No one moved for several breaths after Rami’s body fell.

  The shrine did not breathe.

  Heat pressed down from the high stone ceiling. Incense smoke hung motionless in the air. Even the torch flames seemed to hesitate, their light trembling against the pillars as if uncertain whether it was permitted to flicker.

  Then the whispers began.

  Low. Careful. Spreading.

  “Another failure…”

  “The priest does not guess,” someone said quietly. “He waits.”

  The High Priest of Hakobi did not react.

  He stood where he always stood — upright, still, staff grounded beside him like a rooted branch. Ivory robes fell in straight lines from his shoulders. Age had carved deep lines into his face, yet none of them resembled doubt. His gaze was steady, ancient, patient.

  He did not look like a man who questioned himself.

  He looked like a man waiting for time to admit he was right.

  Yet the crowd no longer trusted him.

  There had been a time when, if he pointed, people bowed.

  There had been a time when, if he spoke, they listened.

  There had been a time when his sight was called sacred.

  But he had pointed before.

  And those he had claimed carried divine signs…

  had not.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Mistakes, the people called them.

  So they stopped trusting his instinct.

  They trusted numbers instead.

  Now the order of trial was decided by vote among elders and families. The priest could watch. He could speak. He could raise the blade.

  But he could no longer choose.

  Still—

  he watched.

  And right now…

  he was watching someone.

  Near the middle of the line stood a boy who did not look frightened enough.

  His linen garments hung in perfect balance, each fold resting exactly where it should. His dark hair brushed his neck softly, unmoved by the shifting bodies around him. His skin was pale with a quiet warmth beneath it, and over his heart lay a faint circular mark, barely visible unless the light struck it just right.

  His eyes were lowered.

  Calm.

  Too calm.

  Lioren had always been that way. Stillness came to him more easily than movement, and silence had never frightened him the way it frightened others.

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  The priest had not looked away from him once.

  Behind him, a girl leaned forward.

  “Don’t look at him,” she whispered.

  Her voice slipped through the air like wind through stone.

  Lioren tilted his head slightly. “Why?”

  “Because if he notices you noticing him, he might think you’re special. And if he thinks you’re special, he’ll try to prove it.”

  Lioren glanced back.

  She had copper-toned skin that caught the torchlight like polished clay, and thick curls gathered into a loose knot that seemed one breath away from unraveling. Stray strands framed her face. Her eyes were sharp and bright, constantly moving. A faint scatter of freckles crossed her nose, and her brows shifted with every passing thought.

  She looked alive in a room full of fear.

  “And if he tries?” Lioren asked.

  “He’ll get you killed.”

  Lioren studied her quietly. “What’s your name?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Sahra.”

  He nodded once. “Lioren.”

  A scoff sounded from ahead.

  “Looks like he already noticed you.”

  The boy in front turned halfway around.

  He stood taller than most, posture loose but ready. Sun-bronzed skin. Sharp features. Dark hair falling wild and uneven. Amber eyes gleamed beneath the firelight with restless confidence.

  Even among chosen children, he looked like someone meant to win.

  “The priest’s been staring at you,” he said. “You should be honored. Means you’re next to be wrong.”

  Sahra frowned. “Ignore him.”

  Lioren regarded the boy calmly. “You’re not afraid.”

  The boy smirked. “Should I be?”

  “I am,” Lioren said.

  The smirk flickered.

  Not because it sounded brave.

  Because it didn’t.

  It sounded honest.

  Near the altar, elders argued in hushed tones. Robes shifted. Sand crunched. Someone prayed under their breath.

  The priest did none of those things.

  He was still watching Lioren.

  Sahra noticed.

  “I told you not to look at him.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Lioren turned.

  The priest’s gaze met his.

  The world seemed to narrow.

  Sound thinned. Heat faded. Motion stilled.

  Recognition passed between them like something ancient remembering itself.

  Sahra grabbed his sleeve. “Stop that.”

  “He isn’t guessing,” Lioren said quietly.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  “How?”

  “Because he’s right.”

  The elders reached a decision.

  One raised his hand.

  Before anyone else could speak—

  the priest did.

  “Kaizo.”

  The name settled through the shrine.

  The tall boy straightened.

  Several elders nodded.

  “Yes.”

  “That one.”

  “He’ll do.”

  Kaizo rolled his shoulders and stepped forward. “Looks like the quiet one doesn’t go first after all.”

  Sahra exhaled.

  Lioren did not.

  Something inside him tightened.

  Not fear.

  Wrongness.

  Like a note played out of tune.

  He stepped out of line.

  “Let me go first.”

  Murmurs rose.

  “Back in place,” an elder snapped.

  Lioren didn’t move.

  “I should go first.”

  Kaizo glanced back. “Trying to steal my turn?”

  “You shouldn’t go yet,” Lioren said.

  “Why?”

  The tightness inside him sharpened.

  His voice followed it.

  “Because you might die.”

  Silence rippled outward.

  Sahra stared. “Lioren—”

  He didn’t look at her.

  “I don’t want you to die.”

  Kaizo let out a short breath. “You don’t even know me.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “The order stands,” an elder said sharply.

  “No.”

  The word rang.

  Clear.

  Firm.

  Lioren almost never raised his voice. When he did, it was because something inside him refused to stay quiet.

  “I should go first.”

  “The decision is made.”

  Kaizo’s grin returned, though something behind it had tightened.

  “Guess you’ll have to wait.”

  He turned toward the altar.

  His steps were slower now.

  The obsidian block waited.

  The blade waited.

  The priest waited.

  Kaizo knelt.

  For the first time—

  fear touched his face.

  Just a flicker.

  His hands rested on the stone.

  Behind him, Lioren’s fists tightened.

  The blade rose.

  The shrine held its breath.

  The blade fell.

  It passed through Kaizo’s neck.

  Gasps burst—

  Then died.

  Because the wound was already closing.

  Skin sealed. Flesh restored. Blood never fell.

  The cut vanished as if it had never existed.

  Kaizo blinked.

  Alive.

  Whole.

  Untouched.

  Something inside his chest roared awake.

  Silence struck the shrine like thunder.

  Someone collapsed to their knees.

  Another shouted, “Avatar!”

  The word spread like flame.

  “Avatar—!”

  “He lives!”

  “He’s chosen!”

  The elders staggered backward in awe.

  The priest did not move.

  He only inclined his head once.

  As if inevitability had finally arrived.

  Kaizo touched his neck slowly.

  Then laughed.

  Not proudly.

  Not mockingly.

  In disbelief.

  “I… lived.”

  The shrine erupted.

  Voices. Hands. Tears. Cries.

  An avatar had been found.

  Behind them, Lioren stood very still.

  The world continued shouting around him.

  But inside him, something had gone quiet.

  Not amazed.

  Not relieved.

  Devastated.

  Because one thought would not leave him.

  If I had gone first…

  His hands trembled.

  Not fear.

  Understanding.

  The High Priest of Hakobi was watching him, yet again.

  And for the first time in his life—

  Lioren wished he did not understand why.