At their head strode a taller figure whose presence hit Soren like a physical blow. Even with his face half-hidden beneath a hood, there was no mistaking him, the confident stride, the way he held his curved blade low and ready, the predatory tilt of his head as he assessed the corridor's occupants.

Sylas.

Weeks had passed since their encounter in the forest outside Northaven, but Soren would have recognized him anywhere.

The assassin moved like no one else, each step deliberate, each gesture efficient to the point of beauty.

The Inquisitors reacted with surprising speed, forming a defensive line across the corridor. Scripture-chains rattled as they raised them like weapons, metal links glowing with pale blue light as they began to chant in that ancient, resonant tongue.

Sylas didn't hesitate. His blade flashed once, impossibly fast, and the nearest Inquisitor crumpled with a sound like punctured bellows.

Before the others could complete their chant, one of Sylas's companions sent a throwing dagger spinning through the air with surgical precision. It struck a chanting priest in the throat, transforming holy words into a wet gurgle.

The corridor erupted into chaos. Two more of Sylas's assassins engaged the remaining Inquisitors, blades moving with lethal efficiency against opponents accustomed to spiritual rather than physical combat.

Another slipped past the melee, heading deeper into the Cathedral with single-minded purpose.

Sylas himself paused, green eyes finding Soren's across the corridor. Recognition flashed between them, sharp, immediate, but not the warmth of reunion.

This was assessment, calculation, the weighing of an unexpected variable in whatever plan had brought him to the Cathedral's heart.

He wasn't here for rescue alone. Soren saw it in the way his gaze flicked past him, in the deliberate manner his companions spread through the corridor. Sylas had his own objective.

Before either could move, the remaining Inquisitor yanked Soren backward, one arm around his throat, the other raising a scripture-chain that pulsed with threatening light.

"Back!" he shouted, voice cracking with fear. "Or the heretic dies first!"

Sylas's perfect mouth twisted in a snarl, but he didn't advance. His blade remained low, ready but restrained. Too risky to strike with Soren so close to his target.

"Unhand him," Sylas said, his voice carrying that same cultured precision Soren remembered, incongruous with the violence he had just witnessed. "He's not part of this."

"Everything is part of this now," the Inquisitor replied, tightening his grip until Soren could barely breathe. "Whatever blasphemy you planned, it dies here."

Golden light suddenly flooded the corridor, so intense it cast no shadows. Heat rolled toward them in a palpable wave, scorching the very air.

Ser Calvian had returned, Solbrand drawn and blazing with sacred fire that stretched toward the ceiling in hungry tongues.

His perfect face showed no fear, no hesitation, only the cold purpose of a weapon fulfilling its designed function.

"Heretics," he intoned, the word carrying the weight of judgment. "You defile sacred ground."

Sylas turned to face this new threat, his own blade gleaming with a strange blue-green light that hadn't been there moments before. The two men assessed each other across the corridor, predators recognizing an equal.

When they moved, it was with such speed that Soren could barely track the exchange. Solbrand's golden flame met Sylas's curved blade in an explosion of light and sound that shook dust from the ancient ceiling.

The corridor itself seemed to groan under the force of their collision, scripture etched into the walls flaring in response to the violent energy unleashed between them.

The Inquisitor holding Soren yanked him backward, away from the duel that threatened to consume the entire passage. Stone cracked where Calvian's blade struck, golden fire scorching ancient text into black char.

Sylas moved like water, each defense flowing into counter-attack with inhuman grace, his blade leaving trails of that eerie blue-green light wherever it passed.

Soren found himself thrown to the floor, the impact driving air from his lungs. The chains around his wrists bit deeper, fresh blood welling around the metal cuffs.

He was helpless, caught between titans whose clash threatened to destroy everything in their path.

Above him, relics shattered in their cases, fragments of sacred texts and saints' bones raining down like macabre confetti.

The very sanctity of the Cathedral lay broken around him, its most sacred halls transformed into a battlefield.

The shard against his chest suddenly pulsed with violent cold, Valenna's presence surging forward after hours of watchful silence.

'If you stay chained, you die between them,' she said, her voice sharp with urgency. 'The key lies in what they fear most.'

Soren twisted his wrists against the scripture-chains, feeling the metal bite deeper into raw flesh.

The links pulsed with that familiar blue light, but something had changed, the power that had muted Valenna's presence seemed weaker now, disrupted by the violence erupting around them.

Above him, Calvian and Sylas danced their deadly ballet, each strike sending shockwaves through the ancient stone.

The knight's golden fire scorched the walls, leaving blackened scripture in its wake, while Sylas's blade carved arcs of blue-green light that seemed to drink the very air.

The Inquisitor who had held him lay crumpled against the wall, skull cracked where he'd struck the stone during the initial clash. His winter-cold eyes stared at nothing, mouth frozen in a half-formed prayer.

Soren rolled toward the dead man's outstretched hand, desperate fingers searching for anything that might—

His palm closed around a small iron key, still warm from the Inquisitor's grip. The same key they'd used to lock the scripture-chains.

The shard against his chest flared with sudden, violent cold as he twisted the key in the first lock. The chain fell away with a sound like breaking glass, the blue light guttering and dying.

The second chain fell away with a similar sound, the scripture-forged metal clattering to the floor.

Soren gasped as sensation flooded back into his hands, pins and needles stabbing through his fingers as blood rushed to deprived tissue. The shard against his chest pulsed with triumphant cold.

'Now run,' Valenna urged. 'Between their clash. The path will open.'

Soren scrambled to his feet, legs still weak from the Eternal Flame's embrace. The corridor had become a battlefield.

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