# Chapter 474: The Price of Defiance
The leader of the Aegis guard, a man whose silver skull-mask seemed to sneer, took a deliberate step forward. The energy crystal on his polearm hummed, casting a sickly purple light on Soren's face. "High Inquisitor Valerius sends his regards," the guard's voice was a distorted, metallic rasp. "He is impressed. It took considerable resources to prepare this web for you. He looks forward to… studying you." Soren said nothing, his gaze locked on the guard's empty visor. He would not give them the satisfaction of a response. He would not beg. He would not break. The guard seemed to sense his defiance and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Two of his men moved in, their polearms lowered, not to kill, but to subdue. Soren braced himself, his bare hands clenching into fists. He was Soren Vale. He would not fall without a fight.
The first guard lunged, the butt of his polearm aimed at Soren's ribs. Soren twisted, the air whistling past his side as he slipped inside the guard's reach. His fist, calloused and hard as stone, slammed into the man's temple. The guard staggered, a muffled grunt escaping his helmet, but his armor absorbed the worst of the blow. Before Soren could press the attack, the second guard was on him, a sweeping arc of his polearm forcing Soren to leap back. The metal shaft scraped against the stone floor, a grating sound that set his teeth on edge. He was surrounded. The corridor was a cage, and these were its bars. He could feel the Ironclad's gaze on him, a silent, judgmental weight, a monument to his failure.
He couldn't win this. Not with strength. Not with speed. But he could make them pay for every inch. He feinted left, then exploded right, targeting the first guard's knee. There was a sharp crack of metal on metal as his kick connected with the articulated joint. The guard stumbled, his balance compromised. Soren drove his elbow into the man's throat, a brutal, efficient blow learned in a dozen back-alley brawls. The guard went down, clutching at his neck, his polearm clattering to the floor. A small victory. A fleeting one.
The remaining guards adjusted their tactics instantly, spreading out to deny him a single target. They were professionals, their movements a symphony of coordinated violence. One prodded with the tip of his weapon, forcing Soren back. Another swept low, trying to take out his legs. A third kept his polearm raised, the energy crystal glowing brighter, a threat of a far more potent strike. Soren dodged and weaved, his body a blur of desperate motion. The air grew thick with the smell of ozone and the sweat of his exertion. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed in protest. He was one man, and they were an inexorable tide.
He saw an opening. A guard overcommitted to a thrust, leaving his side exposed for a split second. Soren lunged, grabbing the polearm's shaft with both hands. He yanked, pulling the guard off balance. The man stumbled forward, and Soren drove his knee into his chest. The impact was solid, a satisfying thud of bone and armor. He wrenched the weapon free, the smooth, cold metal a familiar comfort in his hands. For a moment, he was armed again. He spun, the heavy polearm an extension of his will, its crackling tip a star of purple death. He swept it in a wide arc, forcing the other guards to back away. A sliver of hope, sharp and dangerous, pierced through his despair.
Then the Ironclad moved.
It didn't rush or charge. It simply took a single, ponderous step forward, raising one massive, three-fingered hand. The air crackled. The polearm in Soren's hands suddenly felt impossibly heavy, as if the gravity in the corridor had tripled. The hum of the energy crystal died, replaced by a low, groaning sound of stressed metal. Soren's arms trembled, the muscles in his shoulders and back screaming as he fought to keep the weapon from falling. The Ironclad's hand glowed with a faint, blue light, a magnetic field so intense it was palpable. With a final, convulsive heave, Soren tried to swing the polearm, but it was like trying to lift a mountain beam. It slipped from his numb fingers and crashed to the floor with a deafening clang.
The moment the weapon left his hands, the guards were on him. A polearm shaft slammed into his back, knocking the breath from his lungs. He fell to one knee, gasping. Another blow caught him on the shoulder, sending a jolt of numbing pain down his arm. He tried to rise, to fight back with his bare hands, but a third guard kicked him squarely in the chest. The world dissolved into a starburst of pain. He collapsed onto the cold stone, the impact rattling his teeth. He could taste blood in his mouth, coppery and warm. They didn't give him a chance to recover. They methodically, dispassionately, beat him down. Each blow was precise, designed to incapacitate, not to kill. They were not angry. They were simply completing a task.
He curled into a ball, his arms covering his head, absorbing the punishment. The rhythmic thud of metal against flesh and bone was a grim counterpoint to the ragged sound of his own breathing. The smell of his own blood filled his nostrils, mingling with the sterile scent of the Spire. His defiance was being hammered out of him, blow by brutal blow. He thought of his mother, of Finn, of Nyra. The faces flickered in his mind, a gallery of ghosts in the encroaching darkness. He had failed them all. He had walked into the trap, and now he was paying the price.
The beating stopped as suddenly as it had begun. A heavy boot landed on his back, pinning him to the floor. He could feel the cold metal through the thin linen of his tunic. The leader of the guard knelt beside him, the silver skull-mask close to his ear. "Your spirit is… commendable," the metallic voice rasped, devoid of any real emotion. "But it is an obstacle. And obstacles are meant to be removed." Soren felt a cold touch on the back of his neck. It was a metal band, smooth and unnervingly heavy. He tried to struggle, to buck the guard off, but his body was a mass of pain, his limbs unresponsive.
The band clicked shut.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute. It was not a pain, but a void. A sudden, terrifying emptiness where the constant, low hum of his Gift had always been. It was like a limb he'd never known he had was suddenly severed, leaving behind a phantom ache that was more profound than any physical wound. The world, which had always been alive to him with a subtle energy, went flat and silent. The colors seemed to dull, the sounds to lose their texture. The connection to the raw power that churned within him, the power of the Bulwark, the echo of the Withering King—it was all gone. Snuffed out like a candle in a hurricane. He was just a man now. Broken, bleeding, and utterly, terrifyingly ordinary.
The boot lifted from his back. Rough hands grabbed him by the arms, hauling him to his knees. He sagged between them, his head bowed, his vision swimming. He could see the discarded wooden bird on the floor, its painted eye staring up at him, a silent witness to his ruin. The leader of the guard stood before him, his posture radiating cold triumph. He reached up and removed his helmet, revealing a face that was surprisingly young, with pale skin and cold, grey eyes that held no pity, only a fanatical gleam. He was an Inquisitor.
"High Inquisitor Valerius will be pleased," the Inquisitor sneered, his voice no longer distorted by the mask. It was a smooth, cruel tenor. "He has been waiting for you."