# Chapter 774: The Hidden Tomb
The Withering King's voice, a perfect, chilling echo of High Inquisitor Valerius, cut through the fragile hope like a shard of glass. It stood between them and the cleft in the rock, a monolith of corrupted flesh and shadow, its form no longer flickering but solid, absolute. The air around it grew cold, the fine grey dust on the ground freezing into brittle, crystalline patterns. The scent of ozone and ancient rot washed over them, a stench of profound wrongness.
"A fitting place to die," it hissed, the Valerius-mask twisting into a sneer. "Surrounded by failure and decay."
Kaelen Vor was the first to move. He didn't charge or roar. He simply stepped forward, placing himself between the monster and the others, his battered sword held in a two-handed grip. His body was a tapestry of bruises and shallow cuts, his Cinder-Tattoos a network of dark, exhausted lines, but his stance was unyielding. "You'll have to go through me," he said, his voice a low growl.
The Withering King tilted its head, a gesture of grotesque curiosity. "The Bastard of Vor. A dog with no master, yapping at a storm. I will enjoy unmaking you." It raised a hand, and the ash at its feet stirred, coalescing into jagged spears of blackened glass that hovered in the air, poised to strike.
"Kaelen, no!" Nyra shouted, her voice raw. She was on her knees, the discovery of the wheel having sapped the last of her strength. Her mind, however, was a razor. "It's a distraction! The tomb! Get Soren inside!"
Prince Cassian, his face pale but set with grim determination, understood. He grabbed Soren's limp form under the arms, his muscles straining with the dead weight. "Lyra, help me! Kestrel, the entrance! Now!"
Lyra, her own exhaustion evident in the tremor of her hands, moved to Soren's legs. Together, they began the agonizingly slow process of dragging him toward the narrow fissure in the rock. Kestrel Vane, the wiry scavenger, was already there, his eyes scanning the dark opening. "It's tight," he called out, his voice tight with urgency. "And there's a slide of rock blocking the way. It's been sealed."
"Then unseal it!" Cassian grunted, his boots slipping in the ash as he heaved Soren forward.
The Withering King ignored them, its focus entirely on Kaelen. "Your defiance is meaningless. Your world is an echo. Your life is a footnote." The glass spears shot forward, not in a volley, but in a deadly, precise pattern, designed to corner and impale.
Kaelen didn't try to dodge them all. He knew it was impossible. Instead, he exploded forward, a desperate, bull-like charge. He took one spear in the shoulder, the black glass punching through his leather armor with a sickening crunch. He roared in pain but didn't break his stride. Another spear grazed his ribs, tearing a deep gash. He ignored it, his world narrowing to the single, monstrous figure before him. His Gift, a simple but brutal enhancement of his own physical resilience, flared to life. The Cinder-Tattoos on his arms glowed with a faint, desperate light as he pushed his body beyond its limits, the cost a searing agony that was almost a welcome distraction from the spear lodged in his flesh.
He slammed into the Withering King. The impact was like hitting a statue carved from solid granite. The creature didn't budge, but a flicker of surprise crossed its Valerius-face. Kaelen swung his sword in a wide, horizontal arc. The blade, enchanted to bite into magical flesh, connected, and a shower of black sparks erupted from the King's side. The wound sealed instantly, the corrupted flesh flowing back together like oil.
"Your anger is a spark," the King whispered, its voice now directly in Kaelen's ear. "I am the inferno." It backhanded him, not with a hand, but with a wave of pure force. Kaelen was lifted off his feet and thrown twenty feet, crashing into the rock spire with a bone-jarring impact. He slid to the ground, his sword clattering from his grasp, his vision swimming.
Behind them, the sound of frantic scraping echoed from the fissure. Kestrel was working with a frenzy born of terror, using a small pickaxe to chip away at the ancient mortar holding the seal in place. "It's old! It's brittle! Almost there!" he yelled.
The Withering King turned its attention from the fallen Kaelen to the group at the entrance. It raised its hand again, but this time, the ground itself began to tremble. The rock face around the fissure groaned, dust and pebbles raining down. It was going to bring the entire spire down upon them.
"No!" Nyra screamed, pushing herself to her feet. She had nothing left. No Shard, no Gift, no strength. All she had was her will. "Your fight is with us! With me!"
The creature paused, its head swiveling toward her. A slow, predatory smile spread across its stolen face. "You. The Sable girl. The architect of this futile little pilgrimage. I saved you for last. Your despair will be the sweetest."
It took a step toward her, ignoring the others completely. It was a fatal miscalculation. In that moment of distraction, Kestrel let out a triumphant cry. With a final, desperate heave, he dislodged the key stone in the seal. The entire blocking section of rock, weakened by ages and Kestrel's frantic work, groaned and slid inward, revealing a dark, narrow passage beyond.
"Go! Go!" Cassian yelled, shoving Soren's feet through the opening. Lyra scrambled through after him, pulling Soren into the darkness. Cassian looked back, his eyes meeting Kaelen's, who was struggling to rise. "Kaelen!"
"Leave me!" Kaelen coughed, blood flecking his lips. "Get them inside! It's what he'd want!" He pushed himself up, grabbing his sword, using it as a crutch. He was a broken shield, but he would hold.
The Withering King saw the open tomb. A flicker of something other than arrogance—fear?—crossed its features. It abandoned its slow advance on Nyra and lunged for the entrance, its form blurring with speed.
Cassian didn't hesitate. He grabbed Nyra by the arm and practically threw her toward the opening. "In! Now!" He followed her in, pulling Kestrel with him just as the King's clawed hand swiped through the space they had occupied a second before.
They were inside. The air that hit them was a shock. It was cool, dry, and utterly still. It tasted of dust and ancient stone, but it was clean. It was the first breath of air they had taken that wasn't tainted by the Bloom's corruption. The passage was short, opening into a small, circular chamber carved directly from the living rock of the spire. The only light came from the faint, grey luminescence that seeped in from the entrance behind them.
In the center of the chamber, resting on a raised dais of the same stone, was a simple, unadorned sarcophagus. It was a block of granite, rough-hewn and solemn, with no carvings, no epitaph. It was the tomb of a man who wanted to be forgotten.
Cassian and Lyra gently laid Soren's unconscious body on the floor beside the dais. Kestrel immediately began checking the walls for other exits or traps, his scavenger's instincts taking over. Nyra sank to her knees, her body trembling uncontrollably. They had made it. They were inside the tomb of Soren's father.
A profound silence fell over the chamber, broken only by their ragged breaths. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. For a moment, they dared to believe they were safe.
Then, a voice echoed from the narrow entrance, not from outside, but from within the passage itself. The Withering King was inside.
"A fitting place to die," it said, the Valerius-voice dripping with a venomous satisfaction that seemed to absorb the very light in the room. "Surrounded by failure and decay."
It stepped out of the passage and into the chamber. Its presence was an immediate violation. The clean, stale air grew thick and foul. The faint light from the entrance seemed to bend around it, casting long, dancing shadows that made the simple chamber feel like a cage. Its gaze swept over them, dismissing Cassian and Lyra, lingering for a moment on the fallen Kaelen, who had managed to drag himself inside and now lay propped against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The monster's eyes finally settled on Soren, lying still on the floor, and then on the stone sarcophagus.
"So this is it," the King mused, its voice a low, contemplative hiss. "The great secret. The last bastion of the Vale line." It took a slow, deliberate step toward the sarcophagus, its clawed feet making no sound on the stone floor. "A box of bones and regrets."
Nyra forced herself to stand, her legs shaking. "Stay away from him," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.
The Withering King ignored her, its attention fixed on the tomb. It reached out a hand, its fingers long and twisted, the nails like blackened talons. It didn't touch the sarcophagus. Instead, it placed its hand on the stone dais just beside it, a gesture of almost casual ownership.
"You brought him here to be healed? To be inspired?" The creature laughed, a dry, grating sound. "This man was the first of your line to fail. He ran from the Bloom. He hid his family in the dirt and left them to die. His weakness is the legacy you all carry."
It looked from the tomb to Soren's prone form. "This is the man whose failure you inherited, Soren," it said, its voice dropping into a venomous parody of comfort, speaking directly to the unconscious fighter. "This is the source of your pain. Your fear. Your pathetic need to save everyone because he could not save himself."
Nyra felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. This was its true attack. Not the illusions, not the physical assault. This was desecration. It was going to poison the well of Soren's past, turn his father's memory into a weapon to break his spirit.
"Don't listen to him," Nyra said, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. She looked at Soren, willing him to hear her. "He's lying. Your father was a survivor. He brought you here. He gave you a chance."
The Withering King's smile widened. It placed its other hand on the lid of the sarcophagus, its fingers splayed across the cool, grey stone. "A chance for what? To be hunted? To suffer? To lead your friends to this cold, dead end?" It leaned closer to the stone, its voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I am not your enemy, child of ash. I am your liberation. I will end the cycle of pain. I will unmake the failure that flows in your veins."
With a final, contemptuous glance at Nyra, it tightened its grip on the sarcophagus lid. A surge of black, corrosive energy, the raw power of the Bloom itself, flowed from its hands into the stone. The granite, which had stood untouched for generations, began to groan. A thin crack appeared in the center of the lid, spiderwebbing outwards with a sound like shattering ice. It was going to break it. It was going to shatter the last remnant of Soren's past and break Nyra's spirit completely.