# Chapter 717: The Summoning
The crossbow bolt was a sliver of absolute finality, its steel tip a cold star in the gloom. Nyra's breath hitched, the air in her lungs turning to ice. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to dive, to use the flare clutched in her hand. But the logic that had guided her through the citadel's labyrinthine guts held her fast. To use it now was to summon a rescue that would have to fight its way through a fortress on high alert. It was a death sentence for Kaelen and anyone who followed him. To drop it was to surrender, to place herself entirely at the mercy of men who had none.
The choice was no choice at all.
Her fingers, stiff with cold and exhaustion, uncurled from the smooth metal cylinder. It fell from her grasp, clattering onto the damp stone walkway with a sound that echoed like a tolling bell in the oppressive silence of the sewer tunnel. She slowly raised her empty hands, palms forward, a universal gesture of submission. The crossbow didn't waver. The man with the granite face took a deliberate step forward, his armored boots crunching on the gravel. Behind him, the other guards fanned out, their torchlight pushing back the shadows and revealing the full extent of her entrapment. There were six of them, a wall of steel and grim determination.
The High Priest remained in the rear, a spectral figure in his immaculate white robes, a stark contrast to the filth and decay of his surroundings. He watched with an unnerving stillness, his gaze not on Nyra, but on the fallen flare. A flicker of something—disappointment? curiosity?—crossed his features before being smoothed away into a mask of serene authority.
"Secure her," the granite-faced guard commanded, his voice a low rumble. "Bind her hands. Check her for other devices."
Two guards moved forward, their movements practiced and efficient. They didn't rush. They didn't need to. Nyra stood her ground, her body trembling, not from fear, but from the sheer, crushing weight of her failure. She had been so close. The connection with Lyra, however brief, had been real. She had planted a seed of doubt, a flicker of resistance. Was it enough? Or would it be crushed under the heel of the man now approaching her?
Rough hands grabbed her arms, the grip of a vise. They pulled her forward, forcing her to her knees on the wet, uneven stones. The cold seeped through her soaked robes, a chilling prelude to the fate that awaited her. Another guard began patting her down, his hands impersonal and thorough. He found the concealed knife at her belt and tossed it clattering onto the stone. He found the small pouch of medicinal herbs. He found the smooth, worn river stone she kept for luck. Each item was a piece of her life, stripped away and discarded.
Then his fingers brushed against the bandages on her forearms. He paused, feeling the unnatural warmth radiating from beneath the linen wrappings.
"She's wounded here," the guard reported, his voice flat.
"Unwrap it," the granite-faced guard ordered.
Nyra's heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The moment her true nature was revealed. The guard's fingers worked at the tight knot, and the bandage fell away. The Shard of Will pulsed with a soft, internal light, its glow casting a faint blue sheen on the guard's surprised face. The intricate patterns of the Cinder-Tattoo swirled around it, dark and angry, a stark testament to the power she wielded and the price she had paid. The guard did the same to her other arm, revealing the Shard of Compassion, its light a warmer, gentler gold.
A collective intake of breath rippled through the guards. They were not just acolytes or simple soldiers; they were members of the Ashen Remnant, taught to revile the Gifted as abominations, walking scars upon the world. To see not one, but two shards, the very source of such power, on an intruder was a profound shock.
The High Priest finally moved, gliding past his men to stand over her. He looked down, not at her face, but at the shards embedded in her arms. His expression was one of profound, almost scholarly interest. He reached out a hand, not to touch her, but to hover his fingers just above the glowing crystals. Nyra felt a pull, a strange and invasive pressure against her mind, a psychic probe that tested the edges of her consciousness. She flinched, her mental fortitude, already frayed, straining against the intrusion.
"So," the High Priest said, his voice soft yet resonant in the tunnel. "The dissonant spirit has teeth." He finally met her eyes, and in their depths, she saw no anger, only a cold, calculating light. "You are not a pilgrim. You are not a lost soul seeking salvation. You are one of them. A Gifted."
He straightened up, his gaze sweeping over his stunned guards. "This is no common spy. This is an affront. An abomination walking in our holy place, touching the mind of our Prophet." He gestured to the shards. "These are the seeds of the Bloom, the very corruption we seek to cleanse from the world. And she has brought them into our sanctuary."
The guards' shock hardened into revulsion and anger. Their grips on her arms tightened, the leather of their gauntlets creaking. The granite-faced guard looked to the High Priest, his face a mask of righteous fury. "What is your will, Father?"
"Her will is irrelevant," the High Priest said, his voice rising with fervor. "She is a vessel of a false power. But she is also a vessel. And vessels can be emptied. They can be refilled." He looked back down at Nyra, a chilling smile touching his lips. "You sought to touch the Prophet's mind. You sought to understand her sorrow. You will have your wish. You will know her sorrow. You will drown in it."
He turned and began walking back down the tunnel. "Bring her. The Prophet will want to meet the one who dared to whisper in her ear."
The guards hauled Nyra to her feet. Her legs were numb, her body a canvas of aches and pains. They dragged her along, not roughly, but with an unyielding force that brooked no resistance. She stumbled, her feet catching on the uneven ground, but their grip held her upright. They moved through a network of tunnels and passages, each one cleaner and more structured than the last. The damp, earthy smell of the sewers gave way to the scent of incense and old stone. They were ascending, moving back into the heart of the citadel.
They emerged not into the plaza, but into a quiet, torch-lit antechamber. The air was still, the thick stone walls muffling the sounds from outside. Here, the acolytes they passed moved with a silent reverence, their eyes downcast. They saw the prisoner, saw the shards glowing on her arms, and averted their gazes, as if looking upon her was a sin in itself.
The guards led her to a heavy, iron-bound door. Two sentries stood guard, their spears crossed. They parted silently at the approach of the High Priest. The door groaned open, revealing a short, winding staircase that led up into darkness.
Nyra was pushed up the stairs, her bare feet slapping on the cold stone steps. At the top was another door, this one made of dark, polished wood. The High Priest produced a key from his robes, the metal making a soft, clicking sound as he turned the lock. The door swung inward.
The room beyond was spartan and severe. Stone walls, a simple cot, a writing desk, and a single, narrow window that looked out not upon the city, but upon the grey, ash-choked wastes. It was a cell, but a cell of a different kind. A place for contemplation, or for breaking.
The guards shoved her inside, releasing her arms. Nyra fell to her knees on the hard stone floor, the impact sending a fresh wave of pain through her body. The door closed behind her, the sound of the lock echoing in the sudden silence. She was alone with the High Priest.
He walked to the center of the room, his back to her, and looked out the window at the desolate landscape. "You see that?" he asked, his voice quiet. "That is the truth of the world. Not the brief, violent flash of your so-called Gift. Not the fleeting passions of cities and kingdoms. That is the end. The Bloom was the world's death rattle, and we are the ones who linger in the corpse."
He turned to face her, his white robes seeming to absorb the meager light of the room. "Your kind, the Gifted, you are echoes of the sickness. You wield the plague as if it were a tool. You celebrate the very thing that destroyed everything. We do not. We seek the quiet. The peace of the ash. The final, gentle stillness of oblivion."
Nyra pushed herself up, her arms trembling. She met his gaze, her own exhaustion momentarily burned away by a surge of defiance. "You call it peace. I call it nothingness. You worship death."
"I worship truth," he corrected, his voice calm. "And the truth is that your power is a lie. It promises strength, but it only consumes. Look at your arms." He gestured to the shards. "They are beautiful, are they not? They glow with a light that seems to promise hope. But it is the light of a fire that consumes its own fuel. You are the fuel. Every time you use your power, a piece of you turns to ash. Your Cinder-Tattoos are not a mark of honor; they are a tally of your own decay."
He stepped closer, kneeling down so he was at her eye level. The scent of ozone and old parchment clung to him. "You came here to save the girl. Lyra. A noble, if foolish, sentiment. But you cannot save her. You can only join her in her suffering. Her power, the Shard of Sorrow, is the purest expression of the Bloom's despair. It is a burden that would break a lesser mind. We have given her purpose. We have given her a way to channel that pain into a final, beautiful act of cleansing. The Final Cleansing."
"You're using her," Nyra rasped, her throat dry. "You're torturing her."
"We are guiding her," the High Priest said, his voice unshaken. "And now, we will guide you. You wanted to get close to her. You will have that opportunity. The Prophet has been… unsettled since your mental intrusion. She feels your dissonance. She is curious."
He stood up, his shadow falling over her. "The crowd in the plaza has been waiting for a sign. For a demonstration of our resolve. They believe the Prophet is communing with the ash, preparing for the great ritual. But they are restless. They need to see that their faith is rewarded. That the impure are purged."
He walked to the door and knocked twice. It opened immediately. The granite-faced guard stood there, waiting.
"Bring her," the High Priest commanded.
The guard entered and hauled Nyra to her feet once more. This time, they didn't go back down the stairs. They moved down a different corridor, one that opened onto a high, stone balcony overlooking the central plaza. The noise hit her like a physical blow—the chanting of the crowd, the low hum of the energy sphere, the crackle of torches.
Below, the scene was one of terrifying devotion. Thousands of pilgrims and acolytes were packed into the plaza, their faces turned upward toward the dais where Lyra still sat, a small, weeping figure at the heart of the swirling vortex of grey energy. The High Priest stepped out onto the balcony, raising his hands. The crowd's chanting died down, a wave of silence rolling out from his presence.
He held up a hand, his voice ringing with authority, amplified by some unseen magic. "The Prophet has sensed a dissonant spirit!"
A murmur went through the crowd.
"One who does not believe! An intruder! A carrier of the Bloom's corruption, who sought to poison the Prophet's mind!"
The guards dragged Nyra out onto the balcony, into the full view of the thousands below. A collective gasp rose from the crowd, followed by angry shouts. They saw her wet, torn robes. They saw the glowing shards on her arms. They saw the enemy made flesh.
"Behold!" the High Priest boomed, his voice filled with righteous fury. "Behold the face of the old world! The face of chaos! The face of the lie we have all forsaken!"
The crowd roared its approval, its anger, its hatred. It was a tidal wave of sound, a physical force that pressed in on Nyra, threatening to crush her spirit. She felt their collective will, a single-minded desire for her destruction, for her purification. She was no longer Nyra Sableki, a strategist, a spy. She was a symbol. An offering.
The High Priest turned from the crowd, his cold eyes fixing on her. He looked down, not with pity, but with the detached curiosity of a man examining an insect. "You will be brought before the Prophet," he declared, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that only she and the guards could hear over the din of the crowd. "She will decide your fate."