The Inquisitor's scream ended before it began.
Not cut short.
Not silenced.
Swallowed.
The Veil folded inward and downward, consuming the sound before it could stain the hall. When the darkness receded by a fraction, the Inquisitor was gone. Not dead—gone. No body. No blood. No ash.
Just an absence in the shape of a man.
The remaining knights staggered back in horror. One dropped his spear. Another whispered a prayer that trembled with disbelief. Even the Sanctifiers—trained to watch death without flinching—trembled behind their chain-veils.
Evin didn't move.
He just stood there, chest heaving, shadows dripping off him like smoke melting from a fire's remains. His hands shook—not from the power he'd unleashed, but from the grief he was failing to contain.
Rell was still on the floor.
Still unmoving.
Still gone.
Evin turned slowly.
The remnants parted for him, forming a hollow circle around Rell's body. A place of reverence. Of grief. Of witnessing. The shadows did not touch Rell. They simply stood watch.
Evin knelt again.
Rell looked smaller now.
Quieter.
Too still.
Evin pressed his forehead to Rell's shoulder—and for a moment he allowed himself to sob silently, shaking with each shallow breath.
He had nothing left to say.
Nothing left to beg.
Nothing left to hope for.
Rell was the last tether holding him to the world of the living.
Now that tether was cut.
The Veil pulsed behind him—soft, almost gentle. Not pushing. Not pulling. Simply being present in his grief.
Evin swallowed hard and looked up.
All eyes were on him now.
Priests. Knights. Observers.
Faces pale with terror.
Not because they feared what he had done.
But because they feared what he would do next.
Evin wiped Rell's blood from his lips with the back of his shaking hand. His voice came out hoarse:
"Why?"
A Sanctifier answered, voice trembling. "Attachment leads to corruption."
Evin rose.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Shadows climbing over his shoulders like the mantle of something sovereign.
"No," he whispered. "Attachment leads to humanity."
He stepped forward.
The Sanctifiers recoiled as one.
The nearest knight raised a trembling sword, voice cracking. "S-stay back—"
Evin didn't even look at him.
"You killed him," he said, voice cracking. "You killed him and you didn't even blink."
"Our duty—" a priest stammered.
Evin turned his head sharply. "Your duty was to protect us."
"It— it was to maintain order—"
"You burned us," Evin interrupted, voice trembling with fury. "You burned people alive and called it doctrine."
The priest sagged. "We… we did what we were told."
Evin's expression twisted.
"No," he said softly. "You did what you wanted."
A ripple of darkness spread outward from his feet like a wave.
Shadows consumed torchlight.
Marble cracked.
Air thickened.
One Sanctifier tried to regain composure, voice thin with forced authority. "Evin Veylan, surrender. Now."
Evin turned fully toward her.
She stepped back so fast she tripped over her own robes.
His eyes no longer reflected torchlight.
They reflected nothing.
"Do I look like someone who surrenders?"
The Sanctifier choked on her breath.
The shadows surged behind Evin—no longer faint silhouettes. They were clearer now. Sharper. Faces emerging. Bodies forming. Not fully human. Not fully gone. The remnants were stabilizing.
Attaching.
Becoming.
One knight whispered, "He's becoming a breach."
"No," a Sanctifier corrected. "He is the breach."
The floor trembled.
Evin's voice dropped into a cold whisper. "You took everything from them… and now you've taken everything from me."
He didn't shout.
He didn't rage.
He didn't roar.
He simply breathed.
And the Veil answered.
A wall of pressure rolled out like thunder made of silence, slamming into the Church ranks. Knights were thrown backward. Observers crashed into pillars. Even Sanctifiers staggered, clutching at their chains as scripture flickered and dimmed.
Evin stepped forward through the wreckage.
Not running.
Not charging.
Just walking.
The remnants walked with him—dozens now, not fading but strengthening. He could feel them in his bones. In his spine. In the weight of his own heartbeat.
They weren't consuming him.
They were anchoring him.
Because grief without anchor becomes destruction.
And he was drowning.
He drew in a breath that scraped his lungs raw.
"Rell will not be forgotten."
The shadows tightened.
"And neither will the ones who killed him."
The Sanctifier nearest him reached out trembling fingers. "Please—stop—this is not salvation—"
Evin met her eyes.
"When did I ever ask for salvation?"
The shadows erupted.
Not with violence—
with certainty.
A wave of cold slammed into the hall, extinguishing every flame. Darkness swallowed marble and scripture alike. Screams echoed briefly then dimmed into whispers.
And within that dark, Evin's voice was the only clear sound:
"If the Church wants a monster…"
His eyes burned white in the blackness.
"…then let it face the one it made."
The torches flickered back to life—
and the hall was half-empty.
Bodies lay scattered. Some alive. Some not. Some simply gone, their absence carved from reality like chalk scraped from stone.
The remnants receded slightly, leaving Evin standing alone at the center.
He swayed, gripping his ribs.
He wasn't invincible.
He wasn't stable.
He wasn't saved.
He was breaking.
Slowly.
Surely.
And the Church had only begun to realize the price of pushing him this far.