The wind didn't blow.
But something moved the air.
Not cold. Not warm.
Just wrong.
It passed through them like a phantom tide—carrying the weight of things long buried, and the heat of things that should never burn again.
The silence shattered.
Not with a sound.
With a word no one understood.
Iris dropped to her knees like the world had tipped beneath her.
Her veil slipped off.
Her hands splayed on the scorched stone, fingers twitching as if trying to grasp threads of air.
"Iris?" Rein's voice cracked.
No answer.
Her lips parted—and language died.
What came out wasn't a voice.
It wasn't speech.
It was a sound older than breath.
A language forgotten.
"Ssen-nāthil… eiryaʒ ʒōrakh… Kal-yen… Rein…"
Her tone didn't rise or fall. It unraveled.
Every word cut like bone being snapped in a grave.
The ash around her began to lift.
Not fall.
Rise.
Like it was listening.
Zeraka took a step forward, eyes flashing.
"Make her shut up."
But Valaithe raised a hand, mesmerized.
"No. Listen—listen. She's not summoning. She's remembering."
Elaris knelt beside Iris—not touching her.
Just watching.
Her breath came fast.
"She's naming."
"What does that mean?" Rein whispered.
"Names that came before sound," Iris answered, voice distant.
"Names that couldn't be spoken until you woke."
Then she looked up.
Her pupils had vanished.
In their place—rotating rings of red, like clockwork burning.
"I hear you in every ruin," she said to Rein.
"Even the ones no one remembers building."
He took a step back.
Then another.
But the air grew heavier the farther he moved.
The ash refused to fall on him.
Instead, it spun—slowly—like a halo of soot, orbiting his shoulders.
Then his knees buckled.
Rein hit the ground like a puppet whose strings had snapped.
There was no cry. No warning.
Just collapse.
He writhed—then stilled—then screamed.
Not in pain.
In fear.
The world behind his eyes wasn't his own.
— A burning city bowed in prayer before a throne carved from corpses.
— A woman with wings of molten glass kissed him while stabbing herself.
— His arms held a sobbing girl with frost-kissed skin, her blood staining his mouth.
The visions didn't come in order.
They came like prophecy.
And in all of them—he was centered.
Crowned.
Feared.
Worshiped.
Zeraka lunged to his side, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him into her lap.
"What did you do to him?" she snarled at Iris.
But Iris didn't respond.
She only chanted softly,
"Ālath… zira'ven… shan-norai…"
Caelia flinched.
Valaithe clutched Rein's shoulders.
Elaris leaned close, whispering his name like a lifeline.
"Rein. Rein, you're still here. Stay here."
But the ash around him had begun to pulse.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Alive.
And then—through all of it—Rein heard it.
Not a voice.
Not a god.
Just truth, blooming in the space between screams.
It whispered into the marrow of his bones,
"The world breaks twice."
"Once when you fall in love."
"And again… when someone loves you back."
Zeraka froze.
Valaithe stopped breathing.
Even Caelia bowed her head.
Only Iris remained smiling—ash pooling in her lap like a sacrament.
And Rein?
Rein opened his eyes.
They were glowing.
The air stilled.
Not cleared.
Just… held.
Like the world itself had paused mid-sentence, waiting for Rein to exhale.
He didn't.
Not yet.
He sat up slowly, blinking the last of the fire-visions from his eyes.
The ash ring around him didn't break.
It simply adjusted—like a halo finding its correct radius.
His hands trembled. Not from cold.
From something deeper.
Like something inside him had been spoken aloud—and could never be silenced again.
Then they heard the footsteps.
Staggering.
Barefoot.
Wet.
Elaris drew her blade before the sound even registered.
Zeraka rose, claws flexed.
Her ears flattened.
The ash parted again—and a man stumbled through the veil.
He was burned.
Not the way flames burn flesh.
This was clean.
Divine.
One side of his face had melted like wax sculpted into something wrong.
His right eye had turned glassy white.
No pupil.
Just light.
His armor had been white once. Now scorched black.
Dull sigils melted like candlewax.
A holy knight.
Or what remained of one.
"No," Caelia breathed. "Not him. That's—he— he was at the cathedral. He shouldn't be alive."
He collapsed to one knee, head lolling like a broken pendulum.
Then he laughed.
Not joyfully.
Not madly.
Just emptily.
"The Throne-Born…" he croaked. "He walks."
His eyes—both human and not—landed on Rein.
He tried to kneel.
But.
He couldn't.
Zeraka stepped forward with a growl.
"Say his name again. I'll pull your lungs out through your spine."
Valaithe raised an eyebrow.
"He's broken, darling. Let him have his cult moment."
The knight wheezed.
"He burned them."
"The gods. The statues. The hymns. He… unwrote them."
He lifted a weak hand toward Rein.
His fingers had melted into each other.
"The ash followed you."
Rein didn't move.
He couldn't.
The man was looking at him but also through him—like something inside Rein was whispering louder than his mouth ever could.
"The gods tried to name you," the knight rasped.
"And you named them back."
Caelia unsheathed her blade.
"He's been touched. Burned from the inside out. This is god-rot."
"Is it contagious?" Valaithe asked sweetly.
"No," Caelia said. "It's worse."
She stepped forward, sword trembling.
"It's chosen."
Elaris turned to Rein.
"Do you know him?"
Rein shook his head.
"No. But he… he knows me."
The knight crawled closer now, hands digging into the ash.
He smiled through blackened lips.
"The gods fear what loves you."
"And they sent me to see it."
His chest shuddered.
"I saw."
"I saw the seven…"
"And they loved you wrong."
"Very wrong."
Zeraka was beside him in an instant.
She didn't strike.
She didn't growl.
She just crouched beside Rein, her voice low.
"You want me to kill him?"
Rein didn't answer.
But the knight coughed one last time—bloodless.
And whispered,
"The next time the ash falls…"
"It won't kneel."
He smiled.
He collapsed.
And did not move again.