They did not give him time to say goodbye.
The guards moved with practiced efficiency, iron grips closing around Evin's arms as if he were already something dangerous, something volatile. The dormitory erupted into noise—shouted protests, whispered prayers, the scrape of boots as others shifted instinctively away from him.
Away from Crimson.
Rell fought.
He shouldn't have.
They both knew it.
Two handlers restrained him easily, forcing him to his knees. He struggled anyway, teeth bared, eyes locked on Evin with something raw and desperate.
"Evin!" he shouted. "Don't let them make you forget who you are!"
The words cut deeper than any blade.
Evin twisted against the guards' grip. The collar flared instantly, pain ripping through his spine, forcing a cry from his throat. His knees buckled, vision fracturing into white shards.
"Enough," the Inquisitor said calmly.
The pain cut off.
Evin hung there, gasping, shaking, saliva dripping from his chin. He forced his head up despite the tremor wracking his neck.
"I won't forget," he said hoarsely. "Not you. Not any of this."
Rell's eyes burned.
"That's not a promise," Rell said. "That's a challenge."
Evin almost smiled.
The High Examiner turned away first. That, more than anything, told Evin how little this moment mattered to the Church.
"Proceed," he said.
They dragged Evin out.
The corridors changed as they descended. The stone grew darker, smoother, as if worn down by time and regret rather than footsteps. The air was colder here, thinner, carrying no scent of incense—only metal and something faintly bitter, like scorched bone.
No bells rang.
No prayers followed.
Crimson level did not require ceremony.
They passed sealed doors marked with sigils Evin did not recognize. Some pulsed faintly. Others were scratched, gouged, clawed—as if something inside had tried very hard to leave.
"Where are you taking me?" Evin asked, voice rough.
No one answered.
The Veil pressed close, uneasy. Not afraid—but alert. Like a witness being led into a room where it knew the truth would be tested.
They stopped before a narrow archway.
Above it, carved directly into the stone, were words worn smooth by time:
OBSERVATION THROUGH ENDURANCE
The guards released him.
Evin swayed but stayed upright.
"Enter," the Inquisitor said.
"What's inside?" Evin asked.
The Inquisitor considered him for a moment. "Silence."
The door sealed behind him.
The room beyond was small. Too small. Bare stone walls curved inward slightly, distorting sound, making every breath feel louder than it should have. No windows. No altar. No restraints.
Just a single iron chair bolted to the floor.
Evin stood there, chest rising and falling, waiting for pain that did not come.
Minutes passed.
Then longer.
The silence deepened—not absence of sound, but suppression. Even his heartbeat seemed muted, like it was being pressed down by unseen hands.
Evin swallowed.
"This is it?" he muttered. "You lock me in a room and wait?"
No answer.
The Veil shifted.
For the first time since the correction chamber, it did not respond to threat. It responded to absence.
The silence here was not natural.
It was manufactured.
Evin felt it then—something subtle, invasive. Not force, not command. Observation without presence. Like eyes behind walls that did not exist.
"They're trying to drown you out," he whispered.
The Veil did not reply—but it did not retreat either.
Hours passed.
Maybe.
Time did not behave properly in the Crimson cell.
Evin's thoughts began to loop. Memories replayed without his permission—the summoning circle, the fire, Lysa's voice breaking, Rell's grip on his sleeve. Each time he tried to anchor himself, the silence pressed harder, smoothing the edges, dulling the emotions.
Not erasing.
Blunting.
This is how they do it, Evin realized. Not with pain. With nothing.
His knees buckled. He slumped into the chair, head falling forward.
For a terrifying moment, he felt the Veil thin.
Not torn away.
Ignored.
The silence pressed in, filling every crack, every space where memory lived.
Evin's breath hitched.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"
Panic surged.
And with it—
Something else.
The silence rippled.
Not shattered.
Disturbed.
Evin felt a presence settle—not around him, but behind him. Like standing back-to-back with something vast in a room too small to hold it.
The Veil thickened.
Not outward.
Inward.
The silence recoiled slightly, as if encountering resistance for the first time.
Evin laughed weakly. "You can't make me empty," he murmured. "I'm not alone in here."
The pressure increased instantly.
The walls seemed to lean closer. The silence pushed harder, compressing thought, flattening emotion. His chest ached as if the air itself were being rationed.
This is dangerous, a wordless understanding surfaced.
Not a warning.
A fact.
If he let go—if he let the silence win—whatever remained afterward would be obedient. Hollow. Useful.
Evin clenched his fists.
"I remember," he whispered.
The words felt small.
So he tried again.
"I remember the ones you burned."
The silence wavered.
"I remember the ones who screamed and were told it was holy."
Cracks spiderwebbed through the pressure—not visible, but felt.
"I remember Rell," Evin said, voice shaking. "I remember Lysa. I remember my name."
The Veil answered.
Not with sound.
With weight.
The silence buckled.
Evin gasped as sensation flooded back—pain, fear, grief—all of it rushing in at once. He doubled over, retching, tears spilling freely now.
The silence did not vanish.
But it no longer ruled the room.
Somewhere beyond the walls, something shifted.
An Observer's voice murmured, surprised.
"Increase dampening. He's stabilizing instead of degrading."
Another voice—sharper, irritated.
"That shouldn't be possible."
Evin smiled through tears, breath ragged.
"Get used to it," he whispered.
The Veil settled around him again—not protectively, not aggressively.
Present.
Listening.
Remembering.
And far above, in chambers where doctrine had never accounted for witnesses—
The Church began to realize a terrifying truth:
Crimson silence was meant to erase anomalies.
But Evin Veylan was not an anomaly that could be emptied.
He was a container.
And he was learning how much he could hold.