Evin woke choking.
Not on pain.
On presence.
The air in the dormitory felt wrong—too still, too aware. The shadows clung to the corners like they were afraid to move, pressed flat against the stone as if something heavier had entered the room and claimed the space by existing in it.
His chest burned with every breath.
He lifted a trembling hand to his collarbone.
It was hot.
Not fever-hot. Not burned.
Active.
Evin pushed himself upright with a groan.
The movement sent a wave of dizziness through him, and for a moment the world tilted—stone walls stretching, shadows bending in ways they shouldn't. He clenched his jaw and waited it out.
"Easy," Rell whispered, already at his side. "Don't—don't do that thing again."
"What thing?" Evin rasped.
Rell swallowed. "The room… moves when you panic."
Evin closed his eyes.
That was new.
"How long?" he asked.
"Since they dragged you back," Rell said. "You didn't wake. You didn't shiver. You just—stayed."
Stayed.
Like the Veil.
Evin looked down at his chest.
The iron collar sat where it always had—but the sigil stamped into it was no longer dull. Fine lines glowed faintly, not with light, but with absence. The stone behind it looked slightly wrong, as if the world had been scraped thinner around his neck.
Rell noticed his stare.
"Oh no," he whispered. "They marked you."
Evin's stomach dropped. "That's not possible. Marking requires authorization."
Rell let out a humorless breath. "So does correction."
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Not rushed.
Not cautious.
Ceremonial.
Every instinct Evin had screamed danger. The Veil tightened around him reflexively, shadows pulling close—
—and pain detonated at his collar.
Evin cried out, collapsing back onto the cot as white-hot agony tore through his throat and spine. It wasn't burning. It wasn't crushing.
It was commanding.
The shadows fled instantly, snapping back into obedient stillness.
Evin gasped, fingers clawing at the blanket. "I—I didn't—"
"I know," Rell said urgently, grabbing his shoulders. "You didn't do anything. That's the point."
The footsteps stopped outside the dormitory.
The door opened.
Every head turned.
Three figures entered.
A High Examiner.
An Observer.
And an Inquisitor.
Not the one from the correction chamber.
This one was older.
His armor was worn smooth, scripture etched so deeply it had lost sharpness. His eyes were calm—not empty.
That was worse.
"Evin Veylan," the High Examiner said, voice carrying easily. "By authority of the Holy Church, you are hereby reclassified."
A murmur rippled through the dormitory.
Reclassification meant transfer.
Or execution.
The Observer stepped forward, holding a parchment sealed in white wax. "Subject exhibits anomalous persistence, environmental influence, and post-correction instability."
The Inquisitor's gaze never left Evin.
"Further," he said, "the anomaly has resisted doctrinal suppression."
Evin forced himself to sit up despite the collar's heat. "You burned me," he said hoarsely. "You broke me. And now you're surprised I didn't disappear?"
The High Examiner regarded him with something like curiosity. "Surprised? No."
He smiled faintly.
"Concerned."
Rell stood abruptly. "He's not a threat. He's never hurt anyone."
The Inquisitor's gaze flicked to Rell.
Pressure slammed down.
Rell dropped to his knees with a strangled gasp, hands clutching his chest as if something had punched straight through him.
"Stop," Evin shouted.
The collar flared.
Evin screamed as agony lanced through his body, forcing him back down. The Veil recoiled violently, shadows snapping away like burned flesh.
The Inquisitor did not look at Rell.
"This is why you are dangerous," he said calmly to Evin. "Not because you attack."
He nodded toward Rell, who was gasping on the floor.
"But because others move for you."
The pressure vanished.
Rell collapsed, coughing, eyes wild.
Evin shook with rage and helplessness. "If you touch him again—"
"You will what?" the Inquisitor asked mildly.
Silence swallowed the threat.
Evin had no answer.
The High Examiner cleared his throat. "Enough. This is not a public correction."
He turned to Evin. "You will be transferred to a restricted cohort. Observation level crimson."
A sharp intake of breath echoed through the room.
Crimson.
That wasn't monitoring.
That was pre-execution study.
"Where?" Evin asked.
The Observer smiled thinly. "Where anomalies are refined."
Rell grabbed Evin's arm. "You can't let them take you alone."
Evin met his eyes.
Something passed between them—fear, anger, a promise neither of them knew how to keep.
"I won't forget," Evin said quietly.
Rell's grip tightened. "You'd better not."
The Inquisitor stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Evin could hear.
"You should know," he said. "The mark on your collar is not meant to restrain you."
Evin's blood ran cold.
"It is meant to tell us," the Inquisitor continued, "exactly how much of you remains when we're done."
The collar pulsed.
The Veil shuddered—but did not retreat.
For the first time, Evin felt it press back against the mark, not in defiance, not in attack—
But in warning.
As guards moved in, as hands seized his arms, as Rell shouted and was held back, Evin realized the stakes had changed.
He was no longer just surviving.
He was evidence.
And the Church had decided:
Either he would be controlled—
Or he would be erased so completely that even the Veil would have nothing left to remember.