# Chapter 776: The Last Stand
The silence in the tomb was a physical weight, pressing in on them, thick with the scent of ozone and sterile ash. Soren stood, the golden seed cradled in his palm, its light a soft, steady beacon against the encroaching dark. The remnants of the Withering King were nothing more than a pile of grey, inert dust, a monument to a victory that felt too vast, too incomprehensible to be real. Kaelen Vor, pale and slick with sweat, was propped against the wall, a makeshift bandage pressed to his side by a grim-faced Cassian. Lyra stood guard near the entrance, her body taut as a drawn wire, while Kestrel Vane watched Soren with the wide, terrified eyes of a man who had just stared into the face of a god.
It was Nyra who broke the tableau, her mind, ever the strategist, already calculating the next move. "We have to go. Now. The tomb is unstable, and whatever energy Soren released will be like a beacon to every Inquisitor for a hundred leagues."
Soren gave a slow nod, his gaze still fixed on the seed. He could feel his father's consciousness within it, a quiet, steady presence that was both a comfort and an immense burden. "You're right." His voice was a low rasp, the sound of gravel grinding. "Everyone, on your feet. We're leaving."
As Cassian moved to help Kaelen, a low groan echoed through the chamber. It wasn't the sound of shifting rock. It was deeper, more resonant, a vibration that seemed to emanate from the very air around them. The pile of inert dust that had been the Withering King began to stir. It didn't rise like a man, but coalesced, the particles swirling into a vortex of absolute blackness. From that vortex, a hand emerged, then another, followed by a head that was no longer the stolen face of Valerius, but a shifting, featureless mask of shadow.
A wave of despair, cold and sharp as an icicle, washed over the chamber. It was the King's final, most potent weapon: the aura of hopelessness that had broken civilizations.
"No," Nyra whispered, the word stolen from her lips by the encroaching dread. But then her eyes hardened, the pragmatist in her warring with the despair. She saw Soren sway on his feet, the golden light of the seed flickering as his exhaustion fought to overwhelm him. She saw Kaelen, barely able to stand, and Cassian, his face a mask of grim resolve. They were out of time, out of strength, and out of miracles.
A primal scream tore from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated defiance. "NO!"
The sound shattered the oppressive silence, a shard of raw will against the tide of despair. Adrenaline, hot and fierce, surged through her veins, burning away the cold. She didn't look to see if the others followed. She didn't have to. This was not a plan. It was a promise.
She lunged forward, her daggers flashing in the dim light. Kaelen, seeing her charge, let out a guttural roar of his own. He shoved Cassian aside, pushing himself off the wall with a herculean effort. His axe, a heavy, brutal thing he should barely be able to lift, felt light as a reed in his hands. He was a dead man walking, and that made him the most dangerous thing in the room. Elara, her face pale but set, moved with them, a blur of motion on their flank. They were not charging to win. They were charging to die, to buy Soren one last, precious second.
The Withering King turned its featureless face toward them, an air of profound boredom emanating from it. It raised a single, shadowy hand.
Kaelen was the first to reach it. He put every ounce of his fading life, every memory of battle, every ounce of his stubborn pride into a single, devastating swing. The axe, humming with the force of his momentum, arced through the air, aimed at the creature's neck. For a moment, it seemed it would connect. Then, the King simply flicked its wrist.
An invisible force, solid as a castle wall, met the axe head. The impact rang out, a deafening clang of metal on immovable object. The shockwave traveled up the handle, through Kaelen's arms, and into his torso. He felt bones crack, his already wounded body screaming in protest. The axe was torn from his grasp, and he was thrown backward as if by a giant's fist. He crashed into a stone pillar and slumped to the ground, a broken doll, his breath coming in wet, ragged gasps.
Elara was faster, more agile. She used the tight quarters of the tomb, leaping from a fallen block to a jutting piece of masonry, trying to get above the creature, to find a blind spot. She moved like a whisper, a ghost in the gloom, her twin shortswords ready. But the King didn't need eyes. It sensed her, the heat of her living body, the beat of her desperate heart. It turned its head, and a torrent of black energy, thick as tar, erupted from its outstretched fingers. The stream caught Elara mid-leap. She didn't even have time to scream. The energy enveloped her, and she fell, her body striking the stone floor with a sickening, wet thud. She lay still, the light gone from her eyes.
Nyra saw it all in a horrifying, slow-motion cascade. Kaelen's broken form. Elara's silent fall. The King, untouched, turning its attention back to Soren. It was over. They had failed.
But she was still moving. Her feet pounded against the stone floor, each step a refusal to surrender. She was a dozen feet away when the King turned its void-like face to her. It raised its hand again, but this time, Nyra was ready. She didn't charge straight in. She feinted left, then dove right, sliding across the dusty floor, her daggers held low. She wasn't aiming for the creature's body. She was aiming for its base, for the swirling vortex of dust from which it was born.
It was a fool's gambit, and the King knew it. It didn't bother with a torrent of energy. Instead, it simply stamped its foot. The ground erupted. A pillar of stone shot up from the floor, catching Nyra square in the chest. The impact was immense, a physical blow that stole the air from her lungs and sent her flying backward. She tumbled through the air, a chaotic mess of limbs and flying daggers, her vision swimming with black spots.
She struck the sarcophagus with a bone-jarring force. The impact drove the last of the air from her body and sent a blinding flash of pain through her ribs. She slid down the side of the ancient stone coffin, collapsing in a heap at its base. The world spun, the sounds of the tomb fading to a dull roar. She could taste blood in her mouth. Her body refused to obey her commands, a leaden, broken thing.
Through a haze of pain, she saw the Withering King loom over her. It was a monolith of shadow and despair, its form wavering, yet utterly solid in its intent. It reached down, its hand no longer a claw of energy but a more defined, five-fingered appendage of solidified night. It wasn't reaching for her. It was reaching for the pouch at her belt, the one containing the three shards of the Sorrowful Heart. The last remnants of their quest.
Its fingers brushed against the leather of the pouch. Nyra tried to struggle, to bat its hand away, but her limbs wouldn't move. She was a spectator in her own final moments.
"It is over," the King declared, its voice a flat, emotionless resonance that vibrated in her very bones. The cold finality of the words settled over her, heavier than a shroud. The fight was gone. The hope was extinguished. All that was left was the cold, hard certainty of failure. The King's fingers began to close around the pouch.