# Chapter 667: The Aftermath
The silence was broken by the crunch of boots on slag. Nyra froze, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her sword. Peering through a gap in a pile of broken girders, she saw them. Three figures in the stark, silver-and-white armor of the Radiant Synod Inquisitors. Their polished helms reflected the moonlight, their movements precise and predatory. They carried energy pikes, the tips humming with a low, menacing thrum. They spread out, scanning the crater, their attention drawn to the smooth obsidian sphere at its center. One of them knelt, touching the glassy surface. "Residual energy signature matches the Shard of Betrayal," a voice, cold and metallic, crackled from a vox-caster. "But it's gone. Contained." The Inquisitor stood, his gaze sweeping the shadows. "Find the survivors. Whoever is here has the prize. Bring them in."
Nyra pulled back behind the cover, her breath hitching in her throat. The air in the crater was still heavy with the smell of ozone and burnt flesh, a cloying scent that coated the back of her mouth. She pressed a hand against her ribs, feeling the sharp grind of bone. The adrenaline that had kept her moving during the escape was fading fast, replaced by a cold, creeping numbness. Beside her, Isolde was checking her pistol, the slide making a soft, metallic click in the darkness. The former Inquisitor's face was a mask of concentration, but Nyra could see the tremor in her hands.
"They're sweeping the perimeter," Isolde whispered, her voice barely audible over the settling dust. "Standard search pattern. They'll be on top of us in two minutes."
"ruku," Nyra breathed, turning to the giant. The mute man was slumped against a piece of fallen masonry, his chest heaving. His skin, usually a pale grey, was flushed with fever. The burns on his arms were angry and raw, weeping fluid. He clutched the Stasis Field generator to his chest like a child with a toy, though the device was now dark, its internal lights extinguished. The sphere inside—the inert remains of the Shard of Betrayal—was nothing more than a lifeless rock. They had the object, but the power was gone. Rook had seen to that.
Nyra looked back toward the center of the crater. The obsidian sphere glowed faintly in the moonlight, a tombstone for a traitor who had died a hero. The irony tasted bitter. Rook Marr, the man who had sold them out, who had handed Soren to the wolves, had bought them this final chance. He had taken the volatile heart of the shard into himself and let it burn him away rather than let it destroy the city. It was a redemption that didn't erase his sins, but it certainly complicated the ledger.
"We can't fight them," Nyra said, forcing the words through gritted teeth. "Not in this condition. Not with ruku hurt."
"We can't stay here," Isolde countered. "If they find us with the shard, even inert, they'll execute us on the spot. Valerius won't care how we got it."
A beam of light swept over their hiding spot, cutting through the gloom. The Inquisitors were getting closer. Nyra scanned the area, her mind racing. The foundry was a total loss. The roof had collapsed inward, creating a jagged landscape of twisted steel and concrete. To the south, the Ashen Remnant survivors were scattering, fleeing into the labyrinthine alleyways of the industrial district like rats from a sinking ship. Their chaotic retreat might provide the distraction they needed.
"ruku," Nyra hissed, gripping the giant's shoulder. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dazed. "I need you to move. Can you walk?"
ruku grunted, pushing himself up. He swayed dangerously, his massive frame threatening to topple. He nodded once, a jerky, pained motion.
"We follow the Remnant," Nyra decided. "The Inquisitors will prioritize the shard signature or the largest group of hostiles. If we stay in the shadows, we might slip through the net."
Isolde nodded, holstering her weapon. "I know a drainage tunnel three blocks east. It leads to the old subways. It's our best shot."
"Move."
They broke cover, staying low. The ground was uneven, littered with debris that crunched underfoot. Every noise seemed deafening in the oppressive quiet. Above them, the sky was choked with smoke, the stars blotted out by the residue of the magical fire. The heat was still intense, radiating from the ground like a fever.
As they scrambled over a ridge of slag, Nyra risked a glance back. The Inquisitors had reached the center of the crater. They stood around the obsidian sphere, their weapons lowered. One of them was running a scanner over the smooth surface. Even from this distance, Nyra could sense the confusion in their body language. They had expected to find a crater of destruction, perhaps survivors clinging to a volatile artifact. Instead, they found a graveyard and a mystery.
"They know," Isolde murmured, reading Nyra's thoughts. "They can feel it. The magic is dead."
"Keep moving," Nyra urged. She felt a heavy weight settle in her chest. The mission had been to secure the shard, to use its power against the Synod. Now, they were dragging a useless rock through the ruins, while the man who could have explained it all was vaporized. Soren was going to be devastated. Rook had been his mentor, his father figure. The betrayal had broken him; this sacrifice would shatter him.
They reached the edge of the foundry complex. The chaos of the escape was evident everywhere. Smashed carts, abandoned weapons, and the bodies of those who hadn't made it lay scattered in the dirt. The Ashen Remnant had vanished into the urban sprawl, leaving only trails of blood and footprints in the ash.
The sound of shouting erupted behind them. The Inquisitors had found the tracks. "Sector four! They're heading toward the river!"
"They're faster than they look," Isolde muttered, picking up the pace.
They turned a corner into a narrow alleyway between two towering warehouses. The shadows here were deep, offering a momentary respite. Nyra leaned against the cold brick wall, gasping for air. Her vision swam, the edges darkening. She needed a medic, or at least a few hours of sleep, but neither was an option.
"Give me the shard," she said to ruku. The giant hesitated, his grip tightening on the Stasis Field. "ruku, please. You're slowing down. If they catch you, they'll kill you."
He looked at her, his eyes filled with a profound sadness. Reluctantly, he handed the device over. The weight was heavier than she expected, not physically, but in the significance of what it represented. Failure.
She tucked the inert sphere under her arm, the smooth surface cool against her skin. "Let's go."
They moved deeper into the alley, the sounds of pursuit fading slightly as they put distance between themselves and the crater. The city around them was waking up to the disaster. Alarms blared in the distance, and the glow of fires flickered on the horizon. The destruction of the foundry would send shockwaves through the Crownlands. The Synod would use this, twisting the narrative to suit their needs. They would paint the Ashen Remnant as terrorists, and anyone associated with them as traitors.
Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the wall ahead of them. Nyra raised her sword, but a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.
"It's me," a voice whispered.
Nyra squinted, her heart hammering. A figure stepped into the faint light filtering from a streetlamp above. It was a young woman, dressed in the rags of a street urchin, but her eyes were sharp and intelligent.
"Piper?" Nyra lowered her sword. "What are you doing here?"
"Watching," the girl replied, tilting her head. "Like I was told. You made a lot of noise, Lady Nyra. The whole city is shaking."
Isolde stepped forward, her hand on her holster. "Can we trust her?"
"She's one of us," Nyra said, though she knew the distinction was blurry. Piper was a ghost, a child of the streets who sold information to the highest bidder. But she had helped them before. "Is the way clear?"
"The tunnels are blocked," Piper said, her voice flat. "The Wardens sealed them off after the explosion started. They're locking down the district."
Nyra cursed under her breath. "Is there another way?"
"There's always a way," Piper said, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "But it'll cost you. And it's tight."
"We don't have anything to give you," Nyra said, gesturing to their battered state.
Piper's eyes drifted to the Stasis Field in Nyra's arms. "You have that. Looks valuable."
"It's a paperweight," Nyra lied. "It's useless."
"Maybe," Piper shrugged. "But people don't carry paperweights through war zones. Come on."
She turned and scampered up a pile of crates, scaling the wall with the agility of a spider. Nyra looked at Isolde and ruku. The giant was sweating profusely now, his breath coming in ragged gasps. They didn't have a choice.
They followed Piper up the crates and onto a low rooftop. The wind up here was stronger, carrying the smell of smoke and sulfur. Below them, the alleyways were swarming with Wardens, their lanterns cutting through the dark. Piper led them across the rooftops, jumping over gaps and skirting around ventilation shafts. Nyra's ribs screamed with every landing, but she gritted her teeth and pushed through the pain. She couldn't stop. If she stopped, the reality of Rook's death would catch up to her, and she wasn't ready to face that yet.
They reached the edge of the industrial district. Below them lay the river, a black ribbon reflecting the fires of the city. A bridge spanned the water, but it was heavily guarded by Synod soldiers.
"Down there," Piper pointed to a storm drain outlet near the water's edge. "It flows into the old culverts. Nasty smell, but no guards."
"Thank you, Piper," Nyra said.
"I'll send the bill," the girl replied, before vanishing back into the shadows as quickly as she had appeared.
Nyra helped ruku down the fire escape, his massive weight nearly pulling her off the railing. They slipped into the darkness of the storm drain, the water rushing past their ankles. The air was thick with the stench of rot and sewage, but after the dry heat of the fire, it was almost refreshing.
They walked in silence for what felt like hours. The only sounds were the splashing of their footsteps and ruku's labored breathing. The physical exertion was taking its toll on all of them, but ruku was in bad shape. He stumbled, catching himself against the slimy wall.
"We need to stop," Isolde said, checking ruku's pulse. "He's burning up."
"Just a little further," Nyra said, though she didn't know how much further she could go. "We need to get to a safe line."
They found a dry alcove off the main tunnel and collapsed. Nyra set the Stasis Field down gently. She sat opposite ruku, watching the rise and fall of his chest. He looked smaller somehow, diminished by the injury and the exhaustion.
Isolde was cleaning her gun, her movements methodical and calming. "We failed, didn't we?"
Nyra looked up. "We survived. The city is still standing. That counts for something."
"Does it?" Isolde's voice was hard. "We lost the shard. Rook is dead. Soren is going to be walking into a trap without the leverage we promised him."
"We'll figure something out," Nyra said, but the words felt hollow. She looked at the inert sphere. The Shard of Betrayal, a weapon capable of leveling cities, now nothing more than a curiosity. Rook had taken its power into himself. Where had it gone? Was it dispersed into the atmosphere? Or was it still there, trapped within the atomic structure of the obsidian sphere?
She reached out and touched the surface. It was cold. No hum, no vibration. Just dead rock.
"He saved us," Nyra whispered, more to herself than to Isolde. "In the end, he chose to save us."
"Does that bring the dead back?" Isolde asked, not looking up from her weapon.
"No," Nyra said. "But it gives us a reason to keep fighting."
She pulled out her communicator. The device was cracked, the screen flickering, but it still had a signal. She needed to report in. She needed to tell Talia, and through her, Valerius. The High Inquisitor would be furious. He would see the loss of the shard as a catastrophic failure. He might even recall them, leaving Soren to face the coming trials alone.
Nyra took a deep breath, steadying her hand. She couldn't let that happen. She had to make him understand. They had prevented a disaster. They had uncovered a new threat in the Ashen Remnant. And they had learned that Rook Marr had a Gift that defied classification. Information was power, too.
She thumbed the activation switch. The line crackled, the connection weak in the bowels of the city.
"Go ahead," Valerius's voice came through, distorted but recognizable. He sounded impatient.
Nyra looked at ruku, then at Isolde. She thought of Soren, waiting in the wings for a signal that might never come. She thought of Rook, standing in the heart of the fire, a look of peace on his face as the world turned white around him.
"Valerius," she said, her voice grim. "It's over."
"Report," the voice demanded. "Status of the asset?"
Nyra looked down at the dark sphere. "The second shard is gone. We failed."
There was a long pause on the line. The static hissed like a snake. Nyra waited, her heart pounding in her ears. She had delivered the news that could end their campaign, that could seal their fates. But as she stood there in the dark, damp tunnel, surrounded by the smell of the river and the sound of her friend's pained breathing, she felt a strange sense of resolve. They had lost the battle, but the war was far from over. Rook had bought them time. It was up to her to make sure it wasn't wasted.
"Gone?" Valerius's voice dropped an octave, the temperature in the tunnel seeming to plummet. "Explain."
Nyra closed her eyes for a second, summoning the strength to recount the horror and the heroism of the night. "Rook Marr absorbed the detonation. He's dead. The shard is inert. We have the casing, but the power... it's gone."
"Inert," Valerius repeated, the word laced with venom. "You brought me a rock while the city burns?"
"The city isn't burning," Nyra shot back, her fatigue sharpening her tone. "Because of him. Because of us. We stopped the blast. We contained the threat."
"You contained the prize," Valerius corrected. "And in doing so, you have handed the advantage to the Withering King. Do you think he cares about your containment? He feeds on despair, Nyra. And tonight, you have served him a feast."
The line went dead.
Nyra lowered the communicator, her hand trembling slightly. She looked at Isolde. The other woman's face was grim, but her eyes were hard.
"He's not wrong," Isolde said quietly. "We're in trouble."
"We're always in trouble," Nyra replied, picking up the useless sphere. She slung the strap over her shoulder. "Come on. We need to get ruku to a doctor. Then we find Soren. If Valerius cuts us loose, we do this on our own."
She turned and started walking down the tunnel, into the dark. The water splashed around her boots, a rhythmic, steady sound. Behind her, she heard Isolde helping ruku to his feet. The giant groaned, a low, rumbling sound of pain, but he followed.
They were battered, broken, and carrying nothing but a heavy burden of failure. But they were moving. And as long as they were moving, they weren't dead. The Aftermath wasn't an end; it was just the beginning of the next fight.