# Chapter 761: The Path of Regret
The psychic scream of the Withering King faded, but its echo remained, a cold, greasy film on the surface of their minds. The Sunken Quarter, already a tomb, felt tighter, more claustrophobic, its stone walls seeming to press inward with the weight of a malevolent gaze. Kaelen's knuckles were white on the haft of his axe. He looked from ruku bez's broken form to the dark passage leading to the Forges, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. "He knows," Kaelen said, his voice low and hard as iron. "So what? Let him know. Let him watch. We're not rats in a maze. We're coming for the key." He turned to Elara. "Get him walking. We don't stop."
As Elara worked to fashion a crude sling for ruku bez's shattered arm, Lyra reached out a trembling hand and laid it on the Shard of Hope. She didn't seek a path this time; she sought understanding. The world dissolved. She saw a sky of bleeding color, felt the earth scream as it was unmade. She saw a being of pure light and life being chained, torn apart, its essence reforged into a weapon of endless hunger. She saw the Withering King not as a monster, but as a victim, twisted into an engine of cosmic despair. And she understood. They weren't just fighting a villain. They were fighting a tragedy.
The vision broke, leaving Lyra gasping on the cold stone floor. The knowledge was a poison in her veins, a sorrow so profound it felt physical. She looked at her friends, at their grim, determined faces, and wanted to weep for them, for the world, for the broken thing they were destined to fight.
"Move," Kaelen grunted, hefting ruku bez's good arm over his shoulder. The big man groaned, a sound of pure agony. Elara secured the sling, her movements efficient but her eyes clouded with worry. Kestrel Vane, ever the scout, was already at the passage's entrance, his knife in hand, peering into the oppressive dark. "The air's changed," he whispered, his voice tight. "Thicker. It tastes like… regret."
They moved out, a grim, wounded procession. The moment they stepped from the relative safety of the chamber into the main thoroughfare of the Sunken Quarter, the world warped. The grey, ash-dusted stone of the ancient city dissolved. The air, once still and cold, now carried the scent of woodsmoke and baking bread. The oppressive silence was replaced by a cacophony of familiar sounds: the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the distant laughter of children, the murmur of a crowded market.
They were standing on the cobbled street of Oakhaven, Elara's home.
Elara froze, her breath catching in her throat. The sun, a warm, golden disc she hadn't seen in years, beat down on her face. The buildings were no longer crumbling ruins but sturdy timber-framed houses, their windows bright with cheer. She saw the old well where she used to draw water, the town square where festivals were held. It was perfect. It was home. And it was a lie.
"Elara?" Kaelen's voice was a distant, distorted echo, as if underwater. "What is this? What's happening?"
She couldn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on a figure stumbling out of a nearby alley. It was her father, but not the strong, proud man she remembered. This man was a wreck, his clothes little more than rags, his face a mask of despair and starvation. His eyes, once so full of life, were hollowed out, sunken into his skull. He fell to his knees in the street, his hands clasped together as if in prayer.
"Elara," he rasped, his voice a dry, crumbling thing. "Our daughter. You left us."
Another figure emerged from the shadows behind him. Her mother, gaunt and frail, her once-beautiful hair now a lank, dirty grey. She clutched a small, shivering boy—Elara's little brother, Finn. He was so thin, his ribs visible through his tunic. He looked at her, not with love, but with a profound, bewildered betrayal.
"We waited," her mother whispered, tears carving clean tracks through the grime on her cheeks. "We waited for you to come back. But you never did. The debtors came. They took everything. Then the sickness came. We have nothing, Elara. We have nothing because you chose to run. You chose your own life over ours."
The words were physical blows, each one landing with the force of a hammer strike. The guilt she had buried, the justification she had clung to for years—that she had to leave to find a way to help them—crumbled into dust. Here was the truth, laid bare: her absence had not been a noble sacrifice; it had been a death sentence. They were starving. They were dying. And it was her fault.
"No," she whispered, taking a step back. "That's not true. I was trying to save you. I'm still trying."
"Save us?" her father spat, a flicker of his old anger igniting in his dead eyes. "You doomed us! You ran off to play hero in some grand war while we rotted! Look at your brother, Elara. Look what you did to him!"
Finn looked up at her, his eyes wide and pleading. "I'm hungry, Elara. Why did you leave me to be hungry?"
The illusion was perfect. The scent of the bread was from the baker's shop just down the street. The sound of the blacksmith's hammer was Old Man Hemlock, who always gave her a sweetcake when she brought her father's tools for repair. It was all there, a perfect, painful memory twisted into a weapon. The Withering King wasn't just showing her a fantasy; he was using her own life, her own love, to break her.
Her knees buckled. The weight of their gazes, the crushing reality of their suffering, was too much. She sank to the ground, the rough cobbles of Oakhaven's street scraping against her palms. She was a failure. A monster who had abandoned her family to their fate. The fight, the Ladder, the keystones… it was all a selfish lie she had told herself to ease the guilt. A sob tore from her throat, raw and agonizing.
While Elara drowned in her sorrow, the assault shifted. The illusion of Oakhaven flickered and died, replaced by the sterile, white walls of the Sable League's infirmary. The target was Lyra.
She was no longer in the Sunken Quarter. She was standing in a clean, bright room, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and lilies. Before her, standing on a raised dais, were two figures she knew better than anyone: her parents. They were not starved or broken like Elara's family. They were immaculate, dressed in their finest League silks, their faces composed, beautiful, and utterly cold.
"Lyra," her mother said, her voice devoid of any warmth. It was the voice she used when addressing a business rival, not her daughter. "We have been watching you."
"We have seen what you have become," her father added, his hands clasped behind his back, the picture of disappointed authority. "The reports from the wastes are… illuminating."
Lyra looked down at her hands. They were covered in grime, her fingernails broken. She could feel the grime of the Sunken Quarter on her skin, the phantom weight of the Shard of Hope in her pocket. It felt dirty, profane, in this pristine place.
"You were always such a delicate child," her mother continued, her tone almost conversational. "A gift for art, for beauty. We had such plans for you. A good marriage, a place in the League's court. A future worthy of our name."
"But you chose another path," her father said, his voice hardening. "You chose to consort with gutter fighters and common thugs. You chose to dabble in powers you do not understand."
He gestured, and an image appeared in the air between them: a vision of Lyra in the wastes, her face streaked with ash, her eyes wide with a desperate, feral light as she clutched the Shard of Hope. The stone pulsed in the image, its light seeming to taint her, to mark her as something other.
"That thing," her mother said, her lip curling in disgust. "That… shard. It is a corruption. A sickness. You carry a piece of the Bloom's cataclysm, Lyra. You have let it inside you."
"We raised you to be a Sableki," her father said, his voice dropping to a low, final judgment. "Proud. Cunning. In control. But this… this is not our daughter. This is a monster. A thing that feeds on chaos and despair."
"Monster," her mother echoed, the word striking Lyra like a physical blow. "You are a disgrace to our name. A blight on our legacy. We have no daughter."
They turned their backs on her in perfect, chilling unison, dismissing her as if she were a servant who had outstayed her welcome. The white room began to fade, the image of her parents' cold rejection burning into her mind. The Shard of Hope in her pocket suddenly felt impossibly heavy, a cursed object that had cost her the only thing that had ever mattered: her family's approval.
She had always known her parents were ambitious, that their love was conditional, tied to her performance and her usefulness to the family. But to see it so starkly, to be called a monster and disowned with such finality… it shattered the last fragile pillar of her self-worth. She had clung to the hope that if she succeeded, if she proved her worth, they would welcome her back. Now she knew there was no coming back. She was truly, utterly alone.
A choked cry escaped her lips. She stumbled back, away from the fading image of her parents, her hands flying to her head as if to physically hold herself together. The connection to the shard, once a source of comfort and guidance, now felt like a chain, binding her to the very thing that had made her an outcast. She was a monster. They were right.
The illusions fell away, leaving the four of them standing once more in the grey, dusty ruin of the Sunken Quarter. But the damage was done. Elara was on her knees, weeping silently, her body shaking with the force of her grief. Lyra was pressed against a wall, her arms wrapped around herself, her face a mask of horrified self-loathing. ruku bez, leaning heavily on Kaelen, stared blankly ahead, his own trauma still a raw, open wound. Kaelen stood in the middle of it all, his axe hanging useless in his hand, his face a canvas of fury and helplessness. He could fight crystal beasts and Inquisitors, but how could he fight an enemy that turned their own hearts against them?
He saw Elara crumpled, heard Lyra's ragged breaths. He felt the despair rolling off them in waves, a tangible presence that was as dangerous as any physical foe. It was a poison, sapping their will, their strength, their hope. And he knew, with a sickening certainty, that this was only the beginning. The Withering King was just getting started.
Kaelen wanted to roar, to smash something, to find the creature doing this and tear it apart with his bare hands. But he couldn't. He was the leader now. He had to hold them together. He took a deep breath, the air tasting of dust and decay, and forced the rage down. He walked to Elara and crouched beside her, his voice a low, rough murmur. "Elara. That wasn't real. It's a trick. He's using your memories."
She just shook her head, her sobs not abating. "It felt real," she choked out. "It felt true."
"It's not," Kaelen insisted, his tone firm but gentle. "Your family needs you. The real you. Not this. Get up."
He looked over at Lyra. The young woman was staring at her hands, a single tear tracing a clean path through the grime on her cheek. "And you," Kaelen said, his voice softening slightly. "Whatever they said, it's a lie. You're here. You're fighting. That's not a monster. That's a hero."
His words were like stones thrown into a bottomless ocean. They made no impact. The psychological wounds were too deep, too personal. He was a fighter, not a poet. He didn't have the words to mend what had been broken. He felt a surge of his own despair, a cold dread that they were already beaten, that the Withering King had won without ever laying a hand on them.
He looked at Kestrel, who was standing guard, his face grim. The scout just shook his head slowly, a silent acknowledgment of their dire situation. They were trapped, not by walls, but by their own minds.
And then, a new voice cut through the suffocating gloom. It was weak, strained, but clear as a bell.
"No."
It was Nyra.
They all turned. She was leaning against the wall, her face pale, her body battered, but her eyes were burning with a fierce, defiant light. She had been on her knees, weakened by the psychic backlash, but she had forced herself to her feet. She looked at Elara, weeping on the ground, at Lyra, shrinking against the wall. She saw the hopelessness in Kaelen's posture, the defeat in their auras.
She saw her team, her family, crumbling under the weight of the Withering King's assault. And she knew, with a certainty that settled like a cold fire in her soul, that this was the true battle. Not the clash of steel, not the unleashing of Gifts, but this. The war for hope.
She couldn't fight this enemy with strength or speed. She couldn't out-think it with strategy or out-maneuver it with tactics. The Withering King was a master of despair, a king of regret. To fight him on his own terms was to lose. She had to change the battlefield. She had to fight him with the one thing he could not comprehend, the one thing he could not corrupt.
Hope.
She pushed herself off the wall, her legs trembling but holding. She took a step forward, then another, her gaze sweeping over them all. She saw the doubt, the pain, the fear. And she felt a surge of love for them, for their stubborn, flawed, brilliant humanity.
"It's a lie," she said, her voice ringing with a newfound authority that had nothing to do with her Sable League training. "All of it. Every vision, every word. It's a lie crafted from your own pain."
She walked to Elara and knelt, her hand resting on the other woman's trembling shoulder. "Your family is strong, Elara. They taught you to be strong. They would never want you to give up. They would want you to fight. For them. The memory of them is not a weapon to be used against you. It is your shield."
Elara looked up, her tear-streaked face confused. "But I saw them…"
"You saw what he wanted you to see," Nyra said, her voice firm but kind. "Think of your father's pride. Think of your mother's smile. Think of the strength in your brother's heart. That is the truth. Not this."
She stood and moved to Lyra, taking the younger woman's hands in her own. They were cold. "And you," she said softly. "Your parents are ambitious. They are flawed. But they are not the whole world. You found a new family here. With us. We see you. We don't see a monster. We see Lyra. We see our friend. Our heart."
Lyra looked at her, her eyes wide, a flicker of something other than self-loathing stirring within them.
Nyra looked at Kaelen, at Kestrel, at the wounded ruku bez. She saw the exhaustion, the fear, the wounds. But she also saw the spark that still remained, the embers of their defiance. The Withering King had thrown his worst at them, and they were bent, but they were not broken.
She knew what she had to do. She couldn't just tell them to have hope. She had to show them.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Shard of Hope. It felt warm in her hand, a tiny sun against the encroaching darkness. She held it aloft, not as a key or a tool, but as a banner.
"He wants us to believe we are nothing," she said, her voice rising, filled with a power that transcended her physical form. "He wants us to drown in our pasts, in our mistakes, in our pain. But our pasts are not our prisons. They are the foundation upon which we stand!"
She focused on her own memories, not the regrets, but the reasons for it all. She thought of Soren, of his stubborn, infuriating, beautiful spirit. She remembered the feel of his hand in hers, the sound of his laugh, the fierce, unwavering love in his eyes. She poured all of it, every ounce of her love and longing and determination, into the shard.
"He wants us to see a world of ash and despair," she cried out, her voice echoing in the vast, dead city. "But I see a world worth saving! I see faces worth fighting for!"
And the stone in her hand answered.
It didn't just glow. It erupted.
A brilliant, warm, golden light burst forth from the Shard of Hope, a wave of pure, unadulterated defiance. It washed over them, pushing back the grey, suffocating haze of the Withering King's presence. The air grew warm, the scent of dust and decay replaced by the clean, crisp smell of rain on dry earth. The oppressive psychic pressure lifted, and for the first time since entering the Sunken Quarter, they could breathe.
The illusions of their personal hells flickered and died, unable to withstand the sheer, unyielding force of a single, focused heart. Elara's sobs quieted, her head lifting, her eyes clearing as the golden light touched her. Lyra straightened, her hands unclenching, the self-loathing on her face replaced by a dawning wonder. Even Kaelen stood taller, the weight on his shoulders seeming to lessen as the light washed over him.
The light pushed outwards, illuminating the ruins around them. It didn't transform them back into what they were, but it revealed them for what they truly were: not a place of despair, but a place of history. A testament to survival. The grey stone was just stone. The shadows were just shadows. There was no malice here, only memory.
For a long moment, they stood in the radiant silence, bathed in the light of a single, stubborn hope. They were still in the Sunken Quarter. They were still wounded, still hunted, still facing an impossible task. But they were no longer alone in the dark.
Nyra lowered the shard, the light softening to a steady, warm pulse. She looked at her team, at the determination now burning in their eyes where despair had been moments before. They were bruised, but they were whole. They were ready.
She met Kaelen's gaze, and he gave her a slow, respectful nod. He understood. He wasn't just the leader anymore. They all were.
"The Forges are waiting," she said, her voice quiet but clear. "Let's not keep them."