The square was already full when the sun began to rise.
Wooden platforms stood at its center, dark with old stains that no amount of scrubbing ever seemed to remove. People gathered in loose circles, wrapped in cloaks, murmuring to one another as guards shoved the condemned forward.
It was not anger that filled the air.
It was routine.
The man on the platform was thin, wrists bound, neck already red where the rope rested. His crime hardly mattered anymore. Theft, heresy, refusal to pay tribute - something small, something forgettable.
The executioner adjusted his grip.
"By order of the Luminarch Church council," he began.
The boy in the crowd lowered his head.
He did not pray.
But he didn't look away from the platform either.
The sun crested the rooftops, spilling pale gold across the square. Light crept over stone, banners, armor - until it touched him in the crowd.
The boy felt it immediately.
His skin tightened. Not burned, not yet - but judged.
He took a step back, careful not to draw attention, and slipped into the shadow cast by a leaning statue. The pressure eased slightly.
Good.
Then the rope dropped.
The man's body jerked once.
Twice.
Then went still.
A ripple passed through the crowd. Some turned away. Others watched until the guards cut the body down and dragged it aside like a bag of compost.
That should have been the end.
It wasn't.
The boy moved only when the square began to empty. He walked calmly, unhurried, stopping beside the corpse once the guards' backs were turned.
The man's eyes were still open.
Unfocused.
The boy knelt.
For a long moment, he only watched.
Then the nail on his index finger lengthened in an instant, sharpening into a wicked point - thin, black, and sort of... demonic.
He drags it lightly across the man's neck, just enough to split the skin and coax a thin line of blood to the surface.
It reacted.
Not violently. Not eagerly.
It recognized him.
The boy's jaw tightened.
"Still unstable," he murmured.
He drew a shallow cut across his palm.
The blood that welled from him was darker - thicker. It did not drip. It clung.
He hesitated.
The square was too exposed. The sun was climbing. The pressure was already there, subtle but constant, like a hand resting on the back of his neck.
He pressed his bleeding palm to the corpse's lips anyway.
Just a little.
The reaction was immediate.
The man's spine arched sharply. His fingers clawed at the stone as black veins burst beneath his skin, crawling toward his throat. His mouth opened in a silent scream.
Too much.
The boy pulled back instantly.
The veins slowed. Then froze.
The body shuddered once more… and collapsed.
Dead.
Again.
The boy stood, the wound on his hand mysteriously patching itself back up. His breathing was steady, but his eyes were cold.
"No," he said quietly. "You wouldn't have lasted."
He stepped back into the shadow as the sun rose higher.
The pressure intensified.
For a brief, involuntary moment, memory surfaced.
Light pouring down.
Chains burning.
Voices declaring judgment.
His fingers curled.
Not now.
He turned away from the square without another glance, blending into the thinning crowd. By the time the guards returned, there was nothing left to see but a corpse and dried blood.
No miracle.
No monster.
No sign that the world had just been tested.
Above, the sun shone on, unaware that somewhere beneath its light, something ancient had chosen to wait patiently.