# Chapter 17: The Inquisitor's Question
The first thing to return was the smell. It was the scent of antiseptic and ozone, a sterile, chemical clean that scraped at the inside of his nostrils. It was the smell of a Synod infirmary, a place where the faithful went to be mended and the heretical went to be broken. Soren's eyelids felt like lead shutters, caked with the dust of a long sleep. He fought to open them, a groan escaping his lips as the effort sent a sharp, throbbing pain through his skull. The Cinder Cost was a dull, persistent ache in his bones, a familiar penalty, but this was something else. This was the lingering echo of whatever portal Nyra had dragged him through.
He tried to sit up, but his body refused. His wrists and ankles were bound to the narrow cot by cold, metal restraints. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through the fog in his mind. He strained against the bonds, the leather biting into his skin, but it was useless. He was trapped. The last memory was of Nyra's face, illuminated by the strange light of the undercity passage, her promise of a new home, a new fight. A lie. It had all been a lie.
A soft footstep on the polished stone floor made him freeze. He turned his head, the movement sending a fresh wave of dizziness over him. A figure stood beside his cot, shrouded in the deep grey robes of an Inquisitor. The hood was down, revealing a face that was pale and severe, her dark hair pulled back in a severe, tight bun. Her eyes, a shade of grey so light they were almost silver, were fixed on him. They held no anger, no pity, only a chilling, analytical curiosity. He knew her face from the Ladder broadcasts. Isolde. The Inquisitor-in-training who had been assigned to monitor him. She was no longer just monitoring him.
"Soren Vale," she said. Her voice was quiet, devoid of any inflection, yet it carried an absolute authority that filled the small, sterile cell. "You are awake. Good."
He said nothing, his jaw clenched tight. He scanned the room. It was a perfect white cube, devoid of any decoration or comfort. The only furniture was his cot and a simple metal chair on which Isolde now sat. There was no window. The only door was a solid slab of iron with no visible handle. He was deep in the belly of the Synod's fortress.
"I trust you are feeling the after-effects of the breach," she continued, her gaze unwavering. "Unsanctioned portal travel is… taxing on the system. Especially for one already weakened by the Cinder Cost." She gestured vaguely toward his arm, where the Cinder-Tattoo was a network of dark, angry lines, a stark testament to his overexertion in the Gauntlet. "Your Gift is volatile. Uncontrolled. It is a wonder you have not burned yourself to ash."
Soren remained silent, his mind racing. How had they found him? Had Nyra betrayed him? Led him into a trap? The thought was a physical blow, a bitter taste in his mouth. He had trusted her. He had let his desperation override his instinct, the instinct that had kept him alive for years. Alone. He should have stayed alone.
Isolde leaned forward slightly, her silver eyes narrowing. "Do not mistake my silence for patience, Vale. I have questions. You have answers. This will be simple, or it will be unpleasant. The choice is yours." She paused, letting the threat hang in the sterile air. "Let us start with the most pressing anomaly. The security breach in the Gauntlet was not an accident. It was an act of sophisticated sabotage. A portal, keyed to a specific individual, opened in the heart of a sanctioned Trial. That is not the work of some back-alley hedge mage. That is the work of an organized enemy."
She stood up and began to pace slowly around the cot, her soft-soled boots making no sound on the floor. "The official narrative, of course, is that you, in a fit of desperation, triggered a latent instability in the arena's wards. A tragic accident. A convenient scapegoat." She stopped at the foot of his cot, her hands clasped behind her back. "But I do not believe in convenient narratives. I believe in evidence. And the evidence suggests you were not the cause, but the target. You were extracted."
Soren's heart hammered against his ribs. Extracted. That was the word she used. Not escaped.
Isolde stepped closer, her shadow falling over him. The scent of her robes was sharp, like winter frost and dried herbs. "We have reviewed the arena's scry-logs. A distortion, a momentary blind spot, just before the portal opened. A feat of counter-magic that requires significant resources. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to get you out. Which brings me to my question." She leaned down, her face now inches from his, her silver eyes boring into his. "Who was the woman who saved you?"
The question hung between them, sharp and heavy. Nyra. Her name was a fire in his mind, a mix of gratitude and suspicion. He remembered her pulling him from the path of Jex's axe, the cool efficiency of her movements, the cryptic words about fighting back. He remembered her promise to help him tear down the Ladder. Was it all a ploy? A Sable League plot to acquire a powerful, unstable weapon? He didn't know. And that uncertainty was his only shield.
He forced a shrug, the restraints pulling taut on his shoulders. "I don't know what you're talking about," he rasped, his throat dry. "There was a commotion. The arena was falling apart. I saw a lot of people. Spectators, officials… it was chaos."
Isolde's expression did not change, but the air in the room grew colder. He could feel a pressure building behind his eyes, a subtle, invasive presence. Her Gift. She was probing him, sifting through his thoughts like a merchant examining grain. He clenched his teeth, focusing on the pain in his wrists, the ache in his bones, anything to anchor his mind against the intrusion.
"A spectator," she repeated, her voice flat. "A spectator fought through a collapsing arena, bypassed Crownlands Wardens and Ladder Enforcers, and opened a high-level portal to save a debt-ridden competitor with no notable sponsor. Do you truly expect me to believe that?"
"I don't care what you believe," Soren shot back, his voice stronger now, fueled by defiance. "That's what happened. I was dizzy. I saw a shape. Maybe it was a man. I don't know."
The pressure in his head intensified, a dull, throbbing vise. He gritted his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He would not break. He would not give her Nyra. Whatever her motives, whatever her lies, she was the only card he had left. He would protect that secret with his life.
Isolde held his gaze for a long, silent moment. The pressure receded as slowly as it had arrived, leaving a lingering headache. She straightened up, her face once again an unreadable mask. "Very well, Vale. Lie to me. It is your right. But lies have a cost, and the Synod is a very, very patient creditor."
She turned and walked to the iron door, rapping her knuckles against it in a specific, rhythmic pattern. A small panel slid open, and a pair of eyes peered through before the door ground open, revealing two hulking Templars in full plate armor. Isolde did not look back at him.
"Your victory in the Gauntlet is voided," she stated, her voice echoing slightly in the small room. The words hit him like a physical blow. All of it. The pain, the risk, the cost of unleashing his Gift. For nothing. "And your team is disqualified. Jex and Finn will be reprimanded for their failure to maintain control, but their participation in the Ladder will continue. You, however, are another matter."
She paused in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the torchlight of the corridor outside. "The breach… that is not a matter for the Ladder Commission. That is a matter for the Synod. An act of war against the Concord. You will remain here until we are satisfied you are not a part of it. And we will be very, very thorough in our satisfaction."
The door slammed shut, the sound of the heavy bolts sliding home echoing the finality of her words. He was alone again, in the sterile white cube. But this time, he was not just a failed competitor. He was a prisoner of war. And he had just made his first, desperate move on the board.