# Chapter 794: The First Trap
The silence in the room was a physical weight, broken only by the frantic thumping of their own hearts. Kaelen was the first to move, his hand dropping from Soren's arm to the axe at his belt. "We burn it," he snarled, gesturing at the raven. "We burn this whole damn place to the ground and run."
"No," Talia said, her voice regaining a sliver of its old authority, though it was laced with steel. "Burning it is what it expects. It's a message of fear, and a panicked reaction confirms it has control. We need to think. We need to move, but we move smart."
Soren shook his head, the cold certainty of the Withering King's intellect settling over him. "It's already thinking three steps ahead, Talia. It knew we'd be here. It knows our protocols. It knows you'd try to think your way out of this. Thinking is what it wants us to do, because it's inside our heads." He looked from her to Kaelen, then to the door of Nyra's room. "It's not just a hunter. It's a puppeteer. And we're already on its strings."
The words hung in the air, a death sentence pronounced in the flickering candlelight. The puppeteer analogy struck a chord of pure terror. Every instinct screamed at Soren to flee, to grab Nyra and run until his lungs burned and his legs gave out. But where could they run? If the enemy could see through their eyes and hear their thoughts, there was no sanctuary. There was only the stage, and the tightening of the strings.
"Then we cut the strings," Kaelen growled, his knuckles white on his axe handle. "We do the one thing it can't predict. We stop thinking and start acting. Now." He looked to Soren, his gaze a desperate plea for a target, for an enemy he could cleave in two. "Give me an order, Soren. Anything."
Soren forced himself to take a breath, the air tasting of ash and old paper. He looked at Talia, whose face was a mask of professional dread, her entire world of information and strategy rendered obsolete. He looked at Lyra, who stood by the door, her hand on her sword, her eyes wide but her stance firm. They were looking to him. Not as a healer, not as a miracle worker, but as a commander. The weight of it settled on his shoulders, heavier than any burden he had ever carried.
"Okay," he said, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. "Talia, you were right about one thing. We move. But we don't move smart. We move fast. Forget your network, forget your contacts. It's compromised. It's probably how it found us." He pointed toward Nyra's room. "Lyra, you and I will get her. Kaelen, you're on point. Talia, grab the satchel with the shards. Nothing else. We leave in sixty seconds."
The abrupt, concrete orders cut through the paralysis. Talia hesitated for a fraction of a second, then gave a sharp, jerky nod and scrambled for the leather satchel containing the few remaining shards of the Bloom-Wastes crystal. Kaelen was already at the door, his ear pressed against the wood, his body coiled like a spring. Lyra moved to help Soren with Nyra, her movements economical and precise.
They worked in a frantic, silent ballet. Soren gently lifted Nyra, her body limp and cool in his arms. The familiar weight was a comfort and a curse. He was carrying his heart, and now he was carrying his greatest vulnerability. Lyra threw a coarse woolen cloak over her, obscuring her features. The scent of dust and antiseptic clung to the fabric.
"Thirty seconds," Kaelen hissed from the doorway.
Soren carried Nyra into the main room. Talia was waiting, the satchel slung over her shoulder, her face pale but her eyes hard. She met his gaze, and for a moment, he saw the spymaster she had been, the woman who had navigated the deadliest political currents in the Crownlands. Now, she was just another rat in a maze, and the maze designer was watching.
"The old service tunnels," Talia said, her voice a low rush of words. "Under the tannery district. They're not on any official city plans. They were an escape route for the old nobility. It's our best chance of getting out of the city unseen."
Soren nodded. It was a good plan. A smart plan. And that was what made it terrifying. "It's the one it'll expect us to take," he countered, the words tasting like bile. "It knows your history, Talia. It knows Valerius's history. It knows every secret bolt-hole in this city."
"It's still the only viable route!" she insisted, her voice cracking with frustration. "The main streets are death. The sewers are a labyrinth. The tunnels are fast and direct."
"Then we go," Soren decided, the choice feeling like a step off a cliff. "But we go knowing it's a trap. We don't walk into it blindly. We walk in ready for the knife." He looked at Kaelen. "You feel it too, don't you? The wrongness of this?"
Kaelen grunted, his eyes scanning the shadows in the corners of the room. "Feels like walking into a snare. But I'd rather face the snare than the hunter's jaws out in the open."
"Time," Lyra whispered, her hand on the latch.
They moved. Kaelen eased the door open, peering into the dimly lit alley. The air was cool, carrying the smells of damp brick and refuse from the nearby canal. A distant siren wailed, a lonely, mournful sound that spoke of a city on edge. He gave a sharp nod, and they slipped out into the night.
The city felt different. The shadows seemed deeper, more purposeful. Every flicker of a distant lantern, every distant shout, felt like a signal, a piece of the enemy's grand design. Soren could feel a low, thrumming pressure at the base of his skull, a psychic static that hadn't been there before. It was the feeling of being watched, not by eyes, but by a mind that encompassed the city itself.
They moved quickly, staying to the walls, their footsteps muffled by the grime of the alleyways. Kaelen led them with a predator's grace, his senses on high alert. Lyra followed, a shadow at his shoulder. Soren struggled to keep pace with Nyra in his arms, his muscles burning with the effort, but the fear lent him strength. Talia brought up the rear, her head swiveling, her hand never far from a concealed dagger.
They reached the tannery district without incident. The air grew thick with the acrid stench of chemicals and rotting hides, a smell so foul it felt like a physical barrier. The district was deserted at this hour, the workshops silent and looming like tombs. Kaelen guided them to a narrow, unmarked alley behind a row of crumbling brick buildings. He stopped before a large, iron-ringed sewer cover, nearly hidden beneath a pile of refuse.
"Here," he grunted, prying the cover aside with a grunt of effort. A wave of cool, earthy air wafted up from the darkness. "The entrance is twenty feet down. Ladder's rusted, but it'll hold."
One by one, they descended into the city's underbelly. Soren went last, carefully lowering Nyra into Kaelen's waiting arms before dropping down himself. The world above vanished, replaced by the oppressive darkness of the tunnel. The air was damp and heavy, thick with the smell of wet earth, decay, and something else… something acrid and metallic, like old blood.
Kaelen produced a glow-stone, casting a sickly green light on the brick-lined tunnel. It was narrow, just wide enough for them to walk single file. Water dripped from the arched ceiling, the sound echoing like a slow, deliberate drumbeat. The silence was profound, a heavy blanket that muffled their movements and amplified their breathing.
"It's too quiet," Lyra whispered, her voice barely audible.
Soren felt it too. The psychic pressure in his head was intensifying, a low thrum that vibrated through his bones. It was the feeling of a closing net. "Keep moving," he ordered, his voice tight.
They pressed on, the glow-stone bobbing ahead of them, creating a small bubble of light in an ocean of darkness. The tunnel sloped downward, taking them deeper into the city's foundations. The air grew colder, and the metallic smell grew stronger. Soren's every instinct was screaming at him to turn back, but there was no back. The safehouse was compromised, the streets were a hunting ground. The only way was forward, into the heart of the snare.
They had been walking for perhaps ten minutes when Kaelen stopped abruptly. He held up a hand, his body tense. "Wait."
Soren strained to see past him. The tunnel ended about fifty yards ahead. The glow-stone illuminated a wall of broken rock and twisted metal. A cave-in.
"No," Talia breathed, her voice filled with disbelief. "It can't be. This tunnel hasn't been used in a century. It's stable."
Kaelen moved forward cautiously, his axe held ready. Soren followed, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. As they drew closer, the true nature of the collapse became clear. It wasn't random. The bricks hadn't crumbled; they had been sheared. The iron support beams hadn't rusted through; they were melted, fused into a grotesque, blackened mass. The edges of the collapse were smooth, almost glassy, as if cut by an immense, focused heat.
"This isn't a cave-in," Soren said, his voice hollow. "It's a seal."
He reached out and touched the fused metal. It was cold, but a faint, residual energy hummed against his fingertips. It was the same corrosive magic he had felt in the Withering King's presence, the power that unmade things. The enemy hadn't just blocked their path. It had carved this tunnel out of the city's guts, waited for them to enter, and then sealed the entrance with surgical precision. It had known they would come here. It had known Talia would suggest it. It had known they would walk right into this dead-end.
"It's a trap," Kaelen snarled, echoing Soren's thoughts from the safehouse. "It's been a trap from the moment we got that damn bird."
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of Soren's composure. They were trapped. Rats in a pipe. He turned, his gaze sweeping back the way they had come. The darkness behind them seemed to press in, thicker and more menacing than before.
"We have to go back," Talia said, her voice trembling. "We have to find another way."
As if on cue, a sound echoed down the tunnel from the direction they had come. It wasn't the drip of water. It was the rhythmic clang of armored boots on metal grating. A lot of them.
"Too late," Lyra hissed, drawing her sword, the steel whispering in the gloom.
The glow-stone's light flickered as a new light source appeared down the tunnel. It was the harsh, white light of official Wardens' lanterns. The sound of marching grew louder, accompanied by the gruff shouts of men giving orders. They were being cornered from both sides.
"Back against the wall," Soren commanded, his voice low and urgent. He gently laid Nyra down, propping her up against the brickwork. He stood over her, his body a shield. Kaelen and Lyra flanked him, their weapons ready. Talia drew her daggers, her face a mask of grim determination.
The Wardens rounded a bend in the tunnel, their lanterns cutting sharp swaths through the darkness. There were at least a dozen of them, clad in the Crownlands' blue and silver armor, their polearms leveled. At their head was a captain, a man with a severe face and a fanatical gleam in his eyes. He stopped a few yards from them, his lantern held high, its light glinting off his polished gorget.
"In the name of the Crownlands, you are under arrest!" the captain boomed, his voice echoing in the confined space. "You are charged with treason, conspiracy, and the use of forbidden magic resulting in mass destruction in the merchant district!"
Soren's blood ran cold. The merchant district. A magical explosion. The Withering King hadn't just framed them; it had created a crime, a public atrocity, and pinned it on them. It was turning the entire city against them.
"That's a lie!" Kaelen roared. "We've been underground for hours!"
"Your lies mean nothing to the Crownlands!" the captain spat, his eyes burning with zealotry. "The evidence is clear. You are blights, Gifted abominations who threaten the peace of this city. You will come quietly, or you will be put down."
Soren's mind raced. This was it. The trap was sprung. The Wardens were the anvil, and the collapsed tunnel was the hammer. They were meant to be crushed here. But why? Why not just have the Wardens kill them? Why the elaborate charade?
The answer came to him in a flash of cold, horrifying clarity. The Withering King wasn't just a hunter. It was a collector. It didn't want them dead. It wanted them. It wanted Nyra. It wanted the power of the World-Seed. The Wardens were just the delivery men.
He looked at the captain, at the righteous fury in his eyes. He was a true believer, a pawn who thought he was serving his city. He couldn't be reasoned with. Fighting through a dozen armored Wardens in a narrow tunnel would be a bloodbath, even for them. And even if they won, it would only confirm their guilt in the eyes of the city and give the Synod the pretext it needed to declare open season on all Gifted.
"We can't fight them," Soren said, his voice low and urgent. "Not here. Not like this."
"What's the alternative, Soren?" Kaelen shot back, his knuckles white on his axe. "Let them take us? They'll execute us before sunrise!"
"No," Soren said, his mind working furiously, searching for a third option, a way to cut the strings. "The trap isn't just the Wardens. It's the choice they're forcing on us. Fight and be condemned, or surrender and be taken. It's a no-win scenario." He looked past the Wardens, into the darkness behind them. The psychic pressure in his head was a deafening roar now. It was coming from that direction.
The captain took a step forward, his polearm lowered to a threatening angle. "Lay down your arms. This is your final warning."
Soren ignored him. He was focused on the space behind the Wardens. The air there was shimmering, distorting, like heat haze rising from asphalt. A faint, sickly green light was beginning to pulse in the darkness, a color that was achingly familiar. It was the color of the Withering King's power.
"It's not them," Soren whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "They're just the walls of the box."
Kaelen followed his gaze, his eyes widening as he saw the shimmering air and the growing luminescence. He understood. The Wardens weren't the real threat. They were just a distraction, a way to keep them facing the wrong way.
"It's a trap! It's herding us!" Kaelen roared, his voice filled with a mixture of fury and dawning horror.
As if his words were a signal, the world exploded. A blast of pure, corrosive magic erupted from the darkness behind the Wardens. It wasn't a fireball or a lightning bolt. It was a wave of silent, annhilating energy. It struck the rearmost Wardens first. Their armor didn't even glow; it simply dissolved, turning to black dust and sloughing off their bodies. The men themselves followed, their flesh and bone melting away into nothingness with barely a scream. The wave of destruction ripped through the entire squad, erasing them from existence in a heartbeat, leaving only a faint, acrid smell of ozone and decay.
The blast slammed into the tunnel walls, shearing through the ancient bricks like they were paper. The ground trembled violently. The sealed tunnel behind them groaned, the fused metal and rock cracking under the strain. With a deafening roar, the entire section of tunnel collapsed, tons of rock and earth thundering down, burying the spot where the Wardens had stood and cutting off their only escape route.
The shockwave threw Soren and the others to the ground. Dust and debris filled the air, choking them. Soren landed hard, his body shielding Nyra's. He coughed, his lungs burning, and struggled to his knees. The green light from the blast faded, leaving them in near-total darkness, the glow-stone having been extinguished by the shockwave.
They were trapped. The tunnel was collapsed behind them. The Wardens were gone. And in the suffocating darkness, a low, guttural chuckle echoed, a sound that seemed to come from the very stones around them. The puppeteer had dropped the facade. The show was over. The hunt had begun.