[POV: Ezekiel]
The walk to the tower was long.
Too long.
Not in steps—but in the stares.
The palace walls had never looked at him before. But now… now every mirror, every brazier, every polished blade—all reflected him just a heartbeat too long.
He could feel it.
Even the architecture didn't trust him.
He walked through the outer halls with four guards ahead and four behind. No chains. No shackles.
But not mercy.
Fear.
Every guard gripped his blade too tightly. None made eye contact. One whispered a prayer under his breath with every step, and another—he noticed—wore a symbol of Silence on a silver chain.
Ezekiel wanted to laugh.
But he couldn't.
---
They passed through the Bridge of Echoes, where footsteps were supposed to bounce tenfold.
Ezekiel's made none.
---
[POV: Guard Rel Yurin]
He didn't want this job.
No one wanted this job.
You don't guard someone who walked out of a god's tomb alone.
You guard prisoners. Traitors. Dangerous people, yes.
But not whatever he is.
When the boy passed him in the hallway, Rel flinched.
There was no reason. No move. No gesture.
Just the presence.
Something old. Something vast. Something not at all human curled just behind that boy's silence.
He looked… wrong.
Like a painting of a prince done by someone who had only heard of humans secondhand.
---
[POV: Ezekiel]
They reached the East Tower—its highest level, where no windows opened and no birds flew near. The walls were lined with scripture, carved in relief to ward off dark spirits.
He walked through the iron doors without resistance.
The room inside was bare.
Stone floor. A single cracked mirror.
No bed.
No candle.
Just space. Just cold.
Just himself.
And the thing he had become.
---
The door shut behind him.
He heard it lock. Three times.
Then silence.
But this silence didn't come from the world.
It came from him.
It radiated outward from his spine, from the back of his throat, from his ribs.
The Concept lived there now.
And it had begun to nest.
---
He sat.
Stared at the mirror.
His reflection stared back—expression calm, eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.
Then he tried to speak.
Just a word.
"Why?"
The moment he shaped the W—
The room shuddered.
Stone cracked near the floor.
A thin line of dust dropped from the ceiling.
His mouth burned.
His tongue felt like glass.
He clutched his jaw, gasping silently.
His lips never parted.
The Concept had intercepted him.
Not out of malice.
Out of rule.
He tried again.
This time—not a word.
Just a breath.
The mirror spiderwebbed instantly.
A soundless tremor passed through the floor.
One of the scripture-wards along the wall flared in golden protest.
Ezekiel sat back.
Clutched his chest.
His heart pounded—too fast, too loud. But not just from exertion.
From something else.
He wasn't just cursed.
He was becoming a Law.
And the Law had no use for words not given in judgment.
---
> "You must not speak until the world is ready."
The voice inside him wasn't Azrael.
Not entirely.
It was a fragment. A remnant. A coiled script that now existed behind his thoughts.
He didn't speak again that night.
He watched the mirror.
And just before sleep—
He saw a second reflection.
Not his.
But someone wearing his face, sitting beside him.
Smiling.
---
[POV: The Empress, Elsewhere]
Meradelle stood before the throne, one hand on Velric's shoulder.
He did not look up. His eyes were unfocused. His hands trembled.
"Do you see?" she whispered to the Emperor. "Do you see what your son brought back?"
The Emperor said nothing.
But his jaw was tight.
And the light in his eyes no longer burned.
She stepped close.
"And if we do nothing… it will speak."