# Chapter 330: The Volunteer
The air in the main barracks of Caine's Crossing was thick with the smell of oiled leather, sweat, and the low-burning peat of the wall sconces. It was a scent Soren had come to associate with preparation, with the grim calculus of lives and resources. He stood before a gathering of his most trusted fighters, their faces illuminated in the flickering light, etched with the hardness of survivors. Lyra, her silver hair braided tightly back, stood with arms crossed, her gaze sharp and analytical. Boro, a mountain of a man whose Gift could turn his skin to living iron, shifted his weight, the stone floor groaning faintly under him. Kestrel, the wiry scavenger from the wastes, picked at his nails with a shard of glass, his eyes darting around the room as if reading the currents of the air itself. Grak was there too, his dwarven frame seeming out of place among the tall humans, but his presence was a rock of unyielding purpose.
Soren let the silence hang for a moment, a weight that settled on every shoulder. He had just come from Judit's chapel, and the echo of her words—*embrace the world's darkness*—still reverberated in his mind. It changed everything. This was not a simple salvage run.
"I will not lie to you," Soren began, his voice low but carrying to every corner of the room. "What I am about to ask is more than dangerous. It is a pilgrimage into the world's grave. The Glass Sea is not just a place of strange rock and poisoned air. It is the heart of the Bloom, the place where the world broke. The Synod calls it unholy ground. They are right, but not for the reasons they preach."
He paced slowly, the sound of his boots a steady rhythm against the stone. "We go to find two things: Starfall Obsidian and Heartstone. Grak tells me they are the only materials that can withstand the Synod's light-fire. But Judit tells me they are more than that. They are living fragments of the cataclysm. They hold the world's pain, and its power. To touch them is to touch the chaos that birthed this ash-choked reality."
A murmur went through the assembled group. Lyra's eyes narrowed, her tactical mind already calculating the new variables. Boro simply grunted, a sound of grim acceptance. Kestrel stopped picking at his nails, his attention fully captured.
"This is not a mission for glory or prize money," Soren continued, stopping to face them directly. "This is a mission for the soul of our fight. The Synod wields a sterile, controlling light. We must find a way to answer it. That means going into the darkness and not being consumed by it. The risks are… total. The magic in that place is wild. It will twist your mind, show you visions, prey on your fears. The ground itself is treacherous. And we will be hunted, not just by Synod patrols, but by things that have no name."
He looked each of them in the eye. "I need a small team. Fast, quiet, and resilient. People who can face not just physical death, but spiritual annihilation, and still hold a line. I will not order anyone to go. I ask for volunteers."
Lyra stepped forward without hesitation. "I'm in. If you're walking into hell, you'll need someone who knows how to fight in the dark." Her voice was steady, a testament to the bond forged in a dozen arenas.
Boro followed, his voice a deep rumble. "My shield can stop a crossbow bolt. Maybe it can stop a nightmare. I will go."
Grak slammed a gauntleted fist against his chest plate. "I must go. Only I will know the Heartstone when I see it, only I can judge its worth. My forge awaits its heart."
Kestrel gave a sharp, toothy grin. "I've danced on the edges of the Glass Sea before. It's a nasty place, but the pay is always good. And this time, the pay is a future. I'm your guide."
Soren nodded, a knot of relief and dread tightening in his gut. He had his core. A fighter, a shield, a crafter, and a guide. It was a solid, if terrifying, foundation. He was about to dismiss the others, to begin the final briefing with his chosen four, when a small voice cut through the heavy atmosphere.
"I volunteer, too."
All heads turned. Standing near the doorway, half-hidden in the shadows, was Finn. The boy was thin, his squire's tunic hanging loosely on his frame, but he stood straight, his chin held high. In his hand, he clutched the worn hilt of the practice sword Soren had given him.
A collective, almost silent groan seemed to pass through the veterans. Lyra's expression softened with pity. Boro frowned. Kestrel just looked amused.
"No," Soren said, his voice flat and immediate. The word was a wall of stone. "Absolutely not, Finn. This is not a request. This is an order."
The boy flinched but did not back down. He stepped out of the shadows and into the center of the room. "Why not, sir?"
"Don't 'sir' me right now," Soren snapped, his frustration sharper than he intended. He took a breath, forcing the edge from his voice. "Because you are a child. This is not a Trial in an arena. There are no healers waiting on the sidelines. There is no crowd to cheer you on. This is the Bloom-Wastes. You step wrong, you breathe the wrong dust, you are gone. There is no coming back."
"I know the risks," Finn said, his voice trembling slightly but gaining strength with every word. "I've listened to the stories. I've read the reports Kestrel brought back. I know what's out there."
"You've read about it," Soren countered, stepping closer to the boy. The height difference was stark, a man forged in fire and cinders standing over a boy who had barely known a world without walls. "Reading is not the same as feeling your lungs burn with every breath. It's not the same as seeing a friend's face melt off because he looked at a flower that sang to him. This is not your fight, Finn. Your duty is here, to learn, to be safe."
"That's where you're wrong!" Finn's voice cracked, but the passion behind it was undeniable. It echoed in the sudden silence of the barracks. "It is my fight. It's everyone's fight. You and Lyra and Boro… you're fighting for a chance to win. To get back what you lost. I'm fighting for a future I've never even seen. I don't have anything to lose, sir. But I have everything to gain."
Soren stared at him, his mind racing. He saw the boy's parents in his mind's eye, their faces gaunt with debt and despair. He saw the thousands of others just like them, huddled in the slums of the Crownlands, their lives a coin toss for the powerful. He saw himself in Finn, years ago, standing in the ashes of a caravan, feeling that same desperate, helpless rage.
"It's not about bravery, Finn. It's about utility," Soren said, his tone shifting from commander to tactician, trying to find a logical argument to pierce the boy's resolve. "What can you do that Lyra can't? What can you do that Kestrel can't? You have no Gift. You're not strong enough to fight the creatures out there. You would be a liability. I would have to protect you, and that would get us all killed."
"I'm not strong," Finn agreed, his eyes never leaving Soren's. "I'm not Gifted. But that's why you need me."
He gestured to the others in the room. "Lyra glows like a beacon when she uses her Gift. Boro is a walking mountain of iron. Grak's forge-heart, you can feel that from a hundred paces. Kestrel… well, Kestrel smells like the wastes. Anything with a shred of magic sense will know you're coming a mile away. They'll see you as a threat, a challenge."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to an intense whisper. "But me? I'm nothing. I'm a shadow. I'm a rat in the walls. I can slip through cracks you can't. I can scout ahead and be invisible because I have no magic for them to sense. When you find the Starfall Obsidian, it will be in a place that sings with power. You won't be able to get close. But I can. I can walk right up to it, pick it up, and walk away. I'm not a liability, sir. I'm your secret weapon. I'm your only chance of getting the prize without starting a war with the ground itself."
The room was utterly still. Kestrel let out a low whistle of appreciation. Lyra looked at Finn with new eyes, a flicker of professional respect in her gaze. The boy wasn't just pleading; he was making a case. A damn good one.
Soren felt his resolve crumbling. Every instinct, every protective fiber of his being, screamed at him to send the boy away. To lock him in the deepest, safest part of the city and throw away the key. He had already lost a father; he could not bear the weight of leading a child to his death. But Finn's words cut through his fear. They were pragmatic, logical, and utterly selfless. The boy wasn't asking for glory. He was asking for a purpose.
"You want to fight for the future," Soren said softly, the words barely audible. "Not just hide from it."
Finn's eyes shone with unshed tears, but his voice was firm. "Yes, sir. Hiding is what got us into this mess. It's time someone started fighting back. For real."
Soren looked past the boy, at the faces of his team. He saw no objection. He saw only grim acceptance. They understood the logic, even if they hated the necessity. They were soldiers. They understood that sometimes, the most vital piece on the board was the one you least expected.
He thought of Judit's warning again. *Embrace the world's darkness.* Was this part of it? Trusting the small, the weak, the ordinary? Was the Synod's light so blinding that it could only see power in the Gifted, in the strong and the radiant? Perhaps the true darkness, the true counter, was something else entirely. Something quiet, determined, and human.
The weight of command settled on him, heavier than ever before. This was not a tactical decision anymore. It was a moral one. A spiritual one. He was not just choosing a scout; he was placing a soul on the altar of their cause.
He reached out, his hand hovering over the boy's shoulder for a heartbeat before it came to rest. The fabric of the tunic was thin, worn from countless washings. He could feel the frailty of the bone beneath, the frantic thrum of the boy's heart. It was the heart of their entire rebellion, beating in the chest of a child.
"Then you will be our eyes in the darkness," Soren said, his voice low and firm, carrying the weight of Judit's warning, of his own fear, and of a fragile, terrifying hope. "Do not fail them."
The boy's spine straightened, his chin held high. "I won't, sir."
In that moment, the expedition was no longer just a team of specialists; it was a promise, passed from one generation to the next, a promise to walk into the heart of the world's pain and bring back a piece of its soul.