The night after the ritual demands perfect devotion, but Maya's words from earlier still echo in my mind: "They'll find another way in. The pretty ones always do." She whispers it so quietly as we leave the Temple, I barely hear her.

Now no one speaks as we perform our evening prayers. We know better now. The Witnesses can sense such thoughts. Mom's hands never waver as she lights the sacred candles. Her earlier trembling is gone, though I remember how she pulls us close after the ritual, checking frantically for injuries while Dad leans against a wall looking aged beyond his years.

Through our window, Witnesses still glide between houses. Their presence feels more absolute now, heavier. The ritual's success has reinforced their authority - everyone witnesses how Thane's power… did something. Now they will watch more closely than ever.

Sleep comes slowly, marked by passing patrols. Maya curls up against me, looking for a place to hide, but I'm afraid I can't give her what she needs now.

Morning arrives with four sharp knocks. A Witness stands at our door, black robes pristine despite the muddy streets, holding an official notice bearing the Temple's seal. Mom's hands shake as she takes it, but her voice remains steady as she thanks him.

"What is it?" Dad asks once the door is closed. "What have they..." He doesn't finish the question.

Mom reads silently, her face growing paler. "We're to bring Julie to the Temple steps immediately." Her eyes search my face as if looking for some sign, some reason. "It doesn't say why."

The walk to the Temple feels endless. Mom grips my hand so tight it hurts, but I don't complain. High Executor Thane waits at the steps with Ursa beside him, her herb basket already prepared on the ground. His face reveals nothing as he explains that by the Judge's will, I am to accompany Ursa today as she tends to Finn's mother.

"A lesson in proper devotion," he says, but offers no further explanation for why I've been chosen.

Ursa steps forward quickly, perhaps seeing how Mom's face has gone even whiter. "I'll watch over her," she says softly. "She'll be safe with me."

The air carries an unfamiliar chill as we make our way through empty streets. Ursa walks ahead, the basket swaying gently. The usual scents of morning are missing, replaced by the bitter smell of Temple incense burning.

Three Temple seals gleam red against the dark wood of Finn's door, each one bearing Judge Malakai's personal mark, the wax pressed so precisely it seems like it was made to last forever.

The first seal, positioned at eye level, bears the Mark of Heresy. Its jagged lines are uneven, almost frantic, as if they were carved in a moment of rage. The wood beneath it looks slightly darker, like it’s been stained over time, though whether by accident or design, I can’t tell.

Below it, the Seal of Corruption sprawls across the door like spilled ink. Its lines twist and curl, refusing to settle into any familiar shape, and I find myself looking away too quickly, my eyes refusing to follow the pattern.

The final seal, placed right where a door knocker might hang, is the Shield of Purification. Unlike the others, its design is rigid, formal. Its clean, geometric lines almost give the impression of safety, but there’s nothing comforting about it. It looks like something meant to hold you out—or keep something in.

"Watch carefully," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "You may need to know this someday."

Ursa traces a symbol in the air, her fingers steady and deliberate. A faint shimmer lingers where she moves, vanishing before I can fully register its shape. As she murmurs the Prayer of Passage, the wax seals seem to soften, bleeding dark streaks down the wood. The droplets leave behind a sharp, metallic scent as they fall, that makes me squint.

The door creaks open, and the stench hits me before I can take another step. It's not just the heavy incense of the Temple anymore—it's something fouler. The thick, cloying smell of wounds that won't heal and dampness that has settled into the walls. The air feels weighted, stale, pressing against my skin. There's no sign of the life this home used to hold, just cold, empty silence. Dust clings to the curtains, unmoving. No one helps the family of heretics anymore.

Inside the bedroom, the smell grows worse, sharp enough to make me swallow against the urge to gag. Finn doesn't look up. He's kneeling by the bed, a chipped bowl of broth in his hands, the liquid sloshing slightly as his grip wavers. His shirt hangs loose, and his sleeves are smeared with faint stains. It takes me a moment to realize they're from the corners of his mother's mouth—marks left where he's wiped her chin over and over, trying to keep her clean. His shoulders are hunched, his hair sticking damp to his forehead, as if he hasn't had the energy to wash it in days.

His mother lies on her side, twisted awkwardly by the marks carved into her flesh. Her mouth hangs open, slack, a faint line of saliva trailing to her jaw despite Finn's best efforts. Her eyes—once bright, sharp, always ready to meet you with a fierce look—now stare through the ceiling. Occasionally her lips move, forming sounds that never make it past her throat. I can't tell if she's praying, begging, or simply trying to escape whatever torment she's locked in.

The bandages covering her back have started to yellow at the edges, and one has slipped near her shoulder, exposing raw skin where the flesh looks puckered and angry. There's a dampness to the sheets beneath her, and I wonder how many times Finn has tried to change them, how many times he's told himself he can’t manage this alone. His father left days ago to seek help, but everyone knows that no one helps the marked. The markings on her exposed flesh still gleam faintly, a cruel reminder of divine justice that will never fade.

"I brought herbs," Ursa says softly, placing her basket on the floor beside the bed. The words sound hollow, almost absurd in this suffocating room. "And fresh bandages."

Finn doesn't reply. He just dips the spoon into the broth and brings it to his mother's lips with a trembling hand. She doesn't respond, doesn't even blink, and the liquid spills down her chin again. He sets the bowl aside and reaches for a cloth, wiping her face. His hands move carefully, gently, as though afraid to break something already broken. His silence is louder than anything else in the room.

When his eyes finally flick toward me, they're as blank as hers. There's no trace of the boy who used to tease me, no spark of the quick grin he'd flash when he made it there first. His face is pale and drawn, and his expression is something I can only describe as resigned. He's not just tired—he's emptied, like he's poured every last piece of himself into caring for her, and it still isn't enough.

"She tried to speak this morning," he says suddenly, his voice hoarse from disuse. His hand lingers on the edge of the cloth, still poised near her face. "Just for a second. I thought maybe…" He trails off, staring at nothing. A pot of cold tea sits untouched on the bedside table - evidence of another failed attempt to coax some response from her.

Ursa kneels beside him, her movements deliberate and quiet. "You're doing everything you can," she says, her voice low but steady.

Finn doesn't respond. He picks up the bowl again, dipping the spoon and tilting it toward her mouth, his motions slow and practiced. His face doesn't change, but there's something in the air between us now—an unspoken plea for this to end, for someone else to take this burden. But no one will. The marks have made them untouchable, and even the Temple's healing is denied to those who defy divine will.

Ursa moves around the bed with quiet efficiency. Her hands probe carefully at bandaged flesh, testing for fever or infection. "The wounds are closing," she says softly. "Another week and we can try having her sit up more."

We all know the real wounds aren't physical. Those will heal, leaving scars that tell their story in lines across flesh. But the other damage - that may never heal completely.

I help Ursa prepare fresh medicines while she examines the marks. Grinding dried leaves into powder, measuring drops of tincture, just as she taught me. Through the window, I spot a Witness passing - not Claire, but one of the older ones.

"The fever's lower today," Ursa says, mixing a paste of herbs. "Finn, help me lift her. Julie, the fresh bandages."

Together we tend to her wounds. Judge Malakai's work was precise - each symbol perfect, each line exact. Messages of faith written in a mother's blood and pain. I hold bowls of medicine trying not to look directly at the damage, while Ursa works.

"Does it...hurt her?" Finn's voice breaks the silence, barely a whisper. "When you clean the marks?"

Ursa's hands pause over the bandages. "The tincture helps," she says. "But yes, some pain is unavoidable. The marks were carved deep."

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Finn nods, his fingers gently stroking his mother's hair. "She used to sing while she worked. Every morning. Even on the hardest days." His voice catches. "I haven't heard her singing since - "

"Finn..." His mother's lips move, forming the word with visible effort. Her eyes focus briefly, finding his face. "My boy..."

"I'm here! Mother!" He leans closer, hope and fear warring in his expression. "I'm right here!"

But her eyes have already glazed over again, lost in whatever distant place the pain has taken her.

"You're doing well," Ursa tells him, her voice gentle. "The fever's lower, the wounds are healing. She's fighting."

"Will she ever..." He stops. "Will she be herself again?"

"The body heals in its own time," she says finally. "And the spirit...that can be stronger than we know."

I busy myself with the medicines, pretending not to see the tears Finn quickly wipes away. The marks were meant as a lesson for all of us - this is what happens to those who go against the Church's will. But watching Finn tend to his mother with such gentle care, I wonder what lesson we're really learning.

When we finish, Ursa shows Finn how to change the bandages again. "Remember - three drops of this tincture for pain, five of this for sleep. No more, no matter how much she hurts." She packs away her supplies with practiced motions. "I'll return tomorrow. Send for me if the fever rises."

Finn follows us to the door, his steps hesitant, his shoulders slumped. "Please," he says, his voice cracking. "Don't stop coming. I can't…" His breath shudders as he looks back toward his mother's room. "I can't do this alone. Nobody else will help. They all just walk past now—like we're already dead." His fingers clutch at the doorframe.

Ursa steps forward, her hand briefly touching his arm. "We won't abandon you," she says, her voice carrying that gentle strength she uses with her most frightened patients. "I promise."

Finn nods slightly, but I can see he doesn't believe her. As we turn to leave, I feel his hand brush against my sleeve - so light I almost miss it, but it stops me in my tracks. When I turn, there's something in his eyes I've never seen before—something desperate and searching, like he's trying to hold onto the last thread of something precious.

"Wait," he whispers. His hand falls away from my sleeve, and he looks down at his feet. His fingers tremble. "Julie, I…" The words seem to stick in his throat.

Ursa glances between us, and something in her face softens. She adjusts her basket with deliberate slowness. "I just remembered," she says, her voice carrying a warmth I rarely hear. "I need to check something in the garden before we leave. Julie, stay here for a moment?" Without waiting for an answer, she slips outside, leaving us alone in the shadowed hallway.

For a few moments, neither of us speaks. Finn stares at the floor, his hands twisting together as though trying to wring the words out of them. Finally, he looks up at me, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I was wrong," he says. "About everything."

I blink, unsure of what to say, but he pushes on before I can respond.

"You’re not crazy, or strange, or anything I said before. I see it now." His voice wavers, and his gaze drops again, as if he can’t bear to look me in the eye. "What’s happening to my mother, to the village… none of this is your fault. I wanted, we, wanted, someone to blame, and I chose you because it was easier than facing the truth. Easier than admitting I was scared." He exhales sharply, like the words are cutting him as they come out.

"Finn, you don’t—"

"Please, let me finish." His voice breaks, and he looks at me again. His eyes are bright with unshed tears, his jaw tight like he’s fighting to hold them back. "I wish I could take it all back. The words. The way I treated you. Everything. I wish we could go back to how it was before, when we… when we were friends." He pauses, his throat working as he swallows hard. "But I understand if that’s not possible now."

The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating, filled with all the things neither of us knows how to say. My chest tightens, and for a moment, I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold it together. I blink hard, forcing the burning in my eyes to stay where it is, willing the tears not to fall. I want to tell him that I’m not angry anymore, that I understand why he lashed out. But the words stick in my throat like thorns, too painful to pull free.

I glance toward the door, where I can hear Ursa humming softly to herself, giving us this fragile moment.

"I don’t know if we can go back," I say finally, my voice quiet and uneven. "But maybe… maybe we can figure out where to go from here."

His shoulders sag, as if those few words have lifted something off his back. He nods, wiping at his eyes quickly, almost angrily, like he doesn’t want me to see the tears. I look away too, trying to steady the trembling in my hands.

"Thank you," he says, so softly I almost don’t hear it.

Ursa’s voice calls from beyond the doorway, breaking the stillness. "Julie? Are you ready?"

I glance at Finn one last time before turning toward the door. His hand brushes the frame as if to steady himself, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something else. But he doesn’t. I step out into the harsh daylight, leaving him in the shadows of the hallway.

The air outside feels alive. The wind rushes through the narrow streets, carrying with it the sharp scent of incense from the Temple. Overhead, the bare branches of the trees creak and sway as though whispering secrets to one another. Somewhere nearby, a weather vane squeals softly as it turns, caught by the breeze.

Finn’s house, so silent and still, felt like a world trapped in amber. But here, beyond its door, everything moves. The world doesn’t stop for grief—it churns on relentlessly. A crow swoops low across the rooftops, its wings cutting sharply through the air. Shadows ripple on the cobblestones as the clouds race across the sun, their fleeting shapes bending and shifting like living things.

Through these thinning shadows, I notice a Witness standing still at the corner of the street. His black robes shift slightly in the breeze, but he remains motionless until Ursa straightens beside me, lifting her chin. It's such a small gesture I barely catch it, but he does. Without a word, he glides toward Finn's door, his hollow eyes fixed on the seals we broke to enter.

I watch as he stops before the door. The way his head tilts, the deliberate way he studies the seals—it makes something twist inside me, sharp and sour. It feels wrong, like he's searching for sins to punish. My fists clench at my sides, but Ursa's hand finds my arm, her grip firm.

"Let him do his duty," she whispers, her voice barely a breath. There's something strange in her tone—like she's holding back a laugh. Or maybe a curse. "The Temple's servants are so... thorough in their work."

Her words catch my breath. I glance up at her, confused, and catch the faintest quirk at the corner of her mouth. It vanishes instantly, her face smoothing into perfect submission. Behind us, the slow scrape of wax against wood tells us the Witness has begun his work, each movement measured and precise.

Ursa doesn't look back. "Come," she says quietly, guiding me away. "There's work to be done."

I follow her, my boots crunching against the gravel-strewn street. The wind pulls at the hem of my cloak, lifting it slightly, and I tug it tighter around my shoulders. The world feels restless—not chaotic, but alive in a way that’s neither comforting nor kind. The breeze doesn’t carry warmth, only cold fingers that slip beneath my scarf and touch the back of my neck.

Ursa leads us toward the square. Stray leaves skitter across the cobblestones, catching momentarily against the wooden posts of abandoned stalls. Even the trees that line the square seem to shift uneasily, their bare limbs trembling under the weight of something unseen.

The Witnesses stand like black monoliths at each corner of the square. They are motionless, yet somehow they seem a part of the restless energy around them, like shadows stretched too far by a setting sun. The villagers move only when necessary, their heads bowed as they shuffle past the Witnesses’ sharp, unblinking gazes.

Ursa stops at a stall, exchanging quiet words with a villager I don’t know quite well. I glance around, watching how everything seems to conspire to remind me that life continues outside the walls of Finn’s house. But it’s a life held in the grip of something heavy, something that winds through the streets like the breeze, touching everything but leaving nothing whole.

"We should move," Ursa says, her voice quieter than before. Her eyes are fixed on something in the distance. I turn to follow her gaze and see him.

A lone rider approaches from the far end of the square, the hooves of his horse clicking against the cobblestones in a slow rhythm. Dust clings to the man's dark cloak, and his shoulders are stiff, as though the journey here had been longer than just a few miles. He doesn’t greet anyone or pause to explain his presence. His focus is singular, his destination clear: the town hall — Sven’s house, as we know it.

“Who is he?” I ask, unable to keep the question from slipping out.

Ursa doesn’t answer immediately. Her expression tightens, but she doesn’t look away. When she speaks, her tone is calm, but there’s something in it that makes my stomach twist. "Come," she says, gesturing for me to follow. "We need to speak to him."

"Any correspondence must be inspected by the Church," he declares, extending a pale hand. "For the protection of all."

The rider’s shoulders stiffen, his posture rigid, and there is something in the way he stands—something about his presence. His air suggests authority. His cloak, dark and formal, flows with rigid precision, and though there is no overt insignia, the way he carries himself speaks of discipline and rank.

Before he can speak, however, a shadow falls between them. Ursa steps forward, her usual gentle demeanor hardening into something else. The soft warmth in her voice is gone, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve.

"This bears the Guild seal," she says, her fingers brushing over the emblem pressed into the wax of the message. "You know the ancient laws, Brother Cedric. Not even the Church can interfere with Guild business."

The man before us—the Witness—remains still, his fingers hovering near the soul ledger at his belt, his face betraying no immediate emotion. But I can see the flicker of something—uncertainty, perhaps—as he opens his mouth.

"The laws have changed. Judge Malakai—"

"Has no authority over Guild matters," Ursa interrupts smoothly, her voice as calm as it is certain. "Unless you'd care to explain to the Guild Master why their sealed messages are being tampered with?"

I watch as Brother Cedric’s face hardens, his eyes narrowing, his fingers twitching as if to draw his ledger, but then he stops, the weight of the situation sinking in. His eyes flicker with a fleeting, uncertain moment—a hint of the tension beneath his usual calm. The Church may press moral authority, but it cannot create laws, and it cannot bend the Guild’s unshakable rules.

Ursa stands perfectly still, unyielding as stone, a pillar of calm patience, as if she were a statue from one of grandmother’s tales.

Finally, Cedric’s hand drops, and for a brief moment, I catch a glimpse of defeat—an understanding that he cannot win this one. "The Church will remember this defiance," he warns, his voice betraying the faintest crack of frustration.

"The Church will remember its place," Ursa responds, her words steady and clear. "Just as we remember ours."