The silence clung to him through the day.
When the other children whispered prayers, he saw lips move but heard nothing. When they laughed at supper, all he felt was the vibration in the table, their joy like insects buzzing beyond a glass wall.
But he didn't need ears to know one of them was watching.
Lena. The sharp-eyed girl who always kept her portion of bread hidden, who trusted no one but herself. She caught his gaze more than once that evening, her brow furrowing. When the priest's back was turned, she slipped onto the bench beside him.
"You don't blink anymore," she whispered.
The boy's chest tightened. Her words were lost to silence, but he read them in the shape of her mouth, the suspicion in her eyes.
He tried to look away. She grabbed his wrist.
Her hand brushed too close to where the shard pressed against his ribs.
Pain flared—not his, but hers. She jerked back, hissing, clutching her palm as though she had touched fire. A faint scorch mark bloomed where her skin had made contact.
Her eyes widened. "What—what did you—"
The boy shook his head, desperate, but she was already scrambling to her feet.
The priest turned at the commotion."What's going on?"
Lena pointed at him, face pale, voice shaking."It's him! He's hiding something—something cursed!"
All heads turned.
Dozens of hungry, suspicious eyes pinned him in place. He clutched his chest where the shard pulsed, heat spreading like a brand.
For the first time, sound cracked through the silence. Not laughter, not bells—just a single word, whispering from the shard itself.
Defend.
And the boy knew: if they tried to take it, blood would follow.