Evin did not tell anyone what he saw.
Not Lysa.
Not Rell.
Not even himself—not fully.
But the Veil did not leave him.
It followed in small ways at first. In the way ash no longer stung his lungs as sharply. In the way the undercatacombs felt… thinner, as though the stone remembered what had been taken from it. In the way pain dulled when he focused, not by healing, but by withholding itself.
He noticed it during roll call.
"Evin Veylan."
The handler's voice echoed.
Evin answered, "Here."
For a fraction of a second—less than a heartbeat—the shadows at his feet pulled inward.
No one else reacted.
He did not breathe until the moment passed.
They were assigned again to cleansing duty, deeper this time. The lower levels, where even the incense did not reach. Where the Church kept records it would never read aloud.
Rell walked beside him, quieter than usual.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Rell murmured without looking at him.
Evin stiffened. "Feel what?"
Rell smiled faintly. "Yeah. Thought so."
They stopped before a sealed chamber. Heavy doors, black iron, marked with layered sigils—containment, not sanctification.
The handler hesitated.
Then unlocked it.
Inside, the air was thick. Not with smoke—but with absence. As if something had been erased too thoroughly.
At the center lay a body.
Burned beyond recognition. Not fresh. Weeks old. Maybe more.
No tag. No name.
"Remove all remains," the handler said flatly. "Ash included."
No one moved.
The handler's gaze swept the group. It settled on Evin.
"You," he said. "You're already ruined. Start."
Evin stepped forward.
The closer he got, the heavier his chest felt—not with fear, but pressure. The Veil stirred, subtle but unmistakable. The body was not empty.
It was unfinished.
When Evin knelt, the shadows bent again—this time long enough for him to feel it, like cloth brushing his skin.
His fingers touched ash.
The world slowed.
Not like before. Not a full collapse into the Void. Just a thinning. A whisper.
Left behind, something murmured.
Images pressed against him—flickers of resistance, of hands clawing at stone, of a scream cut short not by flame, but by judgment. No name. No glory. Just refusal.
Evin's breath shook.
This one had fought back.
"Evin?" Rell whispered sharply. "Hey—don't—"
The handler barked. "What are you waiting for?"
Evin closed his eyes.
For the first time, he did not reject the sensation.
He accepted it.
The Veil settled.
Not fully. Not greedily.
Just enough.
The ash lifted—drawn not into Evin, but through him. Passing the way breath passes through lungs. He felt resistance—muscle memory, instinct, a refusal to kneel.
Then it was gone.
Evin gasped.
The body collapsed inward, finally empty.
Silence filled the chamber.
The handler stared. "What did you do?"
Evin looked down at his hands.
They were shaking—but not from pain.
"I finished the job," he said.
The handler said nothing. Just turned and left.
Rell stared at Evin like he was seeing him for the first time. "You felt that, didn't you?"
Evin nodded slowly.
"What was it?" Rell asked.
Evin searched for the right words.
"Not power," he said. "Not yet."
He stood.
"But something that refuses to disappear."
Far above, the bells rang again—distant, hollow.
And for the first time since the fire, Evin Veylan realized something terrifying and true:
The Church burned people to erase them.
The Veil existed to remember.