The Ascended — Chapter no 44

Chapter 44

When Heaven Falls

MY HEART THUNDERED AGAINST MY RIBS AS I RACED BACK THROUGH THE corridor, the elegant architecture that had seemed so enchanting mere moments ago now a labyrinth of death. Sweat slicked my brow, remnants of heat still clinging to my skin.

"Thatcher," I whispered. I reached through our twin bond, only to find it clouded, as though shrouded in the same smoke that now curled through the hallways.

Which door? Which godsdamned door had he disappeared behind?

They all looked identical now. I tried to remember the flash of silver-white hair, the direction they'd turned, anything that might guide me to my brother

before— Before he burned.

A scent hit me then, so visceral and wrong that my stomach heaved.

Burning meat.

I stumbled toward an open doorway, drawn by some morbid instinct I couldn't name. What I saw branded itself into my memory.

A contestant writhed on a bed of silk sheets that were rapidly turning to ash. Their back arched in what might have been mistaken for ecstasy, except their skin was melting, sloughing off in blackened chunks that hissed and bubbled. Flames licked up their limbs, consuming everything they touched. Beneath them, an illusion flickered and faded—a perfect replica of some divine being, dissolving into nothingness as its victim burned alive.

The contestant's mouth opened in a silent scream, lips already charred beyond recognition. Their eyes—gods, their eyes were still intact—bulged from their sockets.

Bile scorched my throat as I tore my gaze away and staggered backward. My heel caught, and I nearly fell, catching myself against the

wall with trembling hands.

I looked down.

My heart stopped.

Olinthar lay sprawled on the marble floor, his handsome face frozen. A starblade—my starblade—protruded from his chest, buried to the hilt in the exact spot I'd pictured driving it countless times. His blood pooled black and viscous around the wound, spreading in a perfect circle that was far too symmetrical.

The scream building in my throat died as a terrible understanding bloomed. This wasn't real. This was my illusion—crafted from the secret I guarded most fiercely. The revenge I'd dreamed of.

My hidden desire, made manifest.

Cold horror drenched me, dousing the panic with something far worse.

The viewing portals. If they could see the illusions—if all of Voldaris was watching right now—then everyone knew. My most carefully protected secret, the darkness I'd managed to conceal through the first two Trials, was now laid bare for all to witness.

They could see what I truly was. What I truly wanted.

My legs gave out, and I crashed to my knees beside the phantom corpse,

more bile rising in my throat.

Shame. Guilt. Pain.

I was exposed.

The air around me compressed, squeezing my lungs until I couldn't breathe. I dragged myself to my feet, forcing leaden limbs to move, to carry me away from the evidence of my darkest desire. None of it mattered now.

Not the trial, not the divine court. Nothing mattered except— "Thatcher!" I screamed, both aloud and down our bond. I pushed forward, forcing my legs to carry me past the horror of Olinthar's body, past rooms where more screams erupted, more flesh burned.

The smell was overwhelming now, a miasma of cooked meat and scorched hair that coated my tongue, my nostrils, seeping into my very

pores. I tried not to gag, tried not to think about what—who—I was smelling.

Door after door yielded nothing but empty chambers or scenes too ghastly to comprehend. I slammed each one shut, moving faster now, desperation lending speed.

"Thatcher, godsdamnit, answer me!" I couldn't feel him anymore, couldn't sense that familiar presence that had been with me since before birth.

I threw open another door, expecting more death, more fire.

Instead, I found my brother.

Thatcher sat in an ornate chair, shirtless, his pale skin gleaming with sweat that steamed in the air around him. Straddling his lap was the silver- haired woman I'd glimpsed earlier, her back to me as she moved against him. His hands gripped her hips, his head tipped back in abandon.

But his skin. It glowed from within, a red light building beneath the surface. Steam rose from every point of contact between them. Veins of fire carved themselves through his eyes.

"Thatcher!" I screamed, lurching forward.

He turned toward me, movements sluggish, expression dazed.

Recognition flickered across his features as he struggled to push through whatever spell had taken hold.

"This is the third trial," I gasped, stumbling toward him, my hand outstretched. “She’s not real!"

I grabbed his arm and nearly screamed at the contact. His skin burned like a forge, searing my palm. But I refused to let go, dragging him bodily from the chair, away from the phantom lover who was already beginning to dissolve, her perfect features melting like wax, revealing the nothingness beneath.

"Thais?" His voice was rough, confused. "What's happening?"

"Later," I panted, pulling him toward the door. "We need to run. Now."

The corridor outside had transformed in the short time I'd been searching. What had once been elegant hallways were now channeling heat, flames licking up the walls, consuming everything in their wake. The ceiling groaned ominously above us.

As we staggered through the growing inferno, words caught my eye— golden script that seemed to float above the flames: WHEN HEAVEN FALLS, ONLY THE SKY REMAINS

The messages—I had to make sense of them. To find the rules hidden within the cryptic poetry. We needed to escape this burning palace—that much was clear. But how? We were suspended in the fucking clouds.

Thatcher's clarity seemed to be returning with each step, the unnatural fire in his eyes receding. "The ballroom," he croaked, voice raw from smoke. "We need to find the others."

We navigated the crumbling architecture, ducking beneath falling beams and leaping over patches of floor that had given way to reveal the endless drop below. The grand ballroom, when we finally reached it, was unrecognizable from the place of revelry it had been. The firepits that had seemed so decorative earlier leaped beyond their confines to consume everything within reach.

The space was empty of people but filled with destruction. Chandeliers had crashed to the floor, their crystals shattered across the marble. The elegant draperies had become conduits for flames that crawled and ripped across the vaulted space.

"This way," I urged, spotting a corridor that seemed less consumed than the others. We had taken only a few steps when Thatcher froze, his entire body going rigid beside me.

"Thatcher?" I turned, following his gaze.

There, untouched by the flames, stood two figures that made my heart stop. A woman with dark hair and the same indigo eyes as ours. And beside her, Sulien.

"Thais, no," Thatcher whispered, his voice breaking. "They're telling us to go this way." He pointed down a corridor engulfed in flames, where the two figures gestured urgently, their expressions concerned, loving.

For one heartbeat, I wavered. The woman's face—my mother's face— was everything I'd imagined in my darkest nights. They were offering the family that had been ripped from us, the life we should have had.

A beam crashed nearby, sending sparks skittering across the floor between us, and with it, my momentary weakness shattered.

"Thatcher, it's not real," I said, smoke burning my lungs. "They're illusions, just like the others."

He took a step toward them anyway, his face a portrait of naked longing that cut me deeper than any blade could have. I seized his arm, physically dragging him away from the phantom family that had never been ours to keep.

"It's not real," I repeated, this time letting my own grief seep into the words. "I wish it was. Gods, I wish it was."

Something in my voice reached him where logic couldn't. His expression crumpled, then became carefully blank, the vulnerability sealed away behind walls I recognized too well.

"If they're trying to lead us that way," I said, nodding toward the flame- engulfed corridor, "then we need to go in the opposite direction."

He nodded, and followed me.

We pushed forward, away from our ghosts, into a passageway that seemed marginally safer. The smoke was thickening, making each breath a struggle. I pulled the torn remnants of my gown up to cover my nose and mouth.

Then, cutting through the roar of the flames, I heard a voice.

"Marx! Listen to me, dammit!" The tone was unmistakable even through the chaos.

"Kyren," I gasped, changing course toward the sound. We rounded a corner to find him kneeling beside a huddled form, his normally stoic face creased.

Marx was curled into a tight ball, her beautiful gown now torn and soot- stained, her body racked with sobs.

"They’re dead because of me," she was saying, over and over. "The two contestants—I cursed them, Kyren. I just wanted to watch—they went up in flames because of me. It’s been so long since I lost control like that!"

"No, Marx, you didn't," Kyren insisted, trying to pull her to her feet.

"Get up now. We have to go."

I rushed to them, dropping to my knees. "Marx," I said, taking her face between my hands, forcing her to look at me. "This is the third trial—it's testing our desires, our weaknesses." I glanced at Kyren. "We need to find an exit."

His eyes met mine with grim understanding. "I knew something was wrong the moment the illusions appeared," he said. "I can always distinguish reality from falsehood. I've been searching for you three since the fires started spreading."

Together, we managed to get Marx on her feet. Thatcher kept glancing back the way we'd come, as though the illusions of our mother and father might still be there, waiting for him to return.

Marx suddenly jerked to a stop, her head whipping around. I followed her gaze and saw him—a young man standing in the smoke, his face gentle despite the chaos around us. He had dark hair and kind eyes, one hand extended toward us.

"Finn?" The name tore from Marx's throat.

She wrenched free of my grip, stumbling toward the figure. The man— Finn—smiled at her, that same gentle expression never wavering as he beckoned her closer. He was moving backward, toward where the flames burned brightest.

"Marx, no!" I lunged after her, catching her arm just as she reached for him. "He's not real!"

"Let me go!" She fought against my hold, her voice breaking. "He's right there—Finn, wait!"

The illusion kept beckoning, kept smiling, kept drawing her toward the fire.

"Marx, look at me." I grabbed her face with both hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Finn is dead. You told me yourself—the priests killed him.

This isn't him."

"No." Tears streamed down her face, cutting tracks through the ash and grime. "No, he's—he's right there. He came back for me. He always said he would —"

"The Trial is using your memories against you." My voice cracked as I held her tighter, feeling her shake apart in my hands. "Just like it showed me and Thatcher our parents. Just like it's showing everyone what they want most. It's not real."

Marx's legs gave out. I caught her as she crumpled, her hands fisting in my shirt as sobs wracked her body.

"I couldn't save him," she whispered against my shoulder. "I just stood there and let them—"

"You were trying to survive." I held her tighter, my own eyes burning.

"There's no shame in that."

The illusion of Finn stood patient in the smoke, still smiling, still waiting.

"He's not talking," she said, her voice hollow. "Finn never could shut

up. Always had some terrible joke…"

"Because it's not him," I said gently.

Marx pulled back, wiping her face with shaking hands. She looked at the illusion one more time, and I saw her eyes harden with the same determination that had kept her alive all these years.

"Fuck you," she told the false Finn.

The illusion flickered, its smile faltering for just a moment before resuming its beckoning gesture.

"We need to go," Kyren urged from behind us. "The fire's spreading."

Marx nodded. She let me pull her away, but her eyes kept drifting back to where Finn stood in the smoke.

"Don't look back," I murmured. "It only makes it worse."

"Speaking from experience?" she asked, her attempt at humor falling

flat.

"Yeah," I admitted. "Yeah, I am."

Kyren and I each took one of our companions by the wrist and pushed forward, seeking any path that might lead to safety.

"There!" Kyren pointed toward a massive doorway ahead, smoke billowing from it in thick plumes. "That has to be an exit."

We were nearly there when a desperate cry stopped us.

"Help! Please, someone help me!"

A contestant I vaguely recognized stood before a woman pinned beneath a fallen beam, her hand outstretched. Her face was a mask of pain and terror.

“She’s another illusion,” Kyren murmured.

"Don't worry, I'll save you," the man sobbed, straining against the beam.

He spotted us approaching and his expression lit up. "Help me lift this!

She's dying!"

Kyren released Marx's arm and lunged forward, but not to help with the beam. Instead, he grabbed the contestant by his shirt and yanked him backward just as another section of ceiling crashed down, missing them by inches.

"Let go of me!" the man howled, thrashing against Kyren's hold. "She needs me!"

"It's not real," Kyren insisted, struggling to maintain his grip on the larger man. "She's an illusion."

"We need to go," I urged, my eyes fixed on the exit ahead, beyond which I could see nothing but stars and clouds. "Now!"

But Kyren wouldn't relent. "I'm not leaving him," he grunted, still wrestling with the increasingly violent contestant. "He'll die if we do."

Despite every instinct screaming at me to run, to save myself and those I loved, I found myself grabbing the man's other arm. Together, we dragged him toward the exit, his screams of protest mingling with the roar of the flames and the groaning of the palace as it tore itself apart around us.

We burst through the doorway just as an explosion rocked the structure behind us, the force of it propelling us forward onto a wide terrace. The contestant collapsed to his knees, all fight draining from him as he crumpled to the ground in sobs.

For a moment, we all simply gasped for breath, the clean air a blessing after the smoke-filled corridors. Then, slowly, I looked around.

The terrace hung suspended in the sky, surrounded on all sides by nothing but clouds and the distant sparkle of stars. Behind us, the palace continued to burn, flames reaching higher with each passing second. Before us lay… emptiness. Endless, infinite emptiness.

"The rules," I panted, my mind racing back to the gilded script I'd seen.

"They were written on the walls inside. When heaven falls, only the sky remains.” I recited the cryptic phrase.

Kyren's eyes widened. "We have to jump," he said, his voice oddly calm given the madness of the suggestion. "It's the only way forward."

"Jump?" Marx echoed. "Into what?"

"It's either jump or burn," Thatcher said quietly, his gaze fixed on the encroaching flames. "Not much of a choice, is it?"

A sliver of panic wedged itself between my ribs. If we were wrong, we'd all plummet to our deaths, contestants and trial both concluded in a single, fatal mistake. But Kyren's certainty was contagious, and as the heat at our backs intensified, the options dwindled to none.

I turned to include the other contestant in our desperate plan, but the space where he'd been kneeling was empty.

"Where did he—" I began, whirling around.

The world seemed to slow as I caught sight of him, his face contorted with grief and rage, a jagged shard of metal floating just ahead of him. It was pointed straight at Kyren. I lunged, but it was too late.

The shard struck Kyren's temple with a sickening thud. His eyes widened in surprise, a small, confused sound escaping his lips before he crumpled backward, blood already streaming from the wound.

"No!" I screamed, diving toward him, my hands finding his face, his neck, searching desperately for a pulse that wasn't there. His eyes stared sightlessly at the star-strewn sky.

Fury erupted within me, molten and all-consuming. I rose in one fluid movement, drawing down a starblade. I launched myself at the contestant.

I tackled him to the ground, the blade pressed against his throat, hard enough to draw a thin line of blood but not yet deep enough to kill. "He saved your life, you fucking idiot," I snarled, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. "He dragged you out of there when he could have left you to burn."

The man's eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but there was no remorse in them, only a hollow anger. "He stopped me," he choked out. "My wife… she's dead now because of him."

I pressed the blade harder, feeling his pulse flutter beneath the edge. It would be so easy. One quick slice and he would pay for what he'd done.

Kyren would be avenged.

But even through my rage, I could see the man was too far gone to reason with, lost in a grief that consumed him as surely as the flames had consumed others.

"Thais!" Thatcher's voice cut through my murderous haze. "The fire— it's coming. It's now or never!"

I looked back to see flames licking at the terrace's edge. The choice had been made for me.

With a final, disgusted look at the broken man beneath me, I shoved myself to my feet and ran to join Thatcher and Marx. Behind us, the man made no move to follow, still lying where I'd left him, as though waiting for the flames to claim him too.

We stood at the precipice, the three of us, looking down at nothing but stars and clouds stretching endlessly below. Thatcher took my hand in his right, Marx's in his left, binding us together.

"If this doesn't work," Marx said, her voice steadier than it had been since I'd found her, "I just want you both to know—"

"Save it," Thatcher interrupted. "You can tell us when we survive this."

We shared one last look.

Then, together, we stepped off the edge of the world and into the oblivion below.