Evin learned the layout of the undercatacombs by sound.
Chains rattling two corridors over. Water dripping in uneven rhythm. The scrape of carts on stone. The distant, muffled chanting above—prayers filtering down through layers of sanctified architecture that never once acknowledged what lay beneath.
This was where the Church put what it did not want seen.
"Move."
The word cracked like a whip.
Evin stumbled forward, a bucket sloshing in his hand, the smell inside it sharp and metallic. His bandages were fresh but thin, wrapped more for containment than comfort. Every step pulled at skin that had not finished remembering it was supposed to exist.
A collar rested cold against his neck.
No chain. No runes.
Just a simple band of iron stamped with a sigil that meant noncombatant. Disposable.
He was not alone. A dozen others walked the corridor with him—heads down, movements careful, eyes hollow. Some were summoned like him. Some were locals. All were quiet.
Talking earned attention.
Attention earned correction.
"Left," the handler barked.
They turned.
The chamber opened wide, low-ceilinged and blackened by soot. Burn marks crawled up the walls like old scars. At the center stood an altar—cracked, unused, surrounded by ash.
Evin's stomach tightened.
"Clean," the handler said. "No residue. No trace."
Someone dropped to their knees immediately, scrubbing at stone with a rag that disintegrated on contact. Another gagged as they tipped a bucket and gray slurry poured out—blood, ash, something else he refused to name.
Evin stared at the altar.
It looked familiar.
"Don't freeze," the handler snapped, shoving him forward.
He fell hard, palms slapping against cold stone. Pain flared. The bucket tipped, its contents splashing across the floor.
The smell hit him like a memory.
Fire.
His breath hitched.
This was not just any chamber.
This was where they tested the failures.
A voice whispered from behind him. "First time?"
Evin turned his head slightly. A boy about his age knelt nearby, face thin, eyes sharp with something like defiance. A faded burn scar crept up his jaw.
"They burned you too?" the boy asked quietly.
Evin nodded.
The boy snorted. "Figures. Name's Rell."
Evin swallowed. "Evin."
Rell gestured with his chin toward the altar.
"They call it purification. Burn until something answers. If it does, you're worth something."
"And if it doesn't?" Evin asked.
Rell shrugged. "You end up here. Or worse."
A scream echoed from deeper in the catacombs.
No one looked.
"Get moving," the handler said.
Evin forced himself up and began scrubbing.
Each stroke dragged his mind back to the cathedral—the marble, the saints, Kade's smile. His hands shook. Ash smeared across his skin, clinging to him like it wanted to stay.
Hours passed. Or minutes. Time bled together down here.
Eventually, the handler grew bored.
"Enough. Leave the rest."
They were herded out.
As Evin passed the altar, something caught his eye.
A scorch mark.
Not fresh. Old. Deeper than the others. Its edges were wrong—too smooth, like stone had remembered being burned.
Evin slowed.
The handler did not notice.
Evin reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the mark, the world tilted.
The catacombs fell away.
Darkness swallowed sound.
He was standing somewhere else—nowhere solid, nowhere real. The floor beneath him was not stone but absence, stretching endlessly. Above him, nothing. No ceiling. No stars.
A presence pressed in.
Not hostile.
Not kind.
Aware.
You remain, something whispered—not in sound, but in certainty.
Evin's breath fogged in the dark. "Who are you?"
No answer.
Only a sensation—like standing at the edge of a vast curtain, heavy and unmoving. A veil.
Those who are judged leave something behind.
Images flickered: screaming faces, burning bodies, hands reaching and failing. Not visions—residue.
Evin staggered. "I didn't choose this."
Neither did they.
The darkness tightened, folding closer, wrapping around his burned skin without pain. For the first time since the fire, something did not hurt.
Do you wish to disappear?
Evin thought of Lysa.
Of Rell.
Of the altar.
Of the Church's calm voice calling cruelty order.
"No," he said.
The word anchored him.
The veil shuddered.
Then remain.
The world snapped back.
Evin collapsed, gasping, hands pressed to the stone. The scorch mark beneath his palm was gone—smooth, clean, as if it had never been there.
Rell stared at him. "You alright?"
Evin looked down at his hands.
For a heartbeat, something dark clung to his fingers—like shadowed smoke, thin as gauze.
Then it faded.
"I think," Evin said slowly, "they missed something."
Far above, the bells rang.
And somewhere beyond sight, something that had been watching for a very long time—
Finally opened its eyes.