# Chapter 787: A Faint Pulse
Soren kept his hand pressed over the shard-heart, its warmth a steady anchor in the sea of his uncertainty. He focused, not with the brute force he'd used against the Withering King, but with the gentle precision of a watchmaker. He pictured the golden light of the World-Seed not as a weapon, but as water, and he willed it to flow from him, a slow, nourishing stream into the barren garden of Nyra's soul. A faint, golden shimmer spread from his chest, down his arm, and once again enveloped her hand. The color in her cheeks seemed to deepen by a fraction, her breaths a little stronger. It was working. It was slow, agonizingly slow, but it was working. A grim smile touched his lips. He would stay here for a thousand years if he had to. He would pour every ounce of his being into her. From the shadows across the tomb, a low groan echoed, followed by the scrape of metal on stone. Kaelen Vor was pushing himself up, his vision blurred. He blinked, focusing on the scene before him—the impossible glow, the man he thought was dead, and the woman who should be. "By the Cinders," Kaelen rasped, his voice a mix of disbelief and horror. "What did you do?"
The question hung in the still, cold air of the tomb, sharp and alien. Soren didn't look up. His entire world had narrowed to the space between his hand and Nyra's, to the fragile thread of life he was weaving. He could feel Kaelen's presence, a jagged edge of pain and confusion scraping against the newfound harmony within him. But the rival's shock was a distant storm, irrelevant to the quiet, desperate work at hand. He ignored the question, pouring more of his concentration into the flow of energy. The golden light intensified, casting long, dancing shadows from the carved pillars. It illuminated the dust motes drifting in the air, turning them into a swirling galaxy. The air itself seemed to warm, the chill of the ancient stone receding before this gentle, persistent heat.
He could feel the connection more clearly now. It wasn't just a transfer of power; it was a resonance. His shard-heart, a fusion of creation and destruction, was reaching out to the dormant spark within Nyra. He could sense her, not as thoughts or words, but as a faint, distant echo. A single, pure note held in the vast, silent cathedral of her mind. It was the essence of her—her cunning, her fierce loyalty, her hidden idealism—all compressed into a single, unmoving point of light. His power was not forcing it to shine; it was simply feeding it, keeping the embers from dying out. The realization brought a fresh wave of emotion, a potent cocktail of relief and profound sorrow. She was there. Trapped, but there.
The effort was immense. It was like trying to hold a single drop of water on the tip of a needle during an earthquake. Every flicker of doubt, every pang of fear for their future, threatened to shatter his focus. The indigo energy of the Withering King stirred within him, a cold, cynical whisper suggesting this was a fool's errand, a waste of his newfound divinity. *Let her go,* it seemed to hiss. *You are a god now. You have no need of such mortal anchors.* Soren recoiled from the thought, his mental walls slamming down. He pushed the indigo back, submerging it beneath the golden light of the World-Seed. This power was his. The Withering King was a prisoner, not a partner. He would not let its nihilism poison this one, sacred act.
Kaelen had managed to get to his knees. He swayed, one hand pressed to a gash on his temple, his eyes wide as they tried to process the impossible tableau. The last thing he remembered was the world tearing apart, the clash of two titanic forces, and Soren being consumed by the void. Now, Soren was kneeling, glowing like a fallen star, performing some kind of miracle on the woman they had both watched die. Kaelen's mind, a pragmatic weapon honed by years in the Ladder, refused to accept it. It was a trick. An illusion. A final, cruel joke played by the dying god-thing.
He pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling. The armor he wore, once gleaming and proud, was now a wreck of scorched plates and dented steel. He took a hesitant step forward, the sound of his boot scraping the floor unnaturally loud. "Vale," he said, his voice stronger now, laced with suspicion. "That's not possible. I saw her. The life... it was gone."
Soren finally lifted his head. His eyes, once a simple, determined brown, were now swirling nebulae of gold and indigo. They held no anger, no triumph, only a depth of weariness that seemed ancient. "You saw a body fail," Soren said, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the stone. "You didn't see what matters." He looked back down at Nyra, his expression softening. The golden light flowing from him pulsed, and for a moment, the faintest hint of a smile seemed to touch Nyra's lips before vanishing. It was a phantom, a trick of the light and hope, but it sent a jolt through Soren's heart.
He had to be careful. The power was vast, but Nyra was fragile. He remembered the tales of the Bloom, how the uncontrolled magic had twisted life into monstrous forms. He was wielding that same magic now, albeit in a controlled form. One misstep, one surge of emotion, and he could unravel her instead of healing her. The thought was a cold knife in his gut. He forced himself to breathe, to slow the frantic pounding of his own heart. He needed to be a surgeon, not a berserker.
Kaelen took another step closer, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his broken sword. He stopped, the gesture feeling foolish and useless. What was a blade against a man who could command life and death? "What are you?" Kaelen whispered, the awe finally breaking through his hardened cynicism.
Soren didn't answer immediately. He was focused on the energy flow, on the delicate balance. He could feel the edges of Nyra's consciousness, like the shores of a frozen lake. He was pouring warmth onto the ice, but it was thick, ancient. It would take time. An eternity, perhaps. "I'm the man who failed her," Soren finally said, his voice thick with a grief that was still fresh, still raw. "And the man who won't let her go."
The admission hung in the air, stripping away the divinity and leaving only the man. Kaelen stared, his rivalry, his animosity, his entire worldview crumbling in the face of such simple, devastating honesty. He had fought Soren, hated him, seen him as an obstacle, a brute fueled by nothing but rage and debt. But this... this was something else entirely. This was a love so profound it could bend the laws of existence.
The tomb felt different now. The oppressive weight of ages had been replaced by a sense of sacredness. The dual light from Soren's body cast the carved reliefs of his ancestors in a new light, their stern faces seeming to watch, to approve. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and something else, something clean and pure, like rain on sun-baked earth. It was the smell of creation.
Soren knew he couldn't stay here forever. The tomb was a sanctuary, but it was also a prison. Nyra's body was stable, but she needed more than just his raw energy. She needed care, nourishment, a world to come back to. He needed to get her out. But how? The journey through the wastes would be perilous, and he was in uncharted territory with his own power. Every step would be a risk. He looked at Kaelen, seeing not a rival, but a problem. A wild card. What would he do? Would he try to stop him? Would he run back to the Synod, to the Ladder Commission, and tell them what he had seen?
The thought sparked a flicker of the old defensiveness in him. He straightened his shoulders, the golden and indigo light flaring slightly, a silent warning. Kaelen saw it and held up his hands, a gesture of surrender. "I'm not your enemy here, Vale. Not anymore." He sank back down to sit on a fallen piece of masonry, the fight gone out of him. "I just... I need to understand."
Soren studied him, his new senses allowing him to perceive more than just the man's physical form. He could see the faint, grey tendrils of the Cinder Cost clinging to Kaelen's spirit, the price of a life spent in the Ladder. He could see the weariness, the deep-seated pain of a man who had sacrificed everything for a glory that had ultimately proven hollow. For the first time, Soren felt a flicker of something other than rivalry for Kaelen Vor. Pity.
"The Withering King is gone," Soren said, choosing his words carefully. "But it's not gone. It's... in here." He tapped his chest, over the shard-heart. "And so is the World-Seed. They're part of me now." He looked at his glowing hands. "I am the balance. And the war."
Kaelen shook his head slowly, trying to wrap his mind around it. "So the prophecy... the Bringer of Light and the End of All Days..."
"Weren't two different people," Soren finished. "They were two choices. One path." He looked back at Nyra, his expression hardening with resolve. "I chose a third."
He gently withdrew his hand from Nyra's. The golden light receded, but not completely. It faded to a soft, internal luminescence, a constant, gentle pulse that kept her stable. Her breathing remained even, the color in her cheeks holding. It was enough for now. He had to move. He rose slowly, his joints protesting, and carefully scooped Nyra into his arms. She was light, impossibly so, her head lolling against his shoulder. He held her close, a fierce protectiveness surging through him. He was a fortress, and she was the treasure he was built to defend.
He turned to face Kaelen, who was watching him with an expression of dawning comprehension. "You can't take her out there," Kaelen said, his voice practical again. "The wastes are crawling with Remnant cultists, Synod patrols... and whatever else was woken up by... that." He gestured vaguely at the scorched center of the tomb.
"I don't have a choice," Soren said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
"There's always a choice," Kaelen countered, pushing himself to his feet once more. He winced, clutching his ribs. "Look at you. You're glowing like a beacon. You'll be spotted from a league away. And you can't fight and carry her. Not effectively."
Soren hadn't considered that. His mind had been so singularly focused on saving her, he hadn't thought about the logistics. The bastard had a point. He was a target, and Nyra was a vulnerability. "What are you suggesting?" Soren asked, his tone wary.
Kaelen met his gaze, and for the first time, there was no malice in it, only a grim understanding. "I'm suggesting I help you. I know the wastes. I know the patrol routes. I know how to move unseen." He paused, a bitter smile touching his lips. "Besides, my career in the Ladder is over. The Synod will have me declared an abomination just for being here, for witnessing this. I've got nowhere else to go."
Soren stared at him, searching for the trick, the angle. But all he could sense was a grim resignation. Kaelen Vor, the Bastard, the relentless rival, was a survivor. And he had just correctly identified the only side that offered a chance of survival. It was an alliance born of desperation, the most honest kind there was.
"Fine," Soren said, the word clipped. "But you try anything, and I won't need a sword to end you."
Kaelen gave a short, humorless nod. "Understood."
With Nyra secured in his arms, Soren led the way out of the tomb, stepping from the sacred, dual-lit space into the grey, ash-choked light of the Bloom-Wastes. The wind howled, carrying the fine, abrasive dust that coated everything. It was a harsh, unwelcoming world, a stark contrast to the gentle warmth he had just left behind. He adjusted his grip on Nyra, shielding her face with his body. The journey would be hard. The future was a terrifying, unknown expanse. But as he felt her faint, steady breath against his neck, he knew he would walk through fire itself to see it through. He had a pulse to protect. A faint, precious pulse.