The wind whispered through the Sanctified camp, carrying the scent of burning incense and distant rot. Fires flickered in shallow pits, casting long, twisting shadows over the gathered faithful. Their murmured prayers filled the night like a swarm of insects, their voices blending into a single, rhythmic chant.

And in the center of it all, standing motionless before the altar, was Watcher.

He had shed his old name—Elias was gone, erased like a smudge of dirt beneath a boot heel. Twenty days upon the pillar had stripped him of weakness, burned away his doubts. He no longer questioned the doctrine. He no longer feared Magnus’s gaze.

He had seen.

And now, they looked upon him as something more than a man.

A Seer.

"The eye has granted you vision, and now you will serve it."

Magnus’s voice still echoed in Watcher’s mind, cold and final. The iron-masked ruler had anointed him personally, pressing a hand to his forehead where the burned symbol of the eye still scarred his skin. His survival atop the pillar had elevated him, turned him into something greater than just another disciple.

But titles meant nothing without action.

Tonight, he would prove himself.

Jace grinned at him from across the fire, his jagged teeth catching the light. "You ready for this, Seer?"

Watcher turned his head slowly, regarding the scarred lieutenant. He did not answer. He had spoken little since his return from the pillar.

Jace chuckled. "Still playing the silent type, huh? You get up on a rock for a few weeks and suddenly you're too holy to talk to the rest of us?"

Watcher did not rise to the bait. He only blinked, slow and deliberate, and Jace’s smirk faltered ever so slightly.

"You should respect the Seer," Sister Amara said, stepping between them. Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "He has suffered the trial. He has been touched by the eye."

Jace scoffed but said nothing. He might have been Magnus’s favorite butcher, but even he wasn’t foolish enough to openly challenge a newly anointed Seer.

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Watcher turned away, letting the conversation die. His focus was on the night ahead.

The Sanctified had taken prisoners during the fall of Refuge. A handful of them—stragglers, those too slow to flee—had been brought to this camp, kept in cages like wild animals.

And tonight, one of them would be given a choice.

The prisoners were brought before him.

A man and a woman, their faces gaunt with starvation, their eyes sunken with exhaustion. Their clothes were tattered, their wrists raw from rope burns. They knelt in the dirt, forced down by Sanctified guards, their heads bowed but their bodies trembling.

Watcher stepped forward, his bare feet whispering against the dust. He tilted his head, studying them.

"You," he said, his voice raspy from disuse, pointing at the man.

The prisoner flinched but lifted his head, staring up at him. His lips were cracked, his breath uneven.

Watcher spoke again, slow and deliberate. "Do you know why you are here?"

The man swallowed hard. "Because... you took our home."

A murmur ran through the gathered Sanctified. Some laughed. Others simply watched, waiting.

Watcher knelt before him, bringing his face close. The flickering firelight danced in the prisoner’s wide eyes. "Your home was chaos," he said. "Order has reclaimed it."

The man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers clenched into fists, but he did not speak.

"You have been given an opportunity," Watcher continued. "To cast off the past. To see the world as it truly is."

The prisoner’s jaw tensed. His gaze flickered toward the woman beside him—his companion, his wife, his sister? Watcher did not know. Did not care.

"You may rise," Watcher said. "Or you may fall."

The meaning was clear.

Submit, or die.

The man’s lips parted, but no words came. His body trembled, torn between survival and defiance.

Watcher reached out, his fingers brushing the man’s forehead, right where his brand should be. "The eye sees all," he murmured. "What does it see in you?"

For a moment, it seemed as if the man might break. His shoulders shook, his breathing shallow.

Then he looked at the woman beside him.

And his choice was made.

The knife struck fast.

Watcher barely moved as Jace lunged forward, driving the blade into the prisoner’s throat. Blood sprayed against the dirt, hot and thick, soaking into the ground as the man gurgled and collapsed.

The woman screamed.

Jace wrenched the blade free, wiping it against his sleeve. "Guess we got our answer," he said with a smirk.

Watcher stared down at the corpse, his expression unreadable. He had expected this outcome. It was always the same.

The weak clung to their past. They died for it.

Magnus had been right.

Only the strong endured.

The woman sobbed, crumpled in the dirt beside the body. No one paid her any mind. The Sanctified were already turning away, dispersing, returning to their fires and prayers.

Watcher stood over her, unmoving.

"You knew his choice before he did," Sister Amara said from behind him. Her voice was quiet, but Watcher could hear the approval in it.

Watcher did not respond. His gaze lingered on the woman. The blood. The way she still knelt in the dirt, as if waiting for something.

A test of faith. A second chance.

Or another execution.

"The Watcher will see you now," Amara said, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

Watcher nodded once.

Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the Sanctified camp.

The screams of the woman followed him into the night.