# Chapter 770: The Weight of a Shard
The psychic pull was a physical force, a vise closing around Nyra's skull. It was not the Valerius-thing's mocking voice or the sight of its shifting, shadowy form that broke the fragile standoff. It was a sound, a high, thin keen of pure distress from Lyra's cell. Nyra's head snapped around, her eyes widening. Through the bars, she saw Lyra doubled over, her hands clamped to her chest. The pouch containing the Shard of Sorrow was glowing, a malevolent, pulsing violet light that bled through the leather. It was vibrating violently, thrumming like a trapped heart, and Lyra's whole body shuddered with its violent rhythm. The air around her hand shimmered, distorting as the shard fought to tear itself free.
"Hold on to it!" Nyra screamed, her voice raw. She instinctively clutched her own pouch, the two remaining shards within suddenly feeling like ice against her hip. The connection was undeniable, a resonant frequency of pure despair that the Valerius-thing was broadcasting. It wasn't just attacking them; it was calling its pieces home. The fight was no longer just for their lives, but for the very soul of Soren, fragmented and scattered within these cursed crystals.
The Valerius-thing's void-like eyes swiveled from the smoldering form of ruku bez to Nyra. A low chuckle rumbled in its chest, a sound of shifting earth and grinding stone. "The mouse frees herself from the trap. How quaint." It ignored Cassian, who was circling warily, its focus entirely on the newly liberated spy. "You think this changes anything? That this fleeting alliance of broken toys can defy the end?" It raised a hand, and the very air in the corridor grew heavy, thick with the ancient dust of forgotten tombs. The torches dimmed, their flames shrinking to pathetic blue embers. "Let me show you the futility of hope." From the shadows at the edge of its form, tendrils of pure darkness began to uncoil, slithering across the floor toward Nyra, not with speed, but with the inevitable, crushing pressure of a glacier.
Cassian didn't hesitate. He moved with a fluid grace that belied his earlier hesitation, his royal training evident in every line of his body. He wasn't just a prince with a sword; he was a warrior. He intercepted the tendrils, his blade a blur of silver in the gloom. When steel met shadow, it didn't clang. It hissed, like water on a forge's coals, and a shower of acrid, black sparks erupted. Cassian grunted, the force of the impact traveling up his arm and making him stagger. "Get the keys!" he yelled over his shoulder, his voice strained. "Free them! Now!"
Nyra didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled to the fallen jailer, her fingers closing around the heavy brass ring. The metal was cold and greasy. She fumbled with the keys, her hands shaking from the psychic assault and adrenaline. The first key she tried jammed in Kaelen's lock. "Hurry, Nyra!" Kaelen roared from inside, his voice a mixture of fury and desperation. "It's toying with us!"
"I know!" she snapped, yanking the key free and trying another. This one slid in, the tumblers clicking with a sound that was the sweetest music she had ever heard. She threw the door open. Kaelen Vor burst out like a caged wolf, his eyes wild, his body a tapestry of fresh bruises and old scars. He was unarmed, but his fists were clenched, and he looked like he could tear the Valerius-thing apart with his bare hands.
"Lyra!" he snarled, his gaze immediately finding her struggling form.
"Get her cell open!" Nyra commanded, already moving to the next lock. "Cassian, keep it busy! Don't let it focus on her!"
Cassian was doing his best, but he was being driven back. The tendrils of darkness were multiplying, weaving together into a lashing whip that cracked against the stone floor, leaving behind sizzling, corrosive residue. He parried one strike, and the shadow-coiled weapon wrapped around his blade, the dark energy crawling up the steel like a venomous snake. The metal began to blacken and flake away. With a cry of effort, Cassian ripped his sword free, but a foot of the blade was now pitted and useless.
The Valerius-thing laughed, a sound that made the teeth ache. "Your loyalty is a fleeting warmth, prince. A candle flame in the coming night. You will all be ash and memory."
Inside her cell, Lyra screamed again. The violet light from her pouch was now blinding, and the shard was halfway out, floating just above her palm, tugged by an invisible, irresistible force. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror as she fought to keep her grip on the piece of Soren's soul. "I... I can't hold it!" she gasped, her fingers slipping.
Kaelen, freed, charged toward her, but the distance was too great. The Valerius-thing raised its other hand, and a new tendril, sharper and faster than the others, shot directly at Lyra's cell, aiming to spear the floating shard.
"No!" Nyra screamed, fumbling with Kestrel's lock. The key wouldn't work. It was a different mechanism. Panic clawed at her throat. She was going to fail. She was going to watch Lyra be consumed and the shard lost.
Then, a sound that shook the very foundations of the outpost. A roar of pure, unadulterated defiance.
It was ruku bez.
The giant from the wastes, who had been a smoldering, broken statue, pushed himself up. His skin was a horrifying mosaic of raw, weeping burns and cracked, blackened flesh. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the other a burning coal of rage. He moved with a pained, limping gait, but his purpose was clear. He saw Lyra's struggle. He saw the tendril of darkness speeding toward her. And he made a choice.
He didn't charge to attack. He didn't raise his fists to strike. He charged to shield.
With a final, guttural bellow, ruku bez threw himself into the path of the incoming tendril, interposing his massive body between the attack and Lyra's cell. He spread his arms wide, a living, breathing wall of scarred flesh and unbreakable will.
The tendril of corrosive magic struck him square in the chest.
There was no explosion, no grand flash of light. There was only a sound like wet cloth being torn, and a sizzle that turned Nyra's stomach. The darkness sank into ruku bez, spreading through him like a poison. His roar of defiance became a scream of pure agony, a sound so full of pain it seemed to suck the air from the corridor. His body convulsed, the black energy crawling across his skin, opening new wounds, deepening the old ones. The smell of burning meat filled the air, thick and suffocating.
But he held his ground. He did not fall. He stood there, a bulwark of suffering, absorbing the full force of the Withering King's wrath. He had bought them a precious, terrible second.
The psychic pull on Lyra's shard lessened, the Valerius-thing momentarily distracted by the sheer, unexpected ferocity of the sacrifice. The violet light dimmed, and the shard fell back into Lyra's trembling hand. She clutched it to her chest, sobbing, her eyes fixed on the giant who was burning for her.
In that moment, the final lock clicked open. Nyra had found the right key. Kestrel Vane, his face grim and his eyes sharp, stepped out of his cell. He took in the scene in a single glance: Cassian with his ruined sword, Kaelen poised to strike, Lyra weeping over her shard, and ruku bez, a dying hero at the center of the storm.
Kestrel reached into his boot and pulled out a long, slender stiletto. It was a poor weapon against a god-like entity, but it was better than nothing. He looked at Nyra, his expression a question.
Nyra's mind was racing, the tactical part of her brain finally overriding the shock. The keys. She still had the keys. And there was one more cell. One more prisoner. The Withering King had been so focused on the shards and the immediate threats, it had forgotten about the first one it had captured. The one whose cell was deeper in the dungeon, isolated from the others.
"Kaelen, with me!" she yelled, her voice finding its strength again. "Kestrel, help Cassian! Cover Lyra! We're not done yet!"
She ran, not toward the exit, not toward the fight, but deeper into the darkness of the dungeon. Kaelen was right behind her, his bare feet silent on the stone. They had to free him. They had to free Soren. It was the only way to turn the tide. The weight of the shards was not just a burden; it was a map. And it was leading them to the heart of the storm.