Dawn came gray, heavy with smoke.
The square still burned, though the Veil's chosen had scattered into the alleys, their shadows in retreat. The priests were silent, their iron masks cracked and discarded like shells.
But the people did not leave. They filled the square long after the fighting ended, torches guttering in their hands, voices raw. Some carried stones, others carried nothing at all—but all carried my name.
Seliora.
The crown lay where it had fallen, thorns blackened by fire. No one touched it. No one dared. Ash drifted down and clung to it, until it seemed not a crown of thorns at all, but a crown of embers, waiting.
They said I had died. They said I had fallen. But the city did not speak of my death.
It spoke of my vow.
Do not kneel.
And with those words, the people rose higher than the Veil had ever imagined.
The ash crown remained on the stones, untouched, glowing faintly in the morning light. A promise. A curse. A beginning.