The temple felt emptier than ever.
The bodies were gone, but their absence left a void that clung to the walls, soaked into the floor, and nestled in Kael's chest like a stone.
The colony had always survived on borrowed silence, but now that silence was filled with dread.
Using his power hadn't just taken lives—it had taken something from him. Every time Kael spoke with that voice, something good vanished from his mind. Joyful memories, precious moments, even the faces of those he once loved—all wiped away like dust from a slate. Only the hollow ache remained. The power gave him control, but it left him less human each time.
Kael stood outside, watching as Seren, stooped but strong, dragged the corpses across the temple grounds. She didn't flinch. She didn't speak. She never did when she had to do the ugly work. There was a building at the edge of the colony—a squat stone structure with a chimney and iron door. It was the crematory.
In Vowenrealm, no one was buried.
Graves required words. Names.
Headstones. Epitaphs. Those things had long since been outlawed. Cremation was cleaner, quieter. The only way to mourn someone in a world where mourning itself had been silenced.
Smoke began to pour from the chimney, curling upward into the midnight sky like a final prayer.
Kael didn't cry. He hadn't in years. Instead, he watched the smoke drift and wondered which memory he'd lost this time. Maybe it was his mother's face. Maybe the way she once said his name. Or maybe something smaller—his favorite childhood hiding place, the feeling of holding someone's hand.
Gone.
The power had a cost, and he was paying it one piece at a time.
Seren reappeared at the doorway of the temple, ash clinging to her robe.
"Go home, Kael," she said gently, her voice firm but kind. "Nothing good comes from standing out here chasing thoughts in the dark."
"I'm sorry, Seren," Kael murmured.
"I know," she replied, softer now. "But that doesn't mean you have to carry it alone."
He turned and left, dragging his feet through the dirt path that led back to Seren's house—a worn, uneven structure of stone and timber that leaned slightly to the left. Like everything in the colony, it had the look of something cobbled together by stubborn hands and the will to survive.
Inside, Kael slipped into his room and laid on the stiff cot. He tossed. Turned. Tried to force his eyes shut. The images wouldn't leave him. The officer's mocking tone. The blood on the floor. The sound of the command leaving his lips like a knife slicing through his soul.
He heard Seren enter the house later and pretended to be asleep as she peeked through the cracked door. Her shadow lingered a little too long.
She'd raised him. Protected him. Kept his secret even when others whispered suspicions. He was more son than ward to her. More burden than boy, perhaps. But she never made him feel like it.
She moved off to her own room, exhausted from the night's horrors. The bodies. The lies. The fear. She only ever wanted Kael to live a quiet life—one untouched by the violence of the inner kingdom. That was why she had taken him so far away. But deep down, she knew that peace couldn't last.
Sleep never came for Kael. Not really. His thoughts gnawed at him until a sudden noise snapped him upright: the sound of horses. Dozens of them. Neighing, hooves pounding against dirt and stone.
A knock.
Then pounding.
Seren burst into his room.
"Get dressed," she hissed.
Kael scrambled, pulling on a black, tattered robe that smelled faintly of smoke. He ran to the main room just as the door crashed open. Two officers seized Seren before she could react. Two more forced their way in and grabbed Kael.
No words. No orders. Just action. These were lower-level officers—not permitted to speak under the Nine's law, not even to carry out arrests.
Kael and Seren were dragged through the colony's narrow streets. By the time they reached the clearing, the entire colony—every man, woman, and child—was already on their knees. All 42 of them, now that one was gone.
In front of the crowd stood a man with his back turned. His uniform was too fine, too pristine to belong to a foot soldier. Black velvet with silver trim. The number 9 was stitched into the fabric just like the officer from the night before—but this man radiated a deeper, colder authority.
"One of my most valued officers was sent here last night," the man began, his voice sharp and theatrical. "Hand-picked by the Nine themselves."
He turned slowly.
"Do you know why he was sent? Because we heard whispers—literally."
The man faced them now, flanked by twenty more officers, all armed and still. His skin was pale, almost sickly. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight, and his expression was carved from contempt.
"Perhaps, out here in your pitiful corner of the world," he sneered, "you don't know who I am. Allow me to enlighten you."
He stepped forward.
"I am Brother Varn, Voice of Purity. High Inquisitor of the Council of Nine."
Kael froze.
The name punched the air from his lungs. Brother Varn. The man who silenced entire villages. Who hunted Whisperers with religious zeal. Who could kill a person's voice just by standing near them.
Kael wanted to lash out. Wanted to open his mouth and scream a word that would tear Varn in half.
But he didn't. He couldn't.
Because if he did, everyone here would die.
"I've reached a conclusion," Varn continued, pacing. "My officer found what he was looking for. A Whisperer. And that Whisperer killed him."
He smiled darkly.
"But I won't fall so easily. You see, I was blessed by the divine. When I step into a space, I silence it. You could stand inches from me and scream for your mother, and all that would pass your lips is a breath."
Kael's heart sank.
No wonder the Nine kept him around.
"So let's make this simple," Varn said, arms outstretched. "Come forward. If the Whisperer does not surrender, I'll have every last one of you executed. I don't want to kill you. We need subjects to rule. But I will do what's necessary."
No one moved.
Kael's breath caught. Seren was beside him, silent, trembling. He could feel her worry like heat off a flame. If he didn't stand, she would die. They all would.
He began to rise.
But a hand yanked him back.
Seren.
She stood.
"It's me," she said clearly. "I'm the Whisperer."
Kael's eyes widened in horror.
"But I didn't kill your officer," she added.
Varn tilted his head.
"Oh? Then who bested him?"
"He killed himself," Seren replied. "I just told him to."
For a moment, the Inquisitor was silent. Then he snarled.
"You rancid bitch. Do you know how many of your kind I've burned? It's no wonder the Council silenced this world. Your voice is filth. Guards!"
Two officers seized her arms.
She didn't resist. Her eyes flicked to Kael once—nothing spoken, but everything said.
"I apologize, dear citizens," Varn said, looking over the kneeling colony. "This traitor, this disease, had infiltrated your homes. But I know the rest of you are loyal. Obedient. Faithful."
Seren was bound and tied to the back of a horse. Within minutes, Varn and his troops rode off, dragging her into the distance.
Kael couldn't breathe.
He staggered to his feet and ran—blindly, frantically—after them. He didn't know where he was going. He only knew he had to follow.
His legs carried him until they gave out. He collapsed in the brush just outside a rocky field not far from the road to the capital. His chest heaved, lungs burning.
Then he saw them.
Varn's caravan had stopped. A metal pole was erected in the center of the clearing. Kael ducked behind a boulder and watched, eyes wide.
He heard screaming. Seren's.
It didn't last long.
When the soldiers departed, Kael emerged slowly from hiding. The air stank of scorched flesh. Ash floated on the wind like snow. At the center of the field, charred and unrecognizable, was all that remained of the only person who had ever truly loved him.
They burned her so no one would remember.
Away from the eyes of others so she wouldn't become a martyr.
Kael fell to his knees.
And for the first time in years, he screamed—not with power, but with grief.