# Chapter 803: The Cleansing Fire
The torch touched the dry kindling. For a moment, nothing. Then, a wisp of smoke curled upward, followed by a sudden, hungry *whoosh* as the flames caught. The crowd roared. The heat was a physical blow, forcing the air from Nyra's lungs. The fire licked at the hem of her coarse trousers, the smell of scorched fabric filling her senses. Anya stood before her, her face a mask of ecstatic triumph, her voice rising over the roar. "Burn, sinner! Be cleansed!" The flames climbed higher, a wall of orange and red, devouring the wood. The heat was becoming unbearable, her skin prickling, her eyes watering. Through the wavering heat haze, she saw the Withering King on his balcony, a silent, unmoving observer. She had seconds, maybe a minute, before the fire reached her flesh. Her fingers, slick with sweat, fumbled in her pocket for the lockpick. The diversion hadn't come. She was on her own.
The lockpick was a small, cruel piece of metal, its edge digging into her palm. She twisted her wrist, the wet ropes binding her to the stake groaning in protest. The movement was agonizingly small, her shoulder screaming in protest. The fire was a living thing now, a beast of crackling orange and black smoke, its hot breath searing the hairs on her legs. She could feel the intense radiation on her face, drying the tears on her cheeks before they could fall. The crowd's chants were a guttural, unified beast, a sound of pure, unthinking hatred. *Purify! Purify! Purify!*
Anya's voice cut through the din, a shrill note of victory. "Witness the fate of the unbeliever! Witness the power of true faith!"
Nyra ignored it all. Her world shrank to the space between her fingers and the manacle-like knot on her right wrist. The lockpick was not a key; it was a tool of persuasion. She had to find the tumbler, the single point of weakness in the rope's tension. The flames surged, and a shower of sparks rained down around her. One landed on her shoulder, a pinpoint of searing agony that made her cry out, a raw, involuntary sound that was swallowed by the crowd's roar. The smell of her own burning flesh joined the acrid scent of the pyre. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through her resolve. *We're coming.* Talia's words were a lifeline in a sea of fire. She had to believe.
She jammed the pick into the knot, her movements clumsy with pain and fear. The metal was hot, almost too hot to hold. She probed, felt the fibers of the rope shift, then catch. She applied pressure, her entire body tensing. The rope didn't budge. The fire was at her waist now, the heat so intense it felt like her skin was melting. Her vision swam, the edges darkening. She could see the Withering King still on his balcony, his posture unchanged. He was enjoying this. The thought sent a fresh wave of fury through her, burning hotter than the flames. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.
She tried again, her fingers finding a new angle. She pictured the knot in her mind, a complex puzzle of loops and pulls. There. A slight give. She put her weight into it, grinding the metal against the rope fibers. The fibers groaned, stretched, and then, with a sharp *snap*, one strand parted. It wasn't freedom, but it was a start. She worked the pick again, her breath coming in ragged, smoke-choked gasps. The fire was a roaring furnace, and she was at its heart. The wood behind her began to crack and splinter, the stake itself now alight.
Suddenly, a new sound. Not the roar of the crowd or the crackle of the fire, but a deep, resonant *BOOM* that shook the very ground. It came from the far side of the monastery, followed by the shriek of tearing metal and a distant, panicked screaming. The crowd faltered, their chants dissolving into confused murmurs. Anya spun around, her face a thundercloud of fury. "Silence! Remain focused! The purification continues!"
But the damage was done. The spell was broken. Guards looked at each other, their fanatical zeal warring with their training. Another explosion, closer this time, sent a plume of black smoke rising into the grey sky. An alarm bell began to clang wildly, a frantic, discordant rhythm.
The Withering King finally moved. He leaned forward on his balcony, his hands gripping the stone railing. His expression was no longer one of amusement. It was cold, hard fury. He had not expected this.
Nyra felt a surge of adrenaline, a violent, desperate energy. The distraction was her chance. She ignored the searing pain in her legs and focused everything on the knot. *Snap!* Another strand gave way. The rope loosened. She pulled her hand free. It was raw and bleeding, the skin blistered, but it was free. She immediately went to work on the ropes binding her other hand and her torso. The fire was all around her now, a vortex of heat and light. The stake behind her was crumbling, its integrity compromised by the flames. She had moments before it collapsed, taking her with it.
In the courtyard, chaos was erupting. A section of the monastery wall, near the main gate, had collapsed, filling the air with dust and debris. Figures were pouring through the breach—not an army, but a small, fast-moving force. They moved with a purpose that the panicked guards lacked. Nyra saw a flash of steel, heard the clash of swords. The Unchained. They had come.
Anya was screaming orders, trying to rally her Inquisitors, but the disciplined attack was throwing them into disarray. "Protect the pyre! Do not let the heretic escape!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria.
The last rope binding Nyra's torso fell away. She was free, but still trapped. The fire was a cage, the collapsing stake a treacherous pillar. The heat was a physical weight, pressing down on her, stealing her strength. She knew she couldn't simply walk out of the inferno. She had to jump. She scanned the chaos, looking for a gap, a clear path. The ground around the pyre was a sea of fire and embers. Jumping meant breaking her legs, or worse.
Then she saw him. A figure breaking away from the main fight, moving with an impossible speed. He wasn't a large man, but he moved like a panther, his twin shortswords a blur of motion as he cut down two guards who stood in his way. Kaelen "The Bastard" Vor. What was he doing here? He was a rival, a brutal Ladder fighter sponsored by the Synod's own allies. He should be fighting *for* them, not against them.
He reached the edge of the pyre, his face a mask of grim determination. He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers through the flames. There was no triumph in his gaze, only a grim, shared purpose. He had made a choice.
"Jump!" he yelled, his voice barely audible over the roar. "Now!"
The stake behind her gave a final, groaning crack and began to fall. There was no time left. Nyra took a breath, filled her lungs with one last gulp of superheated air, and launched herself from the collapsing pyre into the waiting arms of the fire.