God was silent.
The Church was not.
Evin Veylan stood among thirty-six others on the white marble floor, his name already fading from the lips of the priest who had called it. The echo lingered longer than the blessing had.
"—No manifestation."
The words were spoken calmly, almost gently, as if they were an apology instead of a sentence.
A murmur passed through the cathedral.
Light poured down from stained-glass windows depicting saints mid-miracle—hands raised, enemies fallen, halos aflame. The air smelled of incense and polished stone. It was meant to feel holy. It was meant to feel safe.
Evin felt neither.
He lowered his hand slowly, fingers trembling, the faint warmth he'd hoped for already gone. One by one, the others beside him glowed with proof of their worth—sigils blooming above skin, elements responding to breath, weapons of light forming from prayer itself.
Fire. Steel. Wind. Grace.
Nothing answered him.
The High Examiner did not look surprised. He simply marked a line on a parchment and nodded to the clerks.
"Ability classification: Null," the man said. "Summoned successfully. No divine resonance detected."
Null.
Not weak.
Not delayed.
Absent.
Evin swallowed. His mouth felt dry, like ash clinging to his tongue.
From the side of the chamber, a laugh broke the quiet.
It was sharp. Familiar.
Kade.
Evin did not turn, but he didn't have to. He knew that laugh—the way it carried confidence, the way it expected the world to agree with it. Kade's presence pressed against him like heat.
"So that's it?" Kade said loudly. "The Church drags us across worlds, and that one comes up empty?"
A few snickers followed. No one stopped them.
The High Examiner raised a hand—not to silence the mockery, but to acknowledge it. "The summoning does not guarantee blessing," he said. "Only opportunity."
Kade stepped forward, light flickering faintly along his arms. His gift had manifested early. Strong. Violent. Firebound. The priests had smiled when it happened.
Opportunity.
Kade leaned close enough that Evin could smell smoke on him. "Looks like you ran out," he whispered.
Evin clenched his fists.
He wanted to speak. To ask what this meant. To ask if there was another test, another way. To ask why a god powerful enough to tear them from their homes could not spare even a fragment of grace.
But the words stuck.
Because somewhere deep inside, a colder fear had already taken root.
The Church had rules for the gifted.
It also had uses for the ungifted.
"Proceed," the High Examiner said.
The examination continued. Names were called. Power was measured. Futures were assigned.
Evin stood unmoving as the space around him subtly changed—not physically, but socially. A gap formed. Glances slid past him. The priests did not ask him to step aside, but they no longer addressed him directly either.
Invisible.
Except to Kade.
When the ceremony ended, bells rang high above the cathedral, their sound triumphant. The summoned were escorted toward the dormitory halls, buzzing with excitement and fear.
Evin followed—until a mailed hand pressed into his chest.
"Hold," said a knight of the Church.
The others kept walking.
Evin looked up. "Is there… something else I need to do?"
The knight hesitated, then glanced toward the priests. No instruction came.
Behind them, Kade stopped walking.
"Oh?" he said. "Special treatment already?"
The knight's grip tightened just enough to hurt. "Remain here."
Evin did.
The cathedral slowly emptied. The light dimmed as evening clouds passed over the stained glass, turning the saints into silhouettes of judgment.
Kade turned fully now, smiling.
"You know," he said casually, "back home, you were already dead weight. Guess some things transcend worlds."
Evin shook his head. "Just leave me alone."
Kade's smile widened.
The knight did not intervene.
The priests did not turn back.
The bells did not stop ringing.
Fire bloomed.
Pain came without warning—white, screaming, all-consuming. Evin barely had time to gasp before heat tore through cloth and skin alike. He fell, the marble cold beneath him, the air ripped from his lungs.
Someone shouted.
Someone laughed.
Through burning eyes, Evin saw the knight step back.
"Enough," the High Examiner said at last, his voice distant. "Do not kill him."
As if that had never been the line.
Kade knelt, close enough for Evin to see the fire reflected in his eyes. "Should've stayed invisible," he murmured.
The flames faded.
Evin lay gasping, body shaking, skin ruined, vision swimming. The cathedral ceiling blurred above him, saints watching in stained silence.
Somewhere nearby, a voice cried his name—panicked, breaking.
Footsteps rushed in.
And as darkness closed around him, Evin Veylan realized the truth no one would ever say aloud:
The Church had seen.
And the Church had allowed it.