The air between them felt razor-thin.
The Choir had fallen silent.
The remnants stood tense and restless, their edges vibrating with a fear Evin had never felt from them before. Even the Veil seemed to hold its breath—waiting, listening.
The Bishop stepped forward with the slow, deliberate grace of someone approaching a frightened animal… or a dangerous one.
Her robes did not stir.
Her face did not tense.
Her silver eyes did not blink.
She looked at Evin as if she had already counted the beats of his heart and found them obedient.
"Evin Veylan," she said gently, "you misunderstand what I am."
Evin swallowed, voice raw. "I understand perfectly. You erase people."
"Yes," she said with a small nod. "Because I love them."
Evin froze.
Even the remnants recoiled at the softness in her tone.
The Bishop smiled, the expression serene—not warm, not cruel, but devastatingly sincere.
"The world is unkind," she said. "Full of pain and fire and hunger. Full of loss that carves holes in the soul so deep even time cannot fill them."
She took another step toward him.
"People cannot endure that, Evin. Not truly. They shatter. They break. They crumble under their own memories."
Evin's breath hitched.
The Bishop's voice softened further.
"Think of your friend."
Evin stiffened violently.
The remnants surged in protest—but the Bishop raised one hand, calming them with nothing but presence.
"Rell suffered," she said. "Not because of me. Not because of the Church. But because he loved you in a world that has no place for love."
Evin trembled. "Don't speak his name."
She did anyway.
"Rell."
The sound was a knife.
"He would have died for you."
Her voice was barely louder than a breath.
"He did die for you."
Evin clenched his fists so tightly his nails cut into his palms.
The Bishop tilted her head, expression softening with something disturbingly close to pity.
"And if I had left his body," she whispered, "you would never have let him go."
Evin's heart twisted painfully.
She continued, calm as water:
"He would have become your ghost. Your anchor. Your shackle. The very thing that kept you from surviving long enough to fulfill your purpose."
Evin shook his head. "He was my friend."
"He was your weight," the Bishop corrected. "And I freed you from it."
The remnants stirred—agitated, confused, their edges flickering. They hated her. But her words cut with the precision of a surgeon, slipping past defenses like a blade through silk.
She wasn't lying.
That made it worse.
The Bishop stepped closer, voice lowering.
"You weep for the dead, Evin. But I ask you: Why carry pain that is not yours to bear?"
Evin stared at her, trembling with fury. "It is mine. All of it is mine."
The Bishop smiled sadly.
"That is exactly why you are the breach."
He froze.
Her voice grew soft—reverent.
"You absorb grief. You hold it. You refuse to forget. You cling to the dying and call it love."
Evin's breathing stopped.
"You think this makes you strong," she murmured. "But it is simply proof that you are built to carry what no one else can."
She lifted her hand to her chest.
"The Veil chose you not because you are special, Evin—"
Her eyes glowed silver.
"—but because you are empty."
The remnants shrieked silently, their forms warping in pain. The Veil recoiled. Evin stumbled back, hand clutching his chest as though she had struck something inside him directly.
"Stop," he whispered. "Stop talking."
But the Bishop's voice grew softer still.
More intimate.
More manipulative.
"You think the Veil holds the broken," she said. "But the truth is more cruel."
She stepped closer until they were only inches apart.
"The Veil holds whatever the world has no place for. Whatever cannot survive on its own. Whatever is too fragile to bear reality."
Her gaze pierced him.
"And so it holds you."
Evin's knees weakened. He gripped the wall to stay upright.
The Bishop leaned in, voice like a knife coated in honey.
"You are not strong, Evin Veylan. You are an open wound. And the Veil is nothing but infection."
Evin's breath shattered.
"You are not a chosen hero," she continued. "You are simply the only vessel weak enough to drown in everyone else's grief."
A remnant broke then—literally broke—its form cracking into jagged pieces of shadow before dissolving into nothing.
Evin choked on a sob.
"And yet," the Bishop whispered, "this is why you are necessary."
Evin lifted his head with trembling fury. "Necessary for what?"
The Bishop's smile finally turned cold.
"To open the Veil."
The corridor seemed to tilt; the remnants tensed as if a blade had been drawn.
"You have seen its heart now," she said. "You have tasted its oldest memories. You know that what lies within is not power, Evin."
She stepped back, robes whispering across the floor.
"It is hunger."
Evin shook his head. "No. It is mourning."
"Hunger," she repeated, silver eyes flashing. "The hunger to be remembered. The hunger to make you remember. The hunger to drag every sorrow into itself until the world collapses under its weight."
Her voice sharpened:
"You think you carry the Veil. In truth, the Veil carries you."
Evin felt cold seep into his bones.
The Bishop lowered her voice one last time.
"You will open it, whether you wish to or not. But if you accept this willingly—"
She reached out a hand.
"—I can make your suffering meaningful."
Evin stared at her hand.
At the offer.
At the promise.
Behind him, the remnants trembled—pleading, begging him to refuse without words.
Evin exhaled shakily.
He looked the Bishop in the eyes.
And whispered:
"Never."
The Bishop's smile faded.
And the corridor shook as the Choir drew breath to sing again.