The Veil's chosen moved like shadows torn from the earth.
Their limbs bent wrong, their masks rippled with faces that never stayed the same. Each step pulled the air colder, heavier, until even the flames seemed to shrink from them. The priests' chant thickened, iron against bone, and the soldiers closed ranks behind.
But the people did not run.
They gathered in the streets—servants, Brides, children with ash smeared across their cheeks. They carried no banners, no weapons worthy of war. Only torches. Stones. Broken knives. Their fear had shattered, and in its place something sharper burned.
The Veil had given me a crown. Now they would see what it had made.
I stepped forward, thorned circlet biting into my brow, and the crowd roared. The sound shook the square, drowning the priests' chants. For the first time, the chosen hesitated.
Then the storm broke.
The first stone flew, striking iron mask. A torch followed, flames catching in a soldier's cloak. The crowd surged, fury and desperation breaking through years of silence. The soldiers raised blades, the priests lifted hands, and the chosen descended.
Shadows bent, swallowing men whole. Screams split the night. The ground slicked with blood, torches fell and rolled, fire spreading across the square.
And still the people fought.
I walked into the storm, every step deliberate, every glance pulling eyes to me. Not commands—only presence. And the people followed it like a heartbeat.
A chosen lunged, its mask flickering with a dozen faces. Its hand closed around my arm, skin burning like ice where it touched. I did not flinch. I tore free, thorns slicing deeper into my scalp, blood running down my temple like another crown.
The crowd screamed my name—not whispered, not hidden. Screamed it into the smoke.
The city was no longer silent.
And the Veil would never mistake this night for obedience again.