# Chapter 994: A Voice from the Tree
Soren's question—"Was it a fair trade?"—echoed in the suffocating silence of the tomb. Elara opened her mouth, but no words came. What answer could she give? That she had traded a god's peace for a man's pain? That she had shattered a perfect world for a messy truth? As she stood there, paralyzed by the weight of her choice, a strange sensation washed over her. It was not a sound or a sight, but a feeling, a deep, resonant hum that seemed to emanate from the very roots of the chamber. It was a feeling of immense age, of profound patience, and of a sorrow so vast it dwarfed her own terror. The air grew still, the faint, ethereal light from the roots pulsed in a slow, steady rhythm, and the scent of rich, damp earth and ancient pollen filled her lungs, calming her frantic heart. A voice, ancient and genderless, spoke not into her ears, but directly into the sanctuary of her mind. *You see the man, but you do not see the cost. Look. See what his peace has purchased.*
Before she could process the command, the world dissolved. The stone floor of the chamber fell away, replaced by the crunch of grey ash underfoot. The scent of ozone and sweat replaced the earthy perfume of the Tree. She was standing in the midst of a roaring crowd, their faces a blur of ecstatic bloodlust. Before her, two figures clashed in a sand-filled arena under a sky the color of a fresh bruise. One, a hulking brute encased in jagged iron plate, swung a hammer that glowed with incandescent heat. The other, a lean woman with cinder-tattoos snaking up her arms like burning vines, weaved between the blows, her hands trailing crackling lightning. The brute connected. The sound of shattering bone was audible even over the crowd. The woman crumpled, her lightning extinguished. The crowd roared its approval. Elara felt a phantom pain, a deep, burning ache in her own bones, and she saw the woman's tattoos darken, the light within them fading to a dull, lifeless grey. The vision shifted.
She was in a cramped, dimly lit infirmary. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the cloying sweetness of medicinal herbs. Rows of cots lined the walls, and on each lay a Gifted fighter, their bodies wracked with tremors. Some had skin that flaked away like ash, others stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, their minds burned out by the Cost. A healer moved between them, her face a mask of grim resignation. She pressed a damp cloth to the forehead of a young man, no older than a boy, who was weeping silently, his cinder-tattoos a chaotic, angry red. "It's the price," the healer murmured, though Elara knew the words were meant for her. "The Synod calls it a blessing. A holy burden. But it's just a tax. Paid in pain, so the nobles can argue over water rights without getting their hands dirty." The vision swirled again, the scent of antiseptic and despair replaced by the cold, sterile air of a long, empty hall.
She saw Nyra Sableki. She was not the cunning, pragmatic operative from the histories Elara had studied. She was a woman carved from loneliness and resolve. She stood before a massive, frozen mural depicting Soren's final stand. Her reflection was a ghost in the polished stone, her face etched with a grief that had not softened with the passage of centuries, but had hardened into a permanent part of her being. She reached out, her gloved fingers tracing the line of Soren's jaw on the cold stone. The chamber was silent, a mausoleum to a dead hero and a living ghost. Elara felt the crushing weight of those years, the endless cycle of seasons, the rise and fall of cities, all witnessed by this one woman who refused to let go. She felt the chill of the stone, the ache in Nyra's fingers from standing in the same pose for hours, the hollow echo of her own footsteps in the vast, empty space. It was a vigil without end, a love story frozen in time. The vision tightened, focusing on Nyra's face, and Elara could feel the unspoken question that haunted her, the same question Soren had just asked her. Was it worth it?
The world dissolved once more, and this time, she was there. Not as an observer, but as a phantom presence in the final moments before the sacrifice. The air was thick with the corrosive energy of the Bloom-Wastes, a place where reality itself was fraying at the edges. Soren stood before the heart of the cataclysm, a vortex of pure, unmaking magic. His body was a ruin, his cinder-tattoos blazing with a light so bright it was painful to look at, the skin around them cracked and bleeding. He was a man burning from the inside out. Nyra was there, her face streaked with tears and grime, her hand clutching his. Their fingers were intertwined so tightly Elara could feel the desperate pressure of their grip.
"I can hold it," Soren rasped, his voice a dry whisper of leaves skittering across pavement. "I can become the lock. But I won't be… me. Not really."
"I know," Nyra's voice was strained, breaking on the words. "We will find another way. The League, the Crownlands—"
"There is no other way," he interrupted, his gaze softening as he looked at her. The cosmic power receded from his eyes, leaving only the man she loved. "Listen to me. This is my choice. But promise me something."
"Anything."
"When it's done," he said, his voice barely audible over the howl of the Withering King's power. "When the world is safe… let me rest. Don't let them turn me into a symbol, a weapon, a tool for their new order. Just… let me rest."
"I promise," Nyra wept, pressing her forehead against his. "I swear it."
The vision shattered, and Elara was back in the root-choked chamber. The hum of the World-Tree filled her mind again, its ancient patience now tinged with a profound, questioning sorrow. The voice spoke one last time, the words resonating not as sound, but as pure, undeniable truth. *He kept his bargain. He gave the world five centuries of peace. Now, you have broken his rest. The question is not for him. It is for you. Has the world earned his rest?*