I lifted her into my arms.

  She was lighter than she should have been—like the city had already begun to let her go. Her head lolled against my shoulder, hair brushing the donkey mask, her blood warm against my chest and soaking into my cloak. I staggered as I stood, legs trembling, and turned back into the alley.

  Tears streamed down behind the mask, blinding me. I didn’t bother wiping them away.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered over and over, to her, to myself, to a Father who never answered fast enough. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  The alley stretched on, too long, too narrow. Every step felt wrong, like I was walking against the grain of the world itself. Somewhere behind me, shouts grew louder—orders barked, boots striking stone—but I didn’t run.

  Then—

  A voice.

  Not from the street. Not from the dark.

  Inside me.

  Elijah.

  My lips moved around the name without my permission.

  “Elijah.”

  My feet stopped.

  My arms locked.

  The SIN pulsed at my side—once, slow and heavy, like a heart beating out of time. Heat flooded through me, crawling up my spine, tightening my grip on Rosa’s body until my knuckles burned.

  “No,” I whispered. “Not now.”

  But my body didn’t listen.

  It turned.

  Step by step, I was pulled from the alley and back into the open street, the cathedral rising ahead of me like a pale mountain. Its steps gleamed under torchlight, clean and holy and untouched by the blood staining my clothes.

  Each step forward felt inevitable.

  Commanded.

  My boots struck stone as I reached the base of the steps. I looked down at Rosa’s face—peaceful now, cruelly so—and something inside me cracked clean through.

  “I didn’t choose this,” I whispered to no one. “I tried.”

  The SIN answered with another pulse, hotter this time.

  My body climbed.

  One step.

  Then another.

  Toward the doors where vows were spoken.

  Toward the place that had taught the city how to look away.

  And though my mind screamed for me to stop, to turn back, to run—

  My feet carried me upward,

  and the night held its breath.

  ***

  I laid Rosa gently at the foot of the cathedral steps.

  Her blood spread across the pale stone like spilled wine, dark and undeniable. A murmur rippled through the square—first confusion, then shock, then anger. People stopped. Vendors abandoned their stalls. Pilgrims turned, hands clutching prayer beads, mouths half-open.

  I stood and faced them.

  When I spoke, the voice that came out was not mine.

  It was deeper. Older. Laden with judgment.

  “Look.”

  My arm rose, pointing not at Rosa alone, but at the cathedral towering above us.

  “Look at what the Church has done to the daughters of the faith.”

  The square went still.

  “They gather our girls under banners of holiness. They dress theft in white robes and call it calling. They take them from their homes—from fathers who break their backs in the fields and streets, from mothers who bled to bring them into this world—”

  My voice shook, then sharpened.

  “—and they spend them like coin.”

  A gasp rippled through the crowd.

  “They tell you it is the Father’s will. They tell you sacrifice is holy. But tell me—when was the last time you felt the Father in these halls of marble and gold?”

  I turned slowly, letting my gaze rake over the cathedral doors, the statues, the banners heavy with wealth.

  “Do you feel Him here?” I demanded.

  “In the oil? In the incense?”

  “In the silence that follows your prayers?”

  The crowd began to stir—uneasy, murmuring. Some nodded. Others clenched their fists.

  “A daughter of God was killed tonight,” I continued, my voice lowering, becoming venomous.

  “Not by thieves. Not by beasts.”

  “But by men who preach mercy with one hand and hold knives in the other.”

  Shouts erupted.

  “That’s a lie!” someone yelled.

  “No—it’s true!” another screamed back.

  I stepped aside so they could see Rosa clearly.

  “She had a name,” I said. “She had a life. She had a choice.”

  My voice twisted, wrath bleeding through every word.

  “The Church is a vile joke,” I spat.

  “They offer blessings but bleed the people dry. They speak of heaven while building palaces atop your suffering.”

  Anger surged through the crowd now—raw, uncontained.

  Fists rose. Cries echoed.

  “Shame!”

  “Murderers!”

  “They lie to us!”

  Metal scraped stone.

  Guards pushed forward, shields raised, shouting for order.

  “Back!” one barked. “Clear the square!”

  But the people didn’t move.

  They pressed closer.

  And as the torches flickered against the cathedral walls, I felt the SIN hum at my side—eager, approving—while the city of Bredford teetered on the edge of something it could never take back.

  Chaos erupted like a wound torn open.

  A stone flew first—cracking against a guard’s helm with a dull, sickening thud. The man crumpled, blood slicking the steps. For half a breath the square froze, as if the world itself hadn’t decided whether this was allowed.

  Then everything broke.

  Someone screamed, “For our children!”

  Another voice roared back, “Damned the tithe!”

  The crowd surged.

  Kitchen knives flashed. Bricks ripped from the street were hurled with shaking, furious hands. Guards raised shields too late—one went down shrieking as a blade slid between the plates of his armor. Another was dragged screaming into the mass, his pleas swallowed by the roar.

  Stained-glass windows shattered, bursting outward in showers of colored shards. Reds and blues rained down like broken halos as rocks hammered the cathedral’s face. Flames caught where torches struck dry banners.

  The bells began to ring.

  Not solemn.

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  Not holy.

  Panicked. Wild. Overlapping clangs that screamed loss of control.

  A guard lunged for me, face twisted with fear and rage. I twisted aside, felt his hand graze my cloak, then drove my boot into his chest. He tumbled backward down the steps, vanishing beneath grasping hands.

  I didn’t look back.

  I bent and lifted Rosa again, her weight anchoring me to the moment—to why this was happening at all. Her blood soaked into my sleeves, warm, real. The donkey mask felt heavy now, oppressive, like it no longer belonged to me.

  Around us the square burned.

  People tore down holy placards and trampled them into the mud. Someone set fire to the collection tables. Smoke curled upward, thick and bitter, choking the night.

  “Run!” someone shouted.

  “Burn it all!”

  I pushed through an alley as the riot swallowed the square whole. Cries echoed behind me—rage, grief, terror, release. The kind of sound that could never be undone once it was made.

  By the time I reached the outskirts of Bredford, the bells were still ringing—but now they sounded distant, frantic, powerless.

  I crossed the threshold of the city with Rosa in my arms.

  Behind me, the Church burned.

  And for the first time since Old Tumbledown fell, I felt something close to justice—

  terrible, messy, and soaked in blood.

  ***

  I laid her into the earth with hands that would not stop shaking.

  The soil was cold, stubborn—like it didn’t want to accept another body—but I forced it open anyway, clawing until my fingers burned. I lowered Rosa down gently, arranging her as best I could, crossing her hands over her chest the way my mother once taught me. Dawn crept over the horizon, thin and pale, washing the hill in a tired gray light.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice cracking. “You deserved better than all of this.”

  I filled the grave slowly. Each handful of dirt sounded too loud. Too final.

  When it was done, I sat back on my heels, staring at the small mound of earth. The donkey mask felt unbearable now—hot, suffocating. I pulled it off and dropped it beside me.

  Then it hit.

  A sharp, brutal pain ripped through my skull, worse than before, like something tearing itself free from the inside. My breath caught. I gagged and retched, dark blood spilling through my fingers and splattering the grass.

  “No—no, no—” I gasped.

  My hands shook violently as I pressed them into the dirt, trying to ground myself, trying to stay upright. My chest burned. My head rang. Every heartbeat felt like it might be the last.

  So this is it, then.

  This is the cost.

  “This is how it ends,” I muttered hoarsely, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Figures.”

  The world dimmed at the edges. Colors drained away, replaced by a dull, tunneling gray. I slumped against the fresh grave, panting, bile and blood streaking my chin.

  Then—

  Footsteps.

  Slow. Measured. Not rushed.

  I forced my eyes open.

  Three figures crested the hill, silhouetted against the rising sun. The light behind them made it hard to see their faces at first—only their shapes, standing impossibly calm against the chaos I’d left behind.

  My heart stuttered.

  “Great,” I whispered weakly. “Here to finish the job?”

  They drew closer.

  One walked with a steady, familiar grace. Another carried himself like a storm barely held in check. The third moved quietly, almost reverently, as if the ground itself welcomed his steps.

  My vision blurred again.

  I tasted blood.

  The last thing I felt before the darkness took me was the cool morning wind—and the certainty that, whatever was coming next, the Father was not finished with me yet.

  My skull felt like it had been split and nailed back together wrong.

  I groaned and rolled onto my side, only for a boot to nudge my ribs.

  “Wake up, idiot.”

  I cracked one eye open. Firelight flickered through the leaves above me. We were camped beneath a wide oak, its branches creaking softly in the dawn breeze. My mouth tasted like iron. My stomach churned.

  Ashe stood over me, arms crossed, jaw tight. He kicked my boots again—harder this time.

  Lucius and Marcel sat nearby on a fallen log. Neither of them looked amused.

  “You’ve done it now, boy,” Lucius said quietly.

  He leaned forward and shoved a folded poster onto my chest. The parchment was still damp with ink.

  WANTED THE DONKEY

  Below it was a crude sketch—long ears, a hood, a body slung with a satchel. Beneath that, a list of crimes in tight, furious script.

  Incitement of riot.

  Blasphemy.

  The deaths of clergy and city guards.

  Arson of holy property.

  My stomach dropped.

  “The riot you caused set fire to the cathedral,” Lucius went on. “Clergymen died. Guards died. Streets ran red before the night was through.”

  My throat tightened. “I thought… I thought I was saving her. I thought it was Mara.”

  Ashe kicked my boots again, this time sharp and angry.

  “Stop chasing ghosts, you hear me?” His voice cracked despite himself. “Mara is gone.”

  I flinched.

  “She’s gone,” he repeated, louder now, as if trying to convince himself. “You’re tearing yourself apart for someone who isn’t there.”

  His fists trembled.

  “Think of Sophie,” he snapped. “Think of what you’re risking!”

  “Enough, Ashe,” Lucius said firmly.

  Ashe turned away, shoulders heaving, jaw clenched so tight I thought it might break.

  Lucius stood then, pacing slowly in front of me. “The fire of revolution is spreading through Darwick lands,” he said. “Bredford lit the match.”

  He paused—and then, impossibly, smirked.

  “This is… better, I suppose.”

  I stared at him. “Better?”

  “You’ve been out for three days,” Marcel added, arms folded. “The riot barely got contained. Even now the city’s tense—markets whispering, guards jumpy, priests hiding behind locked doors.”

  Lucius glanced back at me. “They’re talking about you.”

  My head throbbed. “Talking how?”

  “Murmurs among the common folk,” he said. “They’ve given you a name.”

  He tapped the poster with two fingers.

  “The Beggar Lord.”

  I let out a hollow laugh that turned into a cough. “What? Why?”

  “Because you hit them where it hurts,” Lucius replied. “The tithes. The Calling. The lashings. You said out loud what they’ve been choking on for generations.”

  Marcel nodded. “To them, you’re not a killer. You’re a symbol.”

  My chest tightened. “That wasn’t me,” I said hoarsely. “That was the SIN.”

  Lucius’s smirk faded.

  “No,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t just the SIN.”

  He crouched down so we were eye to eye.

  “It spoke through you,” he admitted. “But you were the one standing there. You were the one who chose not to walk away.”

  The fire popped beside us.

  Lucius straightened. “Whether you like it or not, Thomas, the world heard you.”

  Ashe finally looked back at me, eyes shining with something raw and complicated—anger, fear, and something dangerously close to grief.

  “And now,” Lucius finished, “nothing is going to be the same.”

  I swallowed hard. “Then what do I do now?” My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to. “I ruined everything.”

  Lucius clicked his tongue, slow and thoughtful, pacing a few steps before turning back to me. He looked almost… pleased.

  “Well, young Thomas,” he said lightly, “we couldn’t let a good revolution go to waste now, could we?”

  Ashe’s head snapped up. “Lucius, don’t you dare.”

  Marcel reached out and clamped a hand over Ashe’s mouth, hauling him back a step. “Let him speak,” he muttered. “You can yell after.”

  Lucius ignored them both.

  “Commander Yanna’s forces are about a week out from Bredford,” he continued. “Plenty of time for rumors to fester. Plenty of time for fear to grow in the right places.”

  I frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying,” Lucius replied, lowering his voice, “that symbols are far more dangerous than armies. And right now, whether you like it or not, you’ve become one.”

  Ashe ripped free of Marcel’s grip. “You’re talking about parading him out there like a saint or a devil. You’ll get him killed!”

  Lucius held up a finger. “No. I’m talking about control.”

  He knelt in front of me again, eyes sharp now, calculating. “Let’s say a certain lord makes an appearance before Darwick’s banners arrive. A Beggar Lord. A man who stands where the people can see him and tells them the Church does not own the Father.”

  My stomach churned.

  “The Devils,” Lucius went on, “do their work quietly—on the guards, the command posts, the chains that keep the city afraid. Not the granary. Not the homes. No civilian bloodshed.”

  Marcel nodded slowly. “Clean cuts. Surgical.”

  “And by the time Yanna marches in,” Lucius finished, “Bredford opens its gates on its own.”

  Ashe shoved Lucius hard in the chest. “You will not make him a martyr!”

  Lucius didn’t stumble. He just looked at Ashe, expression hardening.

  “A martyr is someone who dies,” he said. “I’m trying to keep him alive.”

  He turned back to me.

  “This is bigger than you now, Thomas. Bigger than your guilt. Bigger than your grief.”

  The fire crackled between us, sparks lifting into the night.

  “You can run,” Lucius said quietly. “Hide. Let the Church hunt the Donkey until the trail goes cold.”

  Ashe’s jaw tightened, hope flickering in his eyes at the word run.

  “Or,” Lucius continued, “you can decide what kind of monster they think you are.”

  Silence fell.

  I thought of Rosa.

  Of Sophie sleeping in my arms.

  Of the women dragged into wagons.

  Of the bells ringing while the city burned.

  My hands curled into fists.

  “…If I do this,” I said slowly, “no more innocent blood. No spectacle for the sake of fear.”

  Lucius smiled—but there was respect in it now. “Then you’ll already be better than the men you’re fighting.”

  Ashe looked at me, eyes shining, torn between fury and fear. “Thomas…”

  I met his gaze. “I won’t let them turn me into a god,” I said. “Or a sacrifice.”

  I looked back at Lucius.

  “But if the people are already listening… then I’ll make sure they hear the truth.”

  The fire popped loudly, as if sealing the choice.

  Lucius straightened, satisfied. “Then rest while you can, Beggar Lord.”

  “Because tomorrow,” he added, “the city learns who you really are.”