# Chapter 447: The Unchained's Ascent
The shriek of the monastery's internal alarm was a serpent coiling through the stone, a sound of pure panic that was music to Nyra's ears. It meant chaos. It meant distraction. It meant their infiltration was no longer a secret, but a ghost in a machine tearing itself apart. She pressed her back against the cold, damp wall of a service corridor, the air thick with the smell of ozone from overloaded conduits and the acrid tang of fear-sweat. Boro, a mountain of a man whose Gift could turn his skin into living iron, stood opposite her, his breathing a controlled, steady rhythm. Lyra, a former rival whose speed was a blur of motion, crouched low, her daggers ready. Faye, the artist whose illusions could bend reality, kept her hands clasped, her eyes closed, weaving a veil of subtle misdirection around them.
"Move," Nyra whispered, the command barely a breath. "The Undercroft is through that archway. The schematics showed a guard post, but with this alarm, they'll be scrambled."
The world beyond their small alcove was bedlam. Patrons of the Ladder Commission, visiting nobles, and junior acolytes ran in every direction, their faces pale with confusion. The distant, rhythmic thunder of the Crownlands' siege engines provided a brutal bass line to the symphony of panic. Nyra's team moved with them, a pack of wolves amidst a flock of sheep. They flowed with the tide of terrified bodies, their dark, practical gear a stark contrast to the white and gold robes of the Synod's faithful.
As they neared the archway, a squad of four Aegis Wardens, their ceremonial armor gleaming, tried to establish order. "Form a line! All non-essential personnel to the shelters!" their commander bellowed, his voice strained.
That was their opening.
Lyra was a flicker in the periphery, a shadow detached from the wall. In the span of two heartbeats, two Wardens crumpled, daggers finding the gaps in their armor at the throat and armpit. Boro didn't even break stride, his Gift flaring. His skin took on the dull grey sheen of iron as he simply walked through the remaining two Wardens, his shoulder checking one with the force of a battering ram, the sound of snapping bone echoing wetly. He backhanded the last, the man's helmet flying off as he was thrown into the stone wall with a sickening crunch. It was not a fight. It was an extermination.
They were through the archway and descending a wide, spiraling staircase into the monastery's guts. The air grew colder, the light dimmer, replaced by the pulsing, blue glow of power conduits set into the walls. The alarm was louder down here, a physical vibration that rattled Nyra's teeth. The chaos was less organized, more primal. They passed a storage room where two acolytes were frantically trying to seal a ruptured pipe spewing shimmering, raw energy. Another corridor was blocked by a collapsed section of ceiling, the dust still hanging in the air.
"They're routing power to the outer wards," Faye murmured, her eyes still closed. "I can feel the currents shifting. Valerius is shoring up the defenses."
"Good," Nyra said, her voice tight. "Let him waste his strength. It makes our job easier." She checked the crude map drawn from memory and stolen schematics. "The prison block is on this level. We cut through it to access the sub-levels where the Obsidian Cell has to be."
They moved with a predator's grace, using the noise and confusion as cover. An isolated patrol of two Inquisitors-in-training was their next obstacle. They were young, their faces a mask of grim determination, their Gifts still weak. One tried to raise a hand, a crackle of nullifying energy forming around his fingers. Faye was faster. Her eyes snapped open, and the corridor suddenly seemed to stretch, the two Inquisitors appearing to be a hundred yards away. They hesitated, disoriented. In that moment of confusion, Lyra was on them. It was over before they could even scream.
They reached a heavy, iron-banded door, the entrance to the prison block. It was slightly ajar. Nyra held up a fist, and her team froze. She peered through the crack. Inside, the cells were empty. The doors hung open. A single body lay on the flagstones—a Warden, his face a rictus of terror, a neat hole burned through his chest plate.
"Where are the prisoners?" Boro rumbled, his iron skin receding, leaving him slick with a sheen of sweat.
"Malachi," Nyra breathed, the name a curse and a prayer. The Warden's crisis of faith hadn't just been an internal struggle; it had been a jailbreak. The alarm wasn't just about the siege anymore. It was about a revolt from within. This changed everything. It was an opportunity, but a wild, unpredictable one.
"New plan," she said, her mind racing. "We don't have time to search this level. The Obsidian Cell is below. The main lift is too exposed. There has to be a service shaft." Her eyes scanned the corridor, landing on a maintenance panel near the floor. "There."
As Boro pried the panel open, a new sound cut through the din of the alarm. It wasn't the crash of stone or the scream of a man. It was a single, clear, resonant chime, like a tuning fork struck against the soul. The air grew heavy, pressing in on them. The blue light of the conduits flickered and died, plunging the corridor into an oppressive darkness, broken only by the distant, hellish glow of the alarm lights.
Nyra's blood ran cold. This was not on any schematic. This was not a normal response.
A figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the corridor. He was tall and slender, clad not in the bulky armor of a Warden or the robes of an Inquisitor, but in a simple, form-fitting suit of black mesh and silver plates. His face was pale, his features sharp and aristocratic, and his eyes… his eyes glowed with a soft, malevolent white light. He carried no weapon. He didn't need one.
"An infestation," the man said, his voice calm, cultured, and utterly devoid of emotion. "It is unseemly to allow vermin to scurry in the heart of the sanctuary."
Nyra drew her slender, poisoned blade. "Boro, with me. Lyra, flank. Faye, get that shaft open. Now!"
The man smiled, a thin, cruel expression. "You are Sableki. I recognize the stench of ambition and deceit. Your family's machinations are an annoyance, but ultimately, predictable. High Inquisitor Valerius anticipated that someone might attempt a foolish rescue. He tasked me with… pest control."
He raised a hand. The air between them shimmered, distorting. Boro, who had been charging forward, slammed into an invisible wall, the impact ringing like a struck bell. He roared in frustration, his Gift flaring as his skin turned to iron, but he couldn't move, pinned by an unseen force.
Lyra, a blur of motion, tried to circle around. The man didn't even look at her. He simply flicked his fingers. She cried out, stumbling back as if she'd run headlong into a taut rope, clutching her chest.
"Your physical prowess is irrelevant," the Inquisitor stated, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. "My Gift is Gravitas. I control the weight of the world around me. Your speed is a memory. Your strength is a burden you cannot bear."
Nyra knew she was outmatched. This was not a brawler or a zealot. This was a specialist, an elite guard, a countermeasure designed precisely for them. She had to think. She had to be the strategist Soren believed she was.
"Faye!" she yelled, not taking her eyes off the approaching man. "The shaft!"
"Almost!" the artist cried back, her fingers frantically working the lock mechanism on the maintenance panel.
The Inquisitor turned his glowing eyes toward Faye. "A distraction. How quaint." He raised his hand again.
"No!" Nyra screamed, launching herself forward. She didn't aim for the man. She aimed for the wall beside him. She poured every ounce of her will, her training, her desperation into her Gift, not as an attack, but as a feint. An illusion of a collapsing section of ceiling, complete with the roar of falling stone and the spray of dust, erupted right above the Inquisitor's head.
It was a crude trick, a desperate gambit. For a heartbeat, it worked. The man's concentration wavered, his eyes flicking upwards to the phantom threat. In that instant, the pressure on Boro lessened. The hulking fighter surged forward, not at the Inquisitor, but at the wall Faye was working on. He slammed his iron-fisted hands against the stone, cracking it, shattering the frame around the maintenance panel.
The Inquisitor's eyes snapped back to them, his expression one of mild annoyance. "Clever." He gestured, and the weight of the world crashed down on Boro again, driving him to one knee with a groan of tortured metal and flesh.
But the opening was there. The shaft was open. Faye had tumbled inside, disappearing into the darkness. Lyra, shaking off the stunning blow, scrambled for the opening.
"Nyra, now!" she yelled.
Nyra was the last one standing, her blade held in a trembling hand. The Inquisitor was between her and the shaft. There was no way past.
"You have spirit," he conceded, taking another step. "It will be a pleasure to extinguish it."
The world seemed to slow down. The alarm, the siege, the fate of Soren—it all faded into a single, terrifying point of focus. This was it. This was the end of the line. She was a Sableki. She did not die on her knees. She roared a challenge and charged, a single, defiant soul against an agent of absolute control.
And then the world exploded.
Not an illusion. Not a trick. A real, cataclysmic impact. A Crownlands catapult stone, guided by luck or fury, struck the monastery directly above them. The ceiling groaned, a deep, agonized sound of tortured stone. Dust and pebbles rained down. A massive crack spiderwebbed across the roof.
The Inquisitor looked up, his composure finally broken, a flicker of genuine surprise on his face. He raised his hands to shield himself, his concentration on his Gift shattered.
The pressure vanished. Boro roared and lunged for the shaft. Lyra grabbed his arm, pulling him into the darkness.
Nyra was still charging. With a deafening roar, the entire section of the ceiling gave way. Tons of rock and steel and mortar crashed down. Boro and Lyra were gone, swallowed by the service shaft. Faye was already deep within it. A solid wall of stone and dust slammed down, filling the corridor, sealing the shaft entrance.
And Nyra was on the wrong side.
The dust was a choking blizzard, the air thick with the smell of pulverized rock. She coughed, her lungs burning, scrambling to her feet. The corridor was gone. In its place was a tangle of wreckage, a wall of impassable debris. She was trapped. Alone.
A soft, clear chime cut through the silence.
Through the settling dust, a figure emerged. He was untouched, not a speck of dust on his pristine black suit. His white-glowing eyes fixed on her, and a thin, triumphant smile touched his lips.
"An impressive display of chaos," the Inquisitor said, his voice echoing in the sudden, tomb-like silence. "But the vermin has been cornered. And now, the cleansing begins."