The cavern lay silent, its blue glow extinguished, the Shroud's crystalline core a dark, lifeless husk at the chamber's center. Elias Varn knelt in the dust and blood-streaked stone, his oversized boots soaked in the cold remnants of Rory's life, the faded jacket clinging to his trembling frame, heavy with grime and despair. His bare hands clutched Rory's still form, fingers digging into the torn, blood-soaked hoodie, and the notebook lay abandoned beside him, its pages splayed in the dirt, a mute witness to his loss. Without his glasses, the world blurred into a gray haze, but his eyes flickered faintly, the ember in his chest a dim pulse—a spark he'd wielded, now a hollow ache stripped of power. The air hung thick with coal dust and the absence of the Beneath's hum, a void where hope had burned.
Rory's body rested in his arms, his red hair matted with blood and sweat, his freckled face ashen, eyes closed in a peace that mocked Elias's grief. The bruise on his ribs had stilled, black veins frozen beneath torn skin, the gash from the crimson blade a silent wound that no pulse could mend. His hand lay limp, the faint grin he'd worn erased, and Elias's sobs echoed, raw and broken, filling the emptiness where the Shroud once spoke. "Rory—Rory, please…" he whispered, nudging the ember—a weak, desperate pulse brushing his friend, seeking a spark that wouldn't ignite. Nothing came, the core cold, the Shroud gone.
The orange stranger's dust mingled with the stone woman's, their forms scattered remnants of a fight lost, and Elias's tears soaked Rory's hoodie, his chest heaving as the ember flickered, a heat he couldn't shape. "I—I failed you," he choked out, clutching tighter, the ember a faint pulse against the silence. "I—I was supposed to save you—save everything…" His voice broke, a scream tearing free, and the cavern trembled, dust sifting from stalactites, a hollow answer to his pain.
A faint sound cut through—a whisper, not the Shroud's resonant hum, but softer, familiar, threading from within: "You're enough—keep going." Elias froze, the ember flaring weakly, his eyes glowing for a fleeting second as he stared at Rory's still face. "Rory?" he rasped, voice trembling, nudging a pulse—gentle, searching, brushing his friend's chest. A shimmer flickered, not blue but gold, faint and fleeting, rising from Rory's form—a shadow of his glow, his grin ghosting in the air before fading, an echo in the dark.
Elias's breath hitched, tears streaming as the ember pulsed, a heat he clung to. "You—you're still here?" he whispered, the gold winking out, but the whisper lingered, a thread of Rory's voice: "Not leaving you—dumbass." The ember flared brighter, a spark he shaped, and the core twitched—a faint blue glimmer, deep within, a pulse answering his own. The Shroud's voice stirred, weak but alive: "He endures—you endure."
The mines rumbled, a sharp whine echoing—the Order's return, not retreating but advancing, a mechanical groan heavier than before. Elias's stomach dropped, the ember surging as he staggered up, laying Rory gently on the stone, his hand trembling as he brushed his friend's hair. "I—I'll keep going," he vowed, voice raw, nudging a pulse toward the core—a wave, shaped and firm, coaxing its blue to flare, tendrils coiling faint but defiant. "For you."
A rig rolled in—massive, its steel frame glinting with red light pulsing from a single, jagged cannon, flanked by crimson-helmed figures, their blades crackling with lethal energy. The lead figure stepped forward, its visor pulsing red, voice a mechanical growl over the rig's hum. "Beacon," it said, crimson flaring. "Your spark is severed—the Silence claims all." It raised its blade, red pulsing—a wave slamming Elias back, locking his limbs, dimming the ember, the core's faint glow trembling under its weight.
Elias's chest heaved, the ember fighting—a spark he wielded, a heat he shaped, fueled by Rory's echo. His eyes blazed, the pulse breaking free—blue and gold, tendrils lashing from the core, clashing with red in a burst of sparks. The wave hit, cracking the figure's 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—hold him."
The rig's cannon whirred, red flaring—a wave washing over the core, its blue flickering to a shadow, tendrils limp, and Elias's vision blurred, the ember stuttering as the figures advanced, blades syncing into a piercing tone. "No—no more!" he screamed, the ember surging—a heat he aimed, a pulse breaking free, blue and gold wrapping the rig, cracking its frame, but the lead figure pulsed, crimson shattering his wave, locking his glow, the core's light fading.
A new pulse cut through—not blue, but gold, faint and sharp, flaring from Rory's still form—a wave slamming the figure back, cracking its helm, sparking wild. Elias's breath caught, the ember flaring as Rory's echo whispered: "Kick their ass—for me." The gold faded, a final spark, and Elias clenched his fists, the ember surging—a heat he shaped, fueled by grief and resolve.
His eyes blazed, the pulse breaking free—blue and gold, tendrils lashing from the core, a torrent of light clashing with red, shattering the rig's cannon, cracking its steel, driving the figures back. The chamber roared, crimson sparking wild, and the lead figure pulsed, red faltering as its blade cracked, its growl tight: "Regroup—protocol three!" The armored ones retreated, dragging the rig's wreckage, red winking out, leaving the cavern silent but for Elias's ragged breath.
He sank beside Rory, the ember pulsing—a warm pulse he held, the core's blue flickering stronger, tendrils coiling faint but alive. The Shroud's voice steadied: "You hold me—he holds you." Elias clutched the notebook, tears streaming, Rory's echo a whisper in his mind: "Keep going." He nudged a pulse toward the core—gentle, firm, its blue flaring, a spark rekindled.
The mines rumbled, a distant whine echoing—the Order, relentless, protocol three looming. Elias stood, the ember a heat he wielded, Rory's blood on his hands, a vow in his heart. The dark stretched, but the echo burned—a fight he'd carry, a spark unbroken.