Evin woke before the bells.
That alone was wrong.
Sleep in the undercatacombs usually came like collapse—sudden, merciful, empty. This time, he surfaced slowly, awareness returning piece by piece, as if something had kept watch while he rested.
His body hurt.
Not the sharp, screaming pain of burns reopened or muscles overworked. This was deeper. Heavier. Like carrying a weight that pressed from the inside out.
He exhaled—and felt resistance.
Not in his lungs.
Around him.
The darkness of the dormitory clung closer than it should have, shadows pooled thicker at the corners of the room, refusing to retreat even as dim morning light leaked through the high vents. When Evin shifted on his cot, the shadows shifted too—late, but obedient.
He froze.
They settled.
Rell snored softly two cots away. Others slept or pretended to. No one stirred.
Evin sat up slowly, heart pounding.
Don't draw attention, he told himself.
The thought echoed oddly, like it passed through something before returning to him.
He swung his legs over the side of the cot. The iron floor was cold—but less biting than usual. As his bare feet touched it, the chill dulled, as if the stone hesitated.
Evin swallowed.
This wasn't strength.
This was interaction.
Roll call came early.
The handlers arrived with two extra priests this time—white-threaded collars marking them as Observers. They did not shout. They did not threaten.
They watched.
Evin felt it the moment one of them looked at him.
Not scrutiny.
Recognition.
"Evin Veylan," the handler called.
"Here," Evin answered.
The Observer's gaze sharpened.
For a breath, the Veil stirred—tight, warning, like fabric drawn taut. Evin forced his shoulders to relax, forced his breathing steady.
The shadows behaved.
Barely.
"Step forward," the Observer said.
Rell's head snapped up.
Evin moved.
Each step felt measured—not by distance, but by permission. The space around him resisted, then yielded, as if the world itself were deciding whether to allow him through.
The Observer circled him slowly.
"You were present in Chamber Seventeen last night," he said.
"Yes," Evin replied.
"You handled the remains."
"Yes."
"What did you feel?"
The question was casual.
The trap was not.
Evin met the man's eyes. "Nothing unusual."
The Observer smiled faintly. "Lying is common among the fearful."
"I am common," Evin said.
Silence stretched.
Then the Observer laughed softly. "Fair."
He stepped back. "Continue observation. Quietly."
Quietly.
That word followed Evin all day.
They reassigned him—not to cleansing, but to transport. Carrying sealed containers between lower chambers. Alone.
Isolation disguised as trust.
Each container weighed more than it should have. Not physically—conceptually. Evin felt the Veil respond to each one, not pulling, not feeding, but… listening.
By the third trip, his head throbbed.
By the fifth, his hands shook.
By the seventh, he nearly collapsed.
He pressed his back against the corridor wall, breathing hard. Sweat dripped down his neck. The shadows gathered instinctively around him, thickening like a cloak.
"No," he whispered.
They receded.
Barely.
This is the cost, a thought surfaced—not a voice, not quite. To remember is to carry.
Evin slid down the wall, sitting hard on the stone.
For a terrifying moment, he felt something else inside him—an echo of refusal that wasn't his. A memory that wanted to act through him. To stand. To fight. To burn the lie down.
Evin clenched his fists.
"I'm still me," he muttered.
The pressure eased.
When he returned to the dormitory that night, Rell was waiting.
"You shouldn't be alone," Rell said quietly.
"Neither should you," Evin replied.
Rell hesitated, then sat beside him. "They're watching you."
"I know."
Rell lowered his voice. "Some of us noticed things. Small things. Ash moving. Cold backing off. You don't disappear the way you should."
Evin closed his eyes.
This was the other cost.
Being seen.
"I don't know what I'm becoming," Evin said.
Rell shook his head. "Doesn't matter. They already decided what you are."
Evin opened his eyes.
Above them, far beyond stone and sanctified lies, the bells rang again—measured, deliberate.
Calling attention.
Calling judgment.
Evin felt the Veil settle around his shoulders—not protective, not cruel.
Present.
And in that moment, he understood the truth that would shape everything to come:
The Church did not fear monsters.
It feared witnesses.