# Chapter 52: The First Treatment
"Do it," Soren said, his voice rough but firm. "Teach me how to fight."
Orin gave a grim nod, the gesture devoid of any triumph. It was the acknowledgment of a man who had seen this choice made before, and knew the price it exacted. "Very well. Strip to the waist. Lie on the table."
The air in the shrine grew thick, heavy with unspoken ritual. Soren moved with a stiff deliberation, each motion a protest from his exhausted body. He peeled off the fine cotton tunic, a gift from Cassian's household that now felt like a costume from another life. The cool, damp air of the chamber prickled his skin. He laid the tunic aside, then carefully unbuckled the leg brace, the metal clattering softly against the stone floor. A fresh wave of fire lanced up his thigh, a vicious reminder of the injury that had driven him to this desperate place. He swung himself onto the edge of the stone slab, its cold surface a shock against his bare skin. The scent of dust, old herbs, and melting wax filled his nostrils, a strange perfume for a sacrificial rite.
Orin moved with a practiced economy, his scarred hands washing in a basin of water that shimmered with a faint, oily sheen. He didn't speak. The only sounds were the drip of water from his hands back into the basin and the soft, rhythmic hiss of the candle flames. He selected a long, thin needle made of a black, non-reflective metal and a small clay pot containing the black, light-absorbing salve. He dipped the needle's tip into the paste, coating it thinly.
"This will feel like your blood is turning to glass," Orin said, his voice a low monotone. He stood beside the table, his shadow falling over Soren. "Do not move. Do not cry out. The energy you expend fighting the pain is energy the Cinder will feed on. You must be a vessel. Empty. Let the work be done."
Soren nodded once, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. He lay back, the stone cold against his spine. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling, where the shadows danced like wraiths. He focused on his breathing, the slow in-and-out that had kept him alive in the Ladder, that had centered him before every fight. But this was different. There was no opponent to outmaneuver, no bell to signal the end. This was a war fought on the battlefield of his own flesh.
The first touch of the needle against his skin, just above his heart, was deceptively gentle. A cold prick. Then Orin pushed.
The world dissolved.
It wasn't pain as Soren understood it. The sharp, clean agony of a broken bone, the searing heat of a blade—those were simple, honest things. This was a violation. A cold, invasive poison that spread from the needle point, a sliver of absolute zero that crystallized everything it touched. He felt the salve sink into him, a hungry darkness that sought out the fire of the Cinder. His breath hitched. His muscles seized. The command not to move, not to cry out, was a chain of iron around his will. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, the coppery tang of blood a fleeting, familiar anchor in a sea of alien sensation.
Orin worked in silence, his movements precise and unerring. He inserted another needle, this one into the meat of Soren's shoulder. The same glassifying cold spread, a network of frost branching through his veins. Soren's vision swam. The candle flames blurred into streaks of gold and white. He could feel the dark energy inside him, the accumulated cost of every Kinetic Push, every desperate Cinder Flare, stirring. It was a coiled serpent of ash and embers, and Orin's needles were prodding it from its slumber.
A low groan escaped Soren's lips, despite his vow of silence.
"Focus," Orin's voice cut through the haze, sharp as a scalpel. "Look at the light."
Soren forced his gaze upward, to the candles flickering on the shrine. He tried to fix his mind on their simple, warm light, but the cold within him was a demanding void. He could feel the needles pulsing, a slow, rhythmic thrum that matched the frantic beating of his own heart. They were drawing, pulling. The serpent of Cinder uncoiled, not with a strike, but with a reluctant, agonizing slither. It was being dragged, inch by painful inch, toward the points of intrusion.
Soren's body arched off the table, a convulsive reaction he couldn't control. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. The cold was giving way to a new sensation, a grinding, tearing friction as the Cinder was scraped from the lining of his soul. It was the feeling of having his very essence sanded away. Dark spots danced in his vision, and the scent of ozone and burnt sugar filled the air—the smell of his own Gift, raw and untamed.
"Almost there," Orin murmured, his voice strained. He placed a hand flat on Soren's sternum, his palm surprisingly warm. "Don't let it break. Hold the line."
Soren had no idea what line he was supposed to hold. His world was a vortex of pain. He could feel the energy flowing now, a thick, viscous current being pulled from his limbs, his torso, his very bones. It pooled around the needles, a visible, shimmering heat haze in the air above his skin. The black paste on the needles began to glow with a faint, malevolent purple light, absorbing the stolen power. The Cinder-Tattoos that covered his arms and torso, normally a deep, bruised purple, began to lighten, the intricate lines fading to a sickly grey.
And then, as suddenly as it began, the tearing stopped.
A profound, hollow emptiness washed over Soren. The pain receded, leaving behind a dull, pervasive ache, the kind that comes after a fever breaks. The tension drained out of his body, and he collapsed back onto the stone slab, limp and gasping for air. He was drenched in a cold sweat, the tunic on the floor a world away. For a long moment, the only sound was his own ragged breathing.
Orin worked quickly, removing the needles with a series of soft, wet plucks. He wiped Soren's skin with a clean cloth that smelled of antiseptic herbs. The purple glow on the needle tips had faded, the black salve now a dull, spent grey.
"It's done," the healer said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He placed the used instruments back on the tray with a weary clatter. "For today."
Soren slowly pushed himself up, his muscles trembling with the effort. He looked down at his arms. The Cinder-Tattoos were still there, a permanent map of his sacrifices, but their color had changed. The deep, dangerous purple had faded to a pale lavender, the shade of a bruise in its final days of healing. He took a deep, experimental breath. The air felt cleaner, lighter. The constant, low-grade hum of power that had vibrated just beneath his skin, the ever-present background noise of his Gift, was gone. In its place was a silence so profound it was deafening.
For the first time in months, his head was clear. The fog of exhaustion, the constant irritability, the phantom pains that weren't from injuries but from the Cost itself—they had all vanished. He felt… light. Hollow, but in a clean, empty way, like a room that had been swept of all its dust and debris. The pain in his leg was still there, a sharp, physical reminder of his recklessness, but it was just pain. Simple. Manageable. It wasn't amplified by the parasitic energy feeding on his misery.
"How do you feel?" Orin asked, leaning against the table, his face etched with fatigue.
"Empty," Soren rasped, his throat raw. He swung his legs over the side of the table, the motion feeling strangely fluid. "Clear."
"That's the goal," Orin said, nodding slowly. "We draw it out, give your body a chance to heal. But it's a stopgap, not a cure. The Cinder is part of you now. It will always grow back. Every time you use your Gift, you'll be feeding the beast. All we can do is cull it, keep it from consuming you whole."
He gestured to the tray of instruments. "This process is… hard on the body. It takes as much as it gives. You'll be weak for a day, maybe two. Your immune system will be compromised. You'll be vulnerable to infection, to illness. And the Synod…" He let the sentence hang in the air, the unspoken threat more potent than any shout. "If they knew what we were doing, they would call it heresy. They would burn this shrine, and us with it."
Soren reached for his tunic, his movements slow but deliberate. The clarity in his mind was a revelation. He could think. He could plan. The desperate, animal panic that had been his constant companion since his injury had subsided, replaced by a cold, hard calculus. Cassian's offer, the Ladder, his family's debt—it all snapped back into sharp focus. He had a path. A painful, dangerous path, but a path nonetheless.
"When do we do it again?" Soren asked, pulling the tunic over his head.
Orin gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Eager for more? We wait. We let your body recover. We see how much of the Cost returns on its own, and how much is generated by your… activities. Come back in a week. If you're still standing."
Soren nodded. He reached for his leg brace, the metal cold and familiar. As he fastened the straps, he looked at Orin. The man was a heretic, an outcast, but in the flickering candlelight of his hidden shrine, he was the only one who had offered Soren a weapon instead of a leash. "Thank you."
Orin just waved a dismissive hand, turning to clean his instruments. "Don't thank me yet. You've just agreed to fight a war on two fronts. One in the arena, and one in your own blood. The odds are not in your favor."
Soren stood, testing his weight on his braced leg. The pain was a clean, sharp line, but the rest of him felt buoyant. He moved toward the curtained entrance, his mind already racing. He had to find Nyra. He had to figure out how to explain this, how to balance this new, secret regimen with the demands of the Ladder and the dangerous game Cassian had invited him to play.
He pulled back the heavy drape, stepping from the warm, candle-lit sanctuary into the cool, oppressive dark of the alley. The air smelled of damp stone and refuse, a stark contrast to the clean scent of herbs inside. He took a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. The city's distant hum was a constant, living presence. He felt a flicker of something he hadn't experienced in a very long time: hope. It was a fragile, dangerous thing, but it was there.
He took a step forward, his body weak but his spirit resolute. As he moved toward the alley's mouth, where the faint glow of the undercity's gas lamps beckoned, a flicker of movement in a shadowed recess across the way caught his eye. It was just a shape, a figure standing perfectly still in the deeper darkness. Instinct, honed by years of survival in the Ladder and the wastes, made him freeze.
He squinted, trying to pierce the gloom. The figure was cloaked and hooded, their features lost in shadow. But as they shifted slightly, a stray beam of light from a high window caught the clasp at their throat. It was a small, silver emblem, shaped like a sun with a stylized eye in its center.
The symbol of the Radiant Synod. The emblem of an Inquisitor.
Soren's blood ran cold. The fragile hope in his chest shattered like glass. He had been watched. The meeting, the treatment—none of it was a secret. The hunt had already begun. The figure in the shadows didn't move, didn't give any sign of having been seen. It was just a silent, patient observer, a promise of the judgment to come. Soren felt the weight of his choice settle upon him, heavier than before. He hadn't just stepped onto a heretic's path; he had stepped into a snare.