The cavern's blue glow pulsed with a fragile tenacity, its light flickering across the stone floor where Elias Varn knelt beside Rory Tate, his oversized boots soaked in blood-streaked coal dust. The faded jacket clung to his trembling frame, heavy with grime and tears, and his bare hands clutched Rory's limp wrist, the notebook abandoned beside him, its pages splayed in the dirt. Without his glasses, the Shroud's crystalline core blurred into a shimmering haze at the chamber's center, but his eyes glowed faintly, the ember in his chest a warm pulse he'd fought to wield—now a flickering spark strained by the weight of loss. The air hung thick with dust and the Beneath's hum, a presence steady but faltering, mirroring the dread clawing at his soul.
Rory lay sprawled, his patched hoodie shredded and crimson-soaked, his red hair matted with sweat and blood. His freckled face was deathly pale, his green eyes half-lidded, flickering with a fading spark as he struggled to breathe, each gasp wet and shallow. The bruise on his ribs pulsed black, veins creeping beneath torn skin, blood pooling from the gash where the crimson blade had struck. His hand twitched in Elias's grip, a weak squeeze, and his voice rasped, barely audible. "Elias… don't—don't let go…"
Elias's chest heaved, sobs breaking as the ember flared, his eyes glowing brighter. "I—I won't!" he choked out, nudging a pulse toward Rory—a warm wave, desperate, wrapping his fading glow, slowing the blood, steadying his breath. "You're—you're staying with me—I'll—I'll save you!" The Shroud's voice whispered, urgent and strained: "Save him—or lose me." He poured the ember into Rory, a heat he shaped, blue and gold weaving through his wounds, but it faltered, Rory's glow dimming, a limit he couldn't push.
The orange stranger stood nearby, his tattered gray cloak streaked with dust, his staff glowing faint as he leaned on it, his sunken eyes heavy with a grim knowing. "It's not enough," he rasped, voice dry as ash, gesturing at the core, its tendrils coiling weak. "Crimson cuts deep—severs the spark. I've seen it—others, lost to it." He coughed, dust spilling, and pointed at Rory. "He's—he's slipping."
"No—no!" Elias shouted, the ember surging—a pulse breaking free, wild and raw, flooding Rory with light, tendrils flaring from the core, bolstering the wave. Rory's breath hitched, his glow flickering stronger, but his eyes fluttered shut, a faint grin trembling on his lips. "Elias… you're… enough…" His hand went limp, the glow fading, and Elias's scream echoed, the ember stuttering, the core trembling in response.
The chamber rumbled, a sharp whine cutting through—the Order's return, not rigs but a lone figure, the red-helmed warrior, its black armor glinting, crimson blade crackling with a deeper, hungrier light. It stepped forward, voice a mechanical growl over the Shroud's hum. "Beacon," it said, red flaring. "Your spark ends—severed, silent." It raised the blade, crimson pulsing—a wave slamming Elias back, locking his limbs, dimming the ember, the core's glow fading under its weight.
Elias's vision blurred, the ember fighting—a spark he clung to, a heat he shaped. "You—you won't take him!" he screamed, nudging a pulse—strong, shaped, clashing with red, sparking wildly. The wave hit, blue and gold driving the figure back, cracking its armor, but it pulsed, crimson slicing through, shattering his wave, slamming him to the stone beside Rory. The Shroud's voice weakened: "They sever me—save him."
The orange stranger lunged, his staff flaring orange, a wave of flame clashing with red, cracking the figure's helm, but the blade pulsed—a sharper wave hitting him square, severing his glow, his staff clattering dark as he fell, dust spilling, eyes wide and empty. "No!" Elias cried, the ember surging—a heat he aimed, a pulse breaking free, blue and gold wrapping the figure, cracking its blade, but it pulsed again, crimson deepening—a wave that locked his glow, the core's tendrils recoiling.
"You cannot save them," it growled, stepping closer, red flaring brighter. "The Silence severs all—centuries of sparks, cut dry." It raised the blade, crimson pulsing—a wave washing over the core, its blue fading to a flicker, tendrils limp, and Rory's glow dimmed, his breath a faint wheeze.
Elias's chest heaved, the ember fighting—a spark he wielded, a heat he shaped, fueled by grief and rage. His eyes blazed, the pulse surging—blue and gold, tendrils lashing, a torrent of light clashing with red, sparking wild. The chamber roared, the figure staggering, its helm cracking, but it pulsed, crimson shattering his wave, locking his limbs, the ember stuttering as Rory's glow faded to a whisper.
The Shroud's voice broke through, faint but desperate: "Choose—me or him." Elias's tears streamed, the ember a heat he couldn't hold, Rory's hand cold in his. "I—I can't lose him!" he sobbed, nudging a pulse—not at the figure, but at Rory, pouring all he had—blue and gold flooding his friend, tendrils coiling from the core, wrapping his wounds, his glow flaring faint but alive.
The figure pulsed, crimson slamming the core, its blue dimming to a shadow, tendrils still, and the Shroud's voice faded: "You lose me." Elias's pulse faltered, the ember dimming, and the figure stepped forward, blade raised, red flaring—a wave aimed at Rory, severing the faint glow, his breath stopping, his hand limp.
"No—no!" Elias screamed, the ember surging—a heat he shaped, a pulse he aimed, fueled by loss beyond bearing. His eyes blazed, the wave breaking free—blue and gold, tendrils lashing, a torrent of light slamming the figure, shattering its helm, driving it back into the tunnel, red winking out. The chamber fell silent, the core dark, its hum gone, and Elias crawled to Rory, the ember a faint pulse, his glow extinguished, eyes still.
"Rory—Rory, please!" Elias sobbed, clutching his friend, nudging a pulse—weak, desperate, but nothing came, the Shroud silent, the core cold. The orange stranger lay dust, the chamber a tomb, and Elias's tears soaked Rory's hoodie, the ember a flicker he couldn't wield, a spark severed.
The mines rumbled, a distant whine echoing—the Order, regrouping, relentless. Elias clutched the notebook, the ember a faint heat, and a new voice broke the silence—not the Shroud's, but Rory's, faint and hollow, from within: "You're enough—keep going." His eyes glowed, a fleeting shimmer, then faded, a spark lost, a trust enduring.