-Ruik-

  Dawn had not yet touched the horizon, but the cathedral courtyard glowed with the pale promise of it—soft, cold, unforgiving.

  I stood shoulder to shoulder with Tom and Jarold in the line of Dawnsworn, armor stiff against my skin, breath fogging in the chill. Vaelor waited on the high steps in reverent stillness, head bowed, as if the sun itself had asked him to pause.

  I closed my eyes for a single heartbeat.

  Everyone else stared forward, transfixed, drinking in the sight of their Savior.

  Only I could feel the thin crack in my ribs with every breath. Rivulet’s words clung to me like frost, refusing to melt, and Thorn’s medallion lay heavy beneath my armor—colder than the morning air.

  A murmur rippled through the courtyard as Vaelor stepped forward. Goodrick stood behind him, hands clasped, posture rigid as iron.

  Vaelor lifted his arms.

  Silence fell like snow.

  “My people,” he began, voice warm, gentle. “My Dawnsworn. My faithful. Children of Dunkarr.” His smile stretched, almost tender. “I welcome you into the fold of the dawn. I am grateful—deeply grateful—for the light that carried us through the night.”

  The crowd leaned toward him. I felt Tom shift proudly at my side. Jarold lifted his chin, hope bright in his eyes.

  Then Vaelor stopped speaking.

  His gaze moved through the ranks like a blade searching for its sheath.

  And found me.

  “Come,” he said softly. “One among you deserves to stand in the full light of morning. The very reason we all yet draw breath.”

  Tom nudged me hard. “Go, Ruik. This is it.”

  Jarold gave a firm shove. “Go on.”

  My boots scraped stone as I stepped forward, the weight of the courtyard tightening around me. The steps loomed. Vaelor’s expression remained serene, benevolent.

  When I stood one step below him, he placed both hands on my shoulders.

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  The gesture looked fatherly.

  It wasn’t.

  “May the dawn bless him this day,” Vaelor said, voice ringing with warmth. “May its purity cleanse him of the darkness he embraced.”

  Confusion rippled through the crowd.

  My stomach tightened.

  “May it wash away the shadows he allowed in,” Vaelor continued, tone unchanged, almost lyrical. “For it was he—this young man before you—who opened the way for the Veil.”

  The courtyard inhaled sharply.

  Tom’s face collapsed in disbelief.

  Jarold took a stunned half-step forward.

  My pulse roared in my ears.

  “He refused to kneel,” Vaelor said gently. “But the dawn kneels to no one. Its justice is absolute.”

  He leaned closer, his breath warm against my cheek.

  “Let the dawn judge you.”

  I understood then.

  This was where he broke me.

  Heat stirred beneath my ribs, slow and coiling, something ancient shifting awake. My vision trembled. For a heartbeat, the ember inside me begged to be freed.

  No.

  I swallowed hard and dragged the fire back into its cage. I would not give him that. Not here. Not like this.

  The first sliver of sunlight crested the rooftops.

  Vaelor’s gaze dropped.

  To Thorn’s medallion.

  His smile thinned. “Until he kneels,” he murmured, “he will no longer bear the sigil.”

  His hand snapped out.

  The chain tore against my skin as he ripped it free.

  Heat surged violently, screaming for release.

  I forced it down again, jaw clenched until it ached.

  “Until he kneels,” Vaelor said calmly, “he will no longer be protected by the light.”

  Goodrick hesitated. Only a flicker—but I saw it.

  “Guards,” he said tightly. “Seize him.”

  Hands wrenched my arms back. Armor tore loose. Cold air struck my skin.

  Then the sun.

  Newborn light touched my bare back—warm, gentle, unforgiving.

  I met Tom’s eyes. Jarold’s.

  And shook my head.

  Don’t.

  Vaelor lifted his hand.

  The priests moved toward the brazier. Iron rods glowed red-hot. A hiss filled the air as one was drawn free.

  “The sun,” Vaelor said tenderly, “will make you kneel.”

  The brand struck.

  Agony exploded through me. Steam rose from my skin. I bit down hard enough to taste blood.

  I refused to scream.

  Another brand.

  My knees buckled. I caught myself.

  Another.

  My world narrowed to fire and shame. Guilt crushed me—Thorn, Myrren, Brie—every failure carved deeper with each strike.

  I was breaking.

  Somewhere through the haze, I imagined Rivulet on the rooftops, sunlight she should not bear touching her shadowed form. The thought alone kept me upright.

  Vaelor stepped forward with several irons.

  Pain swallowed everything.

  I collapsed to my hands, breath shattered, body trembling.

  “Kneel,” Vaelor whispered. “And the dawn will forgive you.”

  I didn’t move.

  Not in defiance.

  I simply couldn’t.

  Smoke curled from my back. The courtyard held its breath.

  Vaelor crouched before me.

  “Let go,” he whispered. “Let the dawn remake you.”

  Something inside me cracked.

  I wanted the fire.

  I wanted the end.

  Shame drowned me.

  I lowered my head—not in surrender, but because I could no longer meet anyone’s eyes.

  I wasn’t Ruik Thornsson.

  I wasn’t Dawnsworn.

  I wasn’t anything.

  Vaelor stepped back, triumph glinting beneath his serenity.

  “This is what darkness births,” he announced. “Mercy must be earned.”

  He lifted my torn medallion high.

  I felt the stone beneath my hands.

  The emptiness spreading inside me.

  Goodrick approached.

  And I was dragged away.