# Chapter 771: A Fighting Retreat
The sphere of absolute negation left the Withering King's hand. It was not a projectile of fire or force, but a silent, expanding bubble of un-creation. The air it displaced didn't rush; it simply ceased to be. The very light from the distant torches bent around its edges, warping into sickening, distorted smears. It moved with an inexorable, unhurried grace, a hole in the world being drawn toward the door Nyra was desperately trying to open. Inside the cell, a figure stirred, a groan of profound agony echoing from the darkness, a sound that was swallowed whole by the approaching void.
"Get down!" Kaelen roared, shoving Nyra aside with a brutal shove. He didn't have a Gift to throw, no power to manifest. All he had was his body, a lifetime of brutal combat, and a fury that burned hotter than any Cinder-Tattoo. He planted his feet wide in the narrow corridor, bracing his shoulder against the opposite wall, his muscles coiling into steel cables. He was going to try and stop it. It was a fool's gesture, a scream of defiance against a tidal wave.
The iron door, finally yielding to Nyra's frantic efforts, swung open with a shriek of tortured metal. She stumbled inside, her eyes immediately finding the source of the pained sound. Huddled in the corner, chained to the wall, was Soren. He was a wreck. His body was emaciated, his skin a sickly grey, but it was the network of Cinder-Tattoos that stole her breath. They covered every inch of his visible flesh, a intricate, glowing lattice of gold and crimson. But they weren't glowing with power; they were flickering, their light being siphoned away, pulled toward the approaching sphere like iron filings to a magnet. The Withering King wasn't just trying to kill him; it was trying to consume the very source of his Gift.
The sphere of oblivion was ten feet away. Five. The air grew thin and cold, tasting of ozone and dust. Kaelen grunted, his body trembling under an immense, invisible pressure. The stone around his feet began to flake and crumble, turning to grey powder.
"Soren!" Nyra screamed, scrambling across the filthy floor. She fumbled with the heavy manacles on his wrists. They were not simple iron; they were etched with Synod runes, designed to dampen a Gifted's power. The lock was complex. "Soren, wake up! We have to go!"
He stirred, his head lolling to the side. His eyes, sunken and shadowed, fluttered open. They held no recognition, only a bottomless well of pain and confusion. "The… the weight…" he rasped, his voice a dry whisper. "It's so heavy."
The sphere of negation was almost upon them. Kaelen was forced to one knee, his teeth gritted, a low growl of pure effort tearing from his throat. The corridor behind him was dissolving into nothingness.
From the main chamber, a new sound erupted. A desperate, coordinated battle cry. Cassian, his ruined sword held in a two-handed grip, charged forward. Kestrel, moving like a phantom, was at his side. They weren't attacking the King; they were attacking the dungeon itself. Cassian slammed his shoulder into a massive, load-bearing pillar. Kestrel threw a pair of daggers, not at the shadowy form, but at the weakened points in the ceiling above it. Their goal was simple: cause a collapse. Bury the attack. Bury the King if they could.
The Withering King, its attention split, faltered. The sphere of negation wavered for a fraction of a second.
It was enough.
The manacles clicked open. Soren's arms fell limp, but Nyra was already hauling him up, slinging one of his arms over her shoulder. He was dead weight, a sack of bones and despair. "Kaelen, now!" she yelled.
Kaelen didn't need to be told twice. He abandoned his futile stand and lunged toward them, grabbing Soren's other arm. Together, they dragged the barely conscious fighter from the cell just as the Withering King's attack finally arrived.
It didn't explode. It simply… arrived. The iron door, the stone frame, the section of wall—it all vanished. There was no sound, no fire, no shrapnel. Just a perfect, hemispherical void where the cell used to be. The edge of the void glowed with a faint, dying light before the stone behind it groaned and shifted, cascading rock and dust into the newly formed abyss.
They stumbled back into the main chamber, a chaotic scene of desperate retreat. Cassian and Kestrel had succeeded in bringing down a section of the ceiling, temporarily blocking the main corridor and forcing the Withering King to spend precious moments clearing the rubble. Lyra was weeping, trying to stem the flow of black, corrupted blood from ruku bez's chest with her bare hands. The giant man was pale, his breathing shallow, but he was alive.
The Withering King emerged from the dust cloud, its form more solid, more enraged than ever. Its shadowy body coalesced, the features of High Inquisitor Valerius twisting into a mask of pure hatred. It ignored the rubble, ignored the rearguard. Its burning eyes were locked on Nyra, on Soren, on the pouch of shards at her hip. It knew. It knew Soren was free, and it knew the final confrontation was at hand.
"We can't win this here!" Nyra's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and clear. She lowered Soren to the ground, propping him against a wall. Her tactical mind, honed by years of Sable League training, was working at a furious pace. The outpost was a death trap. A confined space where the King's power could annihilate them all. They needed room. They needed to run. "We have to lead it away!"
Kaelen looked from the advancing King to the wounded ruku bez, his face a grimace of indecision. "Lead it where? There's nowhere to go!"
"Out," she said, her gaze sweeping the room, taking in every asset, every liability. She saw Cassian, his royal bearing now masked by grime and determination. She saw Kestrel, already calculating an escape route. She saw Lyra, her face streaked with tears but her jaw set with stubborn resolve. "It wants the shards. It wants Soren. It will follow us. That gives the outpost a chance."
It was a calculated sacrifice. They would become the bait. The lure.
She turned to Cassian, her expression unreadable. He was a prince, a man trained for command, but here, in this dungeon, he was just another fighter, and she was the one giving the orders. He met her gaze, and in his eyes, she saw no argument, no challenge. He saw the logic. He saw the necessity.
"Get him out," she said, her voice dropping, becoming intensely personal. She gestured to ruku bez. "Get them all out. The back tunnel. The one Kestrel found." She looked from Cassian to Kaelen. "We'll draw its fire."
Cassian nodded grimly, a single, sharp dip of his chin. He understood. It was a fighting retreat, a rearguard action played on the grandest, most terrible scale. He and Kaelen would get the wounded to safety. She and Soren would be the distraction.
"Kaelen," she said, turning to the brutal fighter. "Help Cassian. Get ruku bez and Lyra out. Now." Her tone left no room for debate.
Kaelen hesitated for only a heartbeat, his eyes flicking to the advancing Withering King, then to Soren's slumped form. He gave Nyra a look that was part respect, part terror, and then he was moving. He and Cassian each took an arm of the giant ruku bez, lifting him with a grunt of strained effort. Lyra scrambled to her feet, grabbing the Shard of Sorrow, her face pale but determined. Kestrel was already at the far wall, prying open a hidden panel that revealed a dark, narrow passage.
The Withering King saw them. It saw the escape. A low, guttural sound, like grinding stone, echoed from its chest. It raised its hands, tendrils of pure shadow lashing out, not at the fleeing group, but at the ceiling above them, intending to bring the entire tunnel down upon their heads.
"No!" Nyra screamed. She grabbed the Shard of Despair from her pouch. The moment her fingers touched the cold, smooth crystal, a wave of hopelessness washed over her, a vision of her own death, of Soren's, of all their efforts ending in silent ash. She fought it down, channeling the despair, twisting it. She didn't have the strength to use its power, not really, but she could give it a target. She threw the shard with all her might.
It flew through the air, a glint of violet light. The moment it left her hand, the Withering King's attention snapped to it. The tendrils aimed at the ceiling faltered, swerving, intercepting the shard mid-flight. They coiled around it like black snakes, and the shard's light flickered and died, consumed.
It was the opening they needed.
Cassian, Kaelen, and Lyra vanished into the darkness of the tunnel with ruku bez. Kestrel gave Nyra one last, sharp nod before disappearing after them, pulling the panel shut behind him.
Silence descended, broken only by the heavy, menacing footsteps of the Withering King. It was just her, and Soren, and the god of ruin standing before them.
Nyra knelt, her heart hammering against her ribs. She shook Soren's shoulders. "Soren. Wake up. I need you." His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. The glowing tattoos on his skin were dim, almost extinguished. The King's proximity was draining him, even now.
The Withering King took a step forward, its shadow falling over them. The air grew cold, thick with the scent of ancient dust and forgotten magic. It raised a hand, not to attack, but simply to point. A gesture of finality.
Nyra did the only thing she could think of. She leaned in close, her lips brushing against Soren's ear. She didn't speak of tactics or escape. She spoke of the one thing that might reach him through the pain.
"Your family," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Your mother and brother. We're so close, Soren. Don't let this thing take that away. Fight."
For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, a single, crimson line on Soren's arm flared to life, burning with a defiant, brilliant light. A low groan escaped his lips, not of pain, but of effort. He was fighting. He was coming back.
The Withering King hissed, a sound of pure fury. It took another step, its power gathering, ready to unleash a final, overwhelming strike.
Nyra stood up, placing herself between Soren and the monster. She had no shards left to throw. She had no weapon. All she had was her will, and the desperate, flickering hope that the man behind her was strong enough to save them both. The fighting retreat was over. The real fight was about to begin.