My first waking thought is of Claire. The bruise on my cheek doesn't pulse anymore, but it hurts. A reminder that sneaking out comes with consequences. I touch it gently, wincing at how tender it feels.

Through our bedroom window, I watch guards changing shifts. Their borrowed weapons catch the early light as they trade reports in hushed voices. Maya stirs in her bed across the room, Mr. Whiskers dangling from one hand.

"Did you dream about the angry people too?" she asks, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

I shake my head, not wanting to discuss my nightmares. The kitchen sounds drift through our door – Mom moving pots, Dad's chair scraping back. Taking a deep breath, I lift my chin. I can do this. I'm not a child anymore. I have to face the consequences of my actions.

But halfway down the corridor, my courage fails. My chin drops, and I find myself studying the floorboards instead. Each step feels heavier than the last.

Mom doesn't acknowledge me when we enter the kitchen, though she ruffles Maya's hair as my sister passes. "Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?"

Maya's eyes dart between us as she climbs into her chair. The silence weighs heavier with each passing moment, broken only by the scrape of Mom's spoon against the pot she's stirring.

Dad clears his throat. "Were you trying to reach Claire last night?"

"Yes." No point lying now. "It was important."

Dad's spoon clinks against his bowl. "Important enough to risk-"

A commotion outside cuts him off. Through the window, I see people hurrying toward their homes as a group of Witnesses glides down the street. Their black robes sweep the ground as they pause at each house, making notes in their ledgers.

"They're checking for dissidents," Dad says grimly. "Anyone showing signs of resistance to Church doctrine."

"Signs?" Maya asks.

"Questions during service. Missing confessions. Speaking against marking ceremonies." His eyes find my bruised cheek. "Breaking curfew."

The Witness leading the group stops at Mrs. Weber's door. Even from here, I can see how she trembles as she answers their questions. Her hands keep touching the mark on her shoulder – ‘still fresh’, from last month's ceremony.

"Edwin." Mom's voice carries an edge of fear. "What's happening?"

Dad pushes away from the table. "High Executor Thane is returning. And he's bringing Judge Malakai from the High Council."

The name silences the room. Even Maya stops fidgeting with Mr. Whiskers. Judge Malakai, everyone knows the stories about him - the man who earned his position by marking his own family when he discovered their hidden shrine. They say he carved the symbols of faith into his children's backs himself, proving his devotion to divine punishment above earthly bonds. The ceremony that made him a Judge lasted three days. None of his family was seen again.

"A Judge of Fate? Here?" Mom's hands move instinctively into the Seal of Acceptance - right palm pressed flat against her heart, left hand clenched into a fist over it. The gesture every person learns to make when facing judgment. "Why?"

"The barriers failing. Creatures appearing in daylight. Children..." Dad's eyes flick to me. "Children hearing things... The Church believes these are signs of widespread corruption. We should have expected this - where there's corruption, the Church always follows. Like vultures to carrion."

"When?"

"This afternoon. They're already preparing the square." He stands, buckling on his borrowed sword. "No one leaves the house alone today. The Witnesses are watching everyone."

As if to emphasize his words, another group of black-robed figures passes our window. Brother Cedric leads them - though no one calls him "Brother" anymore, not since he traded his baker's apron for Witness robes. I remember how he used to slip me warm rolls when I was small, how his laugh would fill the whole street. Now his face is gaunt, pale as chalk against his black robes, and those eyes that once twinkled with kindness are empty as wells in winter. The soul ledger he carries belonged to his wife before her marking ceremony. She couldn't bear the shame of his transformation and disappeared into the forest one night. They say that's when his eyes went hollow.

The morning crawls by. I try to focus on chores, but my mind keeps drifting to Claire. Is she still afraid for me? Does she regret taking grandmother's journal? Through the window, I watch more Church officials arrive – Executors in their leather aprons, carrying tools I don't want to think about.

Shortly after midday, a knock at our door makes us all freeze. Mom answers to find Claire's father, his guard's uniform replaced by formal Church attire.

"The children are to gather at the schoolhouse," he announces. "High Executor Thane wishes to speak with them before the main ceremony."

"All of them?" Mom's hand finds my shoulder.

"All." His eyes linger on my bruised cheek. "No exceptions."

The walk to school feels different today. Guards stand at every corner, hands tight on unfamiliar weapons, while Witnesses drift between houses like black shadows. Their hollow eyes follow us children as we hurry past, marking who flinches, who walks too quickly, who shows signs of fear.

Our classroom looks wrong with the morning light filtering through newly barred windows. Mrs. Hemlock stands unusually still at her desk, her usually warm face tight with tension as she watches Witnesses position themselves along the walls. Their black robes seem to drink in the light, making the familiar room feel even colder, smaller.

When Finn slides into the seat beside me, I'm too surprised to object.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, so quiet I barely hear it. "About before. About everything." He pulls something from his pocket – a small carved horse, its paint chipped and faded. "Remember when we used to trade these? Before..."

"Before I got weird?" The bitterness in my voice surprises me.

"Before I got scared," he corrects. "The creature in the schoolyard – I saw it too. We all did." His eyes drift to Claire's back. "Maybe you weren't the crazy one."

Before I can respond, a Witness glides closer, and we both freeze. The silence stretches until he moves away, leaving only the scratching of Mrs. Hemlock's chalk on the board to fill the heavy air.

The door opens without warning. High Executor Thane enters first, behind him walks Judge Malakai - taller than any person should be, wearing robes darker than night. The marks cover every bit of skin I can see, making my stomach turn. They're raised and ugly, like someone carved patterns into his flesh with a knife. Some look fresh and red, others old and gray, all of them twisted into shapes that hurt to look at. A silver chain hangs at his throat, jingling with iron symbols that remind me of the ones at Temple, but these look sharper somehow, meaner. Looking at his scarred face makes me want to run away - how could anyone do that to themselves? The marks must hurt so much, but he wears them like they're something to be proud of, like each scar is a prize he's won. When he moves, the scars stretch and pull at his skin in a way that makes me feel sick.

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"Children of Aldenvik," High Executor Thane's voice fills the room like smoke. "The Donor's patience grows thin. Signs of corruption multiply in your village." His eyes sweep across us, lingering on each face. "But there is still hope for those pure of heart."

Judge Malakai steps forward, even more marks peek from his sleeves as he raises his hands. "We sense resistance here," his voice carries the weight of old stone. "Questions that should not be asked. Knowledge that should remain buried." His gaze finally finds me, and the air grows so cold I can see my breath. "Powers that should not exist."

"Long ago," Thane continues, pacing between our desks, "a hero dared to challenge The Donor's divine will. His rebellion brought suffering upon us all." Each word falls like a hammer strike. "Now we must all bear the weight of his defiance, for The Donor's pain demands payment. It is right that we suffer. It is just that we endure." He stops beside Emma Weber's desk, and she shrinks in her seat. "Through our suffering, we are purified. Through our punishment, we are saved. This is the price of mortal pride, children. The Donor's justice flows through our pain, and only through perfect acceptance can we hope for redemption."

"Tomorrow," Judge Malakai announces, "we begin a great cleansing. Those who submit willingly to marking will find mercy. Those who resist..." He lets the threat hang in air that suddenly feels too thick to breathe. "The Donor's pain must be shared, children. Through punishment comes understanding. Through understanding, acceptance."

I think of Mrs. Weber's fresh marks, how she trembled before the Witnesses this morning. Beside me, Finn's hands clench into fists under his desk. A soft sob breaks the silence. Emma crumples a note in her fist, tears rolling down her cheeks. The Witnesses move like smoke between our desks, their hollow eyes marking every reaction, every sign of weakness or rebellion, I feel like we can’t even breathe anymore.

When we're finally released, the afternoon light feels too sharp, too bright, I need to shrink my eyes to see where I'm going.

Maybe they're right, I think, watching Emma hurry home with tears still streaming down her face. Maybe there are questions we shouldn't ask, powers that shouldn't exist. But as I pass the Temple, I remember grandmother's journal. The answers are still out there, hidden in those pages Claire took. And somehow, I have to find them.

The tears won't stop coming as I hurry from the schoolhouse. Everyone seems far away, like I'm watching them through clouded glass. My feet carry me without thinking toward the village square, where something feels wrong.

That's when I hear it - singing. Not normal singing, but a chant that makes my teeth ache. As I round the corner, I freeze.

Judge Malakai stands in the square's center, his scarred arms raised. Witnesses form a circle around him while Executors drive metal posts into the cobblestones - elaborate constructions of iron and silver that will hold tomorrow's victims.

I should run. I know I should run. But I can't move, can't look away from the ritual unfolding before me. The Judge's scars seem to writhe as he chants, and the air grows thick with something that tastes like metal and fear.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Through our suffering, we are purified," Claire's voice makes me jump. She stands beside me, head bowed respectfully. "Through our punishment, we are saved."

A Witness glides closer, and Claire grabs my hand, pulling me forward. "Judge Malakai," she calls out, her voice carrying perfect devotion. "May we observe the preparations? We want to understand the path to redemption."

The Judge's scarred face turns toward us. "Come closer, children." His voice scrapes against my ears. "See how we prepare to cleanse your village."

Claire's grip on my hand tightens painfully as we approach. I notice from up close that the metal posts aren’t quite what I expected: not simple iron spikes, but intricate things with hooks and edges that make my stomach turn.

"Your friend shows proper reverence," the Judge tells me, his eyes boring into mine. "Perhaps you could learn from her example."

"Yes, your honor," Claire answers for me, squeezing my hand in warning. "Julie wants to learn. We both do. That's why we came to watch - to understand the price of salvation."

"Tomorrow's ritual will be... special," Judge Malakai says. "A reminder to all of Aldenvik about the cost of harboring corruption." His gaze lingers on me. "Some lessons must be written in flesh to be truly understood."

"Come on, Julie," Claire tugs at my arm. "We should help prepare the herb bundles for tomorrow's ceremony. To show our dedication."

She leads me away with perfect submission, each step measured and respectful. Only when we're safely hidden behind the old bakery does her dutiful mask crack.

I sink to the ground, the weight of everything finally too much. "I can't do this anymore," my voice breaks. "I don't want to be the reason people suffer. The reason they get marked." I touch my bruised cheek where Mom's hand left its print. "Maybe it would be better if I just... wasn't here."

Claire pulls grandmother's journal from her bag. "I was so scared you'd end up like her," she whispers. "But maybe... maybe she was trying to protect us too."

"You didn't ask about last night," I say softly. "About why I never came."

Claire's eyes linger on my bruised cheek. "The guards were talking about finding you. About taking you home." She looks away. "Your face tells me everything I need to know about what happened after."

She pulls grandmother's journal from her bag, but holds it tight against her chest. "I don't know if I should give this to you." Her voice wavers. "What if... what if knowing makes things worse? What if you end up like her?"

"Claire, please-"

"I heard what they're planning," she cuts me off. "The Judge brought special tools - silver blades blessed in sacred oils that cut to the bone. They'll carve the deeper marks first, let them bleed properly before cauterizing. The ones who don't need... special attention will just get the heated irons."

She swallows hard. "They heat the brands until they're white-hot, Julie. I saw them testing them in the Temple yard. And there are these hooks - curved ones, with serrated edges. They use them to..." She stops, looking sick. "To hold the skin taut while they work. So the marks come out clean. Perfect."

"But why all these posts?" I whisper, watching the Executors test the tension of each iron frame.

"The Judge says it's tradition - one for each month of purification." Claire's voice drops even lower. "They'll use the post that corresponds to the month when the sin was committed. Mrs. Weber spoke against the Church during the harvest festival, so she'll be marked on the ninth post. Henrik..." She shivers. "Since he's volunteering for the full prayer, they'll start at sunrise on the current month's post. He wants them to carve the Donor's Prayer into his back, letter by letter. Says it will prove his faith when they pour the sacred salt into the wounds. If he survives the first marking, they'll consider allowing him the rest."

Claire's fingers trace the journal's worn edges, and I notice tears in her eyes. "Remember when we used to hide behind the baker's shop and make up stories about being heroes?" Her voice breaks slightly. "About saving people, fighting monsters? Back when the scariest thing in the world was getting caught stealing cookies?" She looks up at me, and for a moment I see my best friend again, not the scared girl playing at devotion. "Now I watch them prepare those marking posts, and I think about your grandmother, about what she was trying to protect us from..."

She pushes the journal into my hands like it burns her. "Just... whatever you learn from this, whatever you decide to do..." Her voice catches. "Don't make me watch another person I love disappear."

I clutch the journal to my chest, but Claire's already walking away. Through the bakery window, I see Finn waiting. He says something that makes Claire pause, then touches her arm gently. She doesn't pull away.

The square fills with more activity as I hurry home. Executors arrange their tools on black cloth while Judge Malakai supervises their preparations. The iron frames form a perfect circle, waiting for tomorrow's lessons in faith and pain.

I slip through our back door, but Maya's already waiting. "The angry men are going to hurt people tomorrow," she says simply. "Like they hurt Mrs. Weber. Like they'll hurt Emma's mama again."

I pull her close, feeling her tremble. "I know."

"Is that why you want to leave?"

The question hits harder than Mom's slap. "I don't want to," I whisper. "But maybe it's the only way to stop this. To learn what grandmother knew without anyone else getting hurt."

Through our window, we watch the Executors at work. The journal sits heavy in my lap as darkness falls. In the square, metal scrapes against stone as they make their final preparations. Tomorrow, Judge Malakai will begin his work. And I'll have to decide what price I'm willing to pay for understanding.