stared in horror, his spear forgotten. Soren, his arm trembling from the effort, ripped the glowing-hot spear from his dying comrade's grasp and threw it. It wasn't a perfect throw, but it didn't need to be. The spearhead, still glowing, punched through the man's throat. He dropped with a wet gurgle.
Silence returned to the hall, heavier and more absolute than before. It was just Soren and Kaelen. The two surviving enforcers lay dead, their bodies smoking in the gloom. Kaelen's smirk was gone, replaced by a look of grudging, furious respect. He saw Soren now not as a wounded animal, but as a cornered god of destruction.
"So, the rat still has teeth," Kaelen murmured, his voice low and dangerous. He unhooked a small, circular shield from his back, the device emblazoned with the stylized sun of the Synod. "Good. This would have been boring otherwise."
He advanced again, slower this time, more cautious. His scimitar was held low, ready. The chill of his Gift intensified, the very air around him frosting over. Soren's breath plumed in the sudden cold. He was at his absolute limit. Every movement was an exercise in torture. His vision was tunneling, the edges dark. But the fire in his gut held, a tiny, defiant star against the encroaching darkness.
He met Kaelen's charge. Their blades clashed again, and again, a furious, percussive rhythm in the tomb-like hall. Kaelen was faster, stronger, his movements fluid and precise. Soren was a brute force, a desperate, flailing storm of pain and fury. He was a blacksmith hammering against a master fencer. For every blow he landed, Kaelen landed three, shallow cuts that stung with the cold of his Gift, sapping Soren's fading strength.
Kaelen's shield came up, not to block, but to bash. Soren barely got his sword in the way, the impact jolting him to the bone. Kaelen spun, his scimitar a silver arc aimed at Soren's head. Soren ducked, the blade whistling inches overhead. He drove his sword forward in a desperate lunge, a purely instinctive attack. It was clumsy, telegraphed. Kaelen's shield moved to intercept it.
But Soren wasn't aiming for the shield. At the last second, he twisted his wrist, changing the angle of the blade. The tip of his longsword, notched and battered from a hundred fights, scraped along the edge of the shield and slipped past, finding a gap in Kaelen's armor beneath the arm.
The point bit deep.
Kaelen froze. His eyes widened in shock and disbelief. He looked down at the steel protruding from his side, at the dark stain of blood rapidly spreading across his white tunic. The chill of his Gift faltered. The air warmed. Soren, his own body screaming in protest, twisted the blade.
A guttural cry of pure agony tore from Kaelen's throat. He dropped his scimitar, the blade clattering onto the glassy floor. He staggered back, his hand clutching at the mortal wound. He fell to his knees, his arrogant, prideful demeanor shattered, replaced by the raw, primal terror of a man staring into the abyss.
Soren stood over him, his sword still slick with his rival's blood. His own vision was swimming, the darkness at the edges closing in. He could end it. One quick thrust. It would be over. Kaelen would be gone. A threat eliminated. He raised his sword for the final blow. He looked down at his fallen enemy, at the face twisted in pain, and he saw it. Beneath the rage and the pride, he saw fear. The same fear he'd seen in his father's eyes. The same fear he felt every time he thought of his family in the labor pits.
He hesitated. It was a flicker, a heartbeat of misplaced compassion in a world that demanded ruthlessness. It was the stoicism that made him refuse help, now twisted into a fatal inability to deliver a killing blow to a beaten foe.
It was all the time Kaelen needed.
With a roar of pure, spiteful fury, Kaelen lunged forward, not with a weapon, but with his bare hand. He didn't grab for Soren. He grabbed for the hilt of the sword still lodged in his own side and, with a final, convulsive heave, ripped it free. Blood gushed from the wound. But as he pulled the blade out, he swung his other hand, the one holding the small, circular shield, in a vicious, underhanded arc.
The edge of the shield, reinforced with steel, slammed into Soren's knee with the force of a battering ram. The bone shattered with an audible crack. Soren screamed, his leg giving out from under him. He collapsed, his sword falling from his nerveless fingers. Kaelen, bleeding profusely but triumphant, loomed over him, his face a mask of vengeful glee. He raised the shield high, preparing to crush Soren's skull.
"Pride is a weakness, Vale," Kaelen rasped, his voice thick with blood and victory. "And you have too much of it."