When the chamber fell quiet again, the children huddled together, their chains rattling faintly with every fearful breath. The nobles resumed their ugly negotiations, the mistress counting numbers on her fingers, greed dripping from her every word.
But Kairo… Kairo was somewhere else.
It started as a faint hum in the back of his skull, like the air itself was vibrating. Then came the voices — layered, shifting, impossible to pin to any single mouth or tone. They had haunted him before, whispering mockery, hissing his failures, feeding on his despair.
But now—
"…Child of ash… we watch still…"
"…The scales are moving, yet you do not move… will you sit chained, or will you rise?"
"…What will be your next course of action, watcher of heaven's fall?"
Their words weren't laughter. They weren't curses. They were questions. Heavy, expectant questions that pressed down on him more than the iron chains ever could.
Kairo clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms. He wanted to scream at them, curse them, but he stayed silent. If the others saw him muttering to empty air, they would think him broken too.
Still, in the dark of his heart, he whispered back:
"If you truly see everything… then watch closely. Because when I move, the world will bleed for it."
The voices quieted. And for the first time, Kairo felt not mocked… but judged.