# Chapter 389: The Siege of Light
The blare of Cassian's horn was a clarion call that shattered the pre-dawn stillness, a sound of regal defiance swallowed by the vast, grey expanse. For Soren and Kestrel, hunkered behind a ridge of wind-scoured rock a mile from the Sunken City, it was the starting pistol. The sound echoed off the canyon walls, a signal that the prince's gambit had begun. Soren gave a sharp nod, and the two of them moved out, their shadows long and thin in the rising, ashen light.
They did not head for the main gates. That was Cassian's stage. Their path was a forgotten sewer outlet, a crumbling maw of stone half-buried in a landslide of grey dust, which Kestrel had assured them led into the city's underbelly. The air grew thick and foul as they approached, a miasma of decay and stagnant water. The crunch of their boots on the gritty ground was the only sound, a stark contrast to the distant, growing clamor from the Bulwark. The horn had been answered. The deep, resonant toll of the Synod's great bell began to ring, a call to arms that vibrated in Soren's teeth.
Then, a new sound joined the chorus. It was not a horn or a bell, but a roar. A raw, human sound of thousands of voices raised in unison, a chant that was both prayer and war cry. It rolled across the wastes like a physical force, carrying with it the scent of ozone and unwashed bodies. The Remnant had arrived.
Soren and Kestrel froze, exchanging a grim look. They were too late to be early. The siege had begun.
"Change of plan," Kestrel hissed, his eyes scanning the horizon. "We can't go in quiet now. The whole city will be on alert."
"We don't go in quiet," Soren agreed, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "We go in fast." He broke from the cover of the rocks, sprinting the last hundred yards to the sewer entrance. Kestrel was right behind him. The opening yawned before them, a dark, wet hole promising sanctuary and danger in equal measure. As Soren plunged into the oppressive darkness, the world outside erupted.
The Remnant army was not a disciplined force of gleaming armor and marching ranks. It was a tide of rags and fanaticism, a living wave of humanity that surged against the pristine white walls of the Divine Bulwark. They came from the wastes, a horde of the desperate and the deranged, their faces painted with ash, their eyes burning with a zealous light. At their head, a figure in simple grey robes stood upon a rocky outcrop, arms raised. The Voice.
Their fury was terrifyingly effective. The first wave crashed against the Bulwark's outer defenses, not with siege engines, but with bodies. They swarmed the guard towers, their sheer numbers overwhelming the few Synod sentries. The air filled with the sharp crack of rifle fire—the Remnant's crude, anti-Gifted weapons. They weren't accurate, but they didn't have to be. They were meant to disrupt, to wound, to break the concentration of the Gifted defenders. A Synod Templar on the wall raised his hands, summoning a spear of light, only to be thrown backward as a slug of cold iron tore through his shoulder. His Gift sputtered and died, the light fizzling into pathetic sparks.
The Synod's response was swift and brutal. Golden light erupted from the ramparts as Guardian Knights engaged. Blasts of pure energy incinerated dozens of Remnant fanatics at a time, their bodies turning to ash before they could even scream. But for every one that fell, three more seemed to take their place, scrambling over the corpses of their comrades, their faces masks of ecstatic devotion. They were not fighting to win; they were fighting to die, to be martyrs for their cause of absolute purity.
From his vantage point on the outcrop, The Voice watched the carnage, their face an impassive mask. They raised a hand, and a section of the horde peeled away, dragging a massive, covered cart towards the main gate. It was the bomb. And beside it, a smaller figure moved with a chilling grace, her simple white dress a stark contrast to the filth and fury of the army. Elara.
Soren saw her the moment he emerged from the sewer tunnels into a narrow, refuse-choked alley. The sounds of battle were a deafening cacophony overhead, the ground trembling with the impact of Gifted blasts. The air was thick with the stench of smoke, blood, and the acrid tang of the Remnant's rifles. He pressed himself against the cold, damp stone, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Kestrel flattened beside him, his scavenger's eyes wide.
"By the Cinders," Kestrel breathed. "They're already at the gate."
Soren's gaze was locked on the white dress. Elara. She was there, just as the scout had said, standing beside the cart like a priestess at an altar. She wasn't armed. She didn't need to be. Her presence was the weapon, a symbol that would paralyze any who might recognize her. Soren's blood ran cold. The Voice was using her as a shield, a moral deterrent.
"We have to get to her," Soren growled, pushing off the wall.
"Soren, wait!" Kestrel grabbed his arm. "Look."
The main gates of the Bulwark groaned open. Not to surrender, but to unleash hell. A phalanx of Vengeant Knights, their armor glowing with inner fire, marched out in perfect lockstep. They were the Synod's ultimate enforcers, and they carved through the Remnant line like a hot knife through wax. Their leader, a towering figure whose helm was shaped like a snarling lion, raised a glowing warhammer. "For the purity of the light! For the Synod!" he bellowed, his voice amplified by his Gift.
The three-way battle was a maelstrom of chaos. The Remnant swarmed the Vengeant Knights, sacrificing themselves to drag the holy warriors down, their anti-Gifted rounds pinging off the blessed armor. The Synod defenders on the walls rained down fire on both sides, unable to get a clear shot without risking their own elite. And through it all, Cassian's small contingent of Crownlands guards, their silver-and-blue banners a beacon of defiance, held a small pocket of ground near the gate, fighting back-to-back against any who approached.
Soren saw his chance. The chaos was a cover. "Stay close," he yelled to Kestrel over the din, and then he burst from the alley.
He moved like a predator, his focus absolute. He ignored the clashes of light and steel, the screams of the dying, the explosions of arcane power. His world had shrunk to the hundred yards of mud and bodies between him and the cart. A Remnant fanatic, his eyes wild, lunged at him with a rusty pitchfork. Soren sidestepped, his sword a blur of silver that opened the man's throat without a glance. A Vengeant Knight, mistaking him for the enemy, swung a burning fist. Soren dropped low, the heat of the passing blow singing his hair, and drove his blade into the knight's unarmored joint.
He was a ghost in the machine, a neutral force carving a path of pure necessity. Kestrel was his shadow, a whirlwind of motion with a pair of weighted daggers, disarming, tripping, and disabling anyone who threatened Soren's flank. They were not fighting for the Synod or against the Remnant. They were fighting for Elara.
The cart was fifty yards away. Thirty. Ten. Soren could see Elara's face now. It was serene, empty, her eyes fixed on the great, iron-studded gates of the Bulwark as if she could see something beyond them. She showed no sign of recognition, no flicker of emotion as he fought his way towards her. She was a beautiful, terrifying statue.
"Elara!" he shouted, his voice lost in the roar of the battle.
He was twenty feet away when a wall of force slammed into him, throwing him backward. He skidded across the bloody mud, his ears ringing. A figure stood between him and the cart, tall and gaunt, clad in grey robes that seemed to drink the light. The Voice.
Their arrival was instantaneous, a silent, chilling displacement of air. They had not been there a second ago. They raised a hand, and the air around Soren grew heavy, oppressive, the very light seeming to bend away from him. It was a nullifying field, a pressure that made his Gift ache in his bones, a dormant fire being smothered.
"She cannot hear you, champion of broken things," The Voice said, their voice a disconcerting blend of masculine and feminine tones, calm and clear despite the surrounding bedlam. "She is listening to the silence. To the peace that comes after the cleansing."
Soren climbed to his feet, his sword held in a white-knuckled grip. Kestrel was nowhere to be seen, lost in the swirling melee. He was alone. "Let her go," Soren snarled. "This is between you and me."
The Voice tilted their head, a gesture of mild curiosity. "Is it? You cling to the past, to a single life, while we offer a future. A world without the curse of the Gift. Without the pain that festers in your soul. You, of all people, should understand. You have paid the Cost. You have felt the Cinders burn."
The pressure intensified. Soren felt his own Cinder-tattoos on his arm begin to itch, to burn with a phantom fire. He gritted his teeth, pushing back against the psychic weight. "This isn't peace. It's annihilation."
"It is a mercy," The Voice countered, their gaze unwavering. "And it begins now." They turned their back on Soren, a gesture of supreme contempt, and raised their hands towards the bomb. Elara stood beside them, her hands resting on the tarp that covered the device, her expression placid, ready.
A surge of pure, desperate adrenaline flooded Soren's system. He couldn't let it happen. He couldn't fail. With a roar that tore from the depths of his being, he lunged. He didn't call on his Gift; he didn't dare. He poured every ounce of his will, his pain, his love, and his rage into a single, physical charge.
The Voice sensed him at the last second, turning, their nullifying field flaring. But Soren was not using magic. He was just a man. A man with a sword and a reason to die. He slammed into The Voice, not with steel, but with his shoulder, a bone-jarring impact that sent them both sprawling in the mud.
The nullifying field vanished. The world rushed back in—the screams, the explosions, the stench of death. Soren scrambled to his feet, kicking The Voice's sword away. He stood over them, his blade at their throat, his chest heaving. For a moment, he had won.
Then, he felt a cold touch on his arm.
He looked down. Elara was standing beside him. Her eyes, once so full of life, were now vast, empty pools of grey. She wasn't looking at his face. She was looking at his glowing Cinder-tattoos. A flicker of something—pity?—crossed her features before being erased by a chilling calm.
"You are afflicted," she whispered, her voice the sound of wind through a graveyard. "Let me help you."
Her touch was like ice. It wasn't an attack. It was worse. It was a gentle, loving act of destruction. Soren felt his own Gift, his own life force, begin to drain away into her, pulled by an unnatural void. His vision swam. The edges of the world turned to ash.
He stumbled back, breaking her grip, his mind reeling. He couldn't fight her. He wouldn't.
The Voice was on their feet again, their composure broken for the first time. A flicker of rage crossed their androgynous face. "You see?" they hissed, pointing at Soren. "This is what they are! Parasites! They infect everything they touch!" They raised their hands, not towards the bomb, but towards the sky. A vortex of grey energy began to form above them, a swirling vortex of anti-magic that crackled with destructive intent. "The cleansing will be complete!"
Soren's eyes darted from The Voice to Elara, then to the cart. The tarp had fallen away. He could see the bomb now—a sphere of swirling, black glass, shot through with veins of sickly green light, pulsing like a diseased heart. At its center, a single, massive soulsteel crystal was vibrating, glowing brighter with every passing second. It was almost at critical mass.
There was no time. No plan. No clever stratagem. There was only him, the bomb, and the two people standing between him and the end of the world. He took a deep breath, the air thick with smoke and despair. He raised his sword, the steel reflecting the chaotic light of the battle. His fight was here. His race against ruin was at its end.