Rell did not move.
He didn't twitch.
Didn't gasp.
Didn't cough.
He lay on the marble floor exactly as he fell—arms twisted awkwardly, eyes half-open and unfocused, blood pooling under his ribs in a slow, dark spread. The hall around him had gone deathly still. Even the Inquisitors—creatures trained to show no fear—looked frozen, uncertain.
Evin stared at his friend's body.
The world blurred at the edges. Sound fell away. The heat of the collar around his throat dimmed, becoming distant, irrelevant. His heartbeat thudded harshly in his ears until he realized:
It wasn't beating faster.
It was slowing down.
The shadows behind him shifted, pressing closer like a tide drawn by the moon.
One of the Sanctifiers whispered, horrified, "He is collapsing."
"No," another said. "He is merging."
The Veil pulsed.
Evin knelt beside Rell, hands shaking violently. He touched Rell's shoulder with trembling fingers.
"Hey," he whispered. "Rell… come on."
No response.
Evin pressed his hand harder. "Rell. Get up. Get up."
Still nothing.
His voice cracked. "Please—just—get—up—"
He grabbed Rell's shirt with both hands, shaking him. "You idiot. You shouldn't have come for me. Why did you—why—"
The remnants crowded closer, flickering like a circle of shadows drawn to the gravity of grief.
Behind him, an Inquisitor muttered, "He's destabilizing. Kill him before the remnants fully bind."
The absolute wrong words.
Evin's head snapped up.
The remnants didn't scream.
They didn't roar.
They stood.
And the silence that followed was worse than any sound.
The Inquisitor stepped forward. "Finish it. Before the corruption becomes permanent."
Evin rose slowly to his feet, swaying. His hands were drenched in Rell's blood. The marble beneath him was slick. The air vibrated with pressure from the remnants—like a breath held by a hundred unseen throats.
Evin's voice came out low and dangerous.
"Do not touch him."
The Inquisitor scoffed. "He is dead. He no longer matters."
Evin's vision went cold.
The shadows behind him shifted sharply—like a weapon being unsheathed.
"You took everything from him," Evin whispered.
"He chose wrongly," the Inquisitor replied. "Attachment to an anomaly is—"
"STOP SPEAKING."
Each word dropped like a stone in a still pond.
The Inquisitor fell silent mid-sentence.
Not because he chose to.
But because something in Evin's voice commanded it.
The Veil surged—
cold, dense, furious—
and Evin felt it spilling through him, not burning, but freezing everything in its path.
A Sanctifier stumbled back. "He's becoming a vessel—"
"No," Evin said softly. "Not a vessel."
His eyes lifted.
Darkness pooled outward from his feet, climbing up pillars, staining the marble like ink spilled too fast to stop.
"He's becoming a witness," one Observer breathed.
But that wasn't it.
Not anymore.
Evin wasn't witnessing.
He was remembering.
Every cruelty.
Every burn.
Every scream they allowed.
Every life they destroyed in the name of order.
And now—Rell.
His only friend.
His only tether.
His only proof that goodness could survive in a place like this.
Gone.
Not taken by a monster.
Taken by order.
By a man who called cruelty doctrine.
Evin looked down at Rell's body one last time.
And something inside him gave out.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
It simply… broke.
The Veil tightened—and for the first time, Evin felt the remnants not behind him, not around him, but inside him.
Not consuming.
Aligning.
Purpose settling into place like a spine reforged from grief.
He stepped forward, the shadows following like a second body.
The Inquisitor lifted his hand.
"You are finished."
Evin's voice cut through the air, soft and deadly.
"Not yet."
The Inquisitor unleashed a blast of force—pure doctrine made manifest—
but Evin didn't raise a shield.
Didn't dodge.
Didn't brace.
The force hit him square in the chest—
and dissolved.
Like mist hitting a stone.
Gasps ripped through the hall.
The Inquisitor staggered back. "Impossible—"
Evin kept walking.
Each step left a dark impression on the marble—shadows that didn't fade. The remnants moved with him, their shapes solidifying, their edges sharpening. The air warped around him, bending as if reality feared being touched by what he had become.
"You killed him," Evin whispered.
The Inquisitor readied another spell. "He was a casualty."
Evin's jaw tightened.
"No," he said. "He was evidence."
The shadows surged.
The Inquisitor raised his arm—
—and a remnant materialized beside him, grabbing his wrist. Not a ghost. Not an illusion.
A person burned beyond recognition, hands charred and skeletal, grip unbreakable.
The Inquisitor screamed—
and the remnant exploded into ash, slashing scripture marks with its dying touch.
Evin staggered.
Pain ripped through his chest as the remnant collapsed.
He felt their end—felt their last breath and last thought.
It broke him a little more.
He didn't stop.
He stepped closer.
The Inquisitor backed up until he hit the far wall.
"Stay back—"
"You killed my friend."
Evin's voice no longer trembled.
"You broke the only good thing in this hell."
His breath shook as he took one more step, the remnants gathering silently around him like an execution procession.
"And now," Evin whispered, "I get to remember you, too."
The remnants surged.
The Veil descended.
The torches died.
And the Inquisitor's scream did not echo.
It was swallowed.