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But the ring decides whose voice the body answers.

Not God. Not mercy. Not choice.

A voice.

A claim.

A master dressed up as holy authority.

And if Selah’s voice can alter scripture—if the Hollowborn hesitate when she speaks, if Cass’s throat carried even a warped piece of whatever lives in her and made the rot pause—then the ring isn’t just dangerous.

It’s vulnerable.

I close my hand around the Thread.

“That tells the command what to answer to,” I say instead.

Her eyes narrow. “That’s not an answer.”

No. It isn’t.

Because the real answer is sitting too close to the fire, watching me with indigo eyes and no idea that every rotten law the Gospel carved into flesh might bend if her voice ever learns how to pull.

Silence stretches.

“So they didn’t come for revenge,” she says.

“No.”

“They came to confirm.”

“Yes.”

She exhales slowly. “And the Veiled Choir.”

“They enforce,” I say. “No windows. No mercy. If they come to your door, the decision’s already been made.” A beat. “They haven’t come for me because there’s nothing left for them to collect.”

Her gaze drifts downhill, where the Hollowborn routed like water around stone.

“And the High Revelation?” Her mouth tightens around the name. “What does a god do when someone cuts out his tongue?”

I meet her eyes. “He waits.”

“For what.”

“For someone reckless enough to think the debt died with the man who enjoyed collecting it.”

The fire settles. The mountain listens too closely.

“And me?” Her voice drops, quieter than the fire. “Where do I fit in their scripture?”

I don’t dodge it.

“You don’t.”

I drag a hand over the back of my neck, feeling the old weight settle between my shoulders.

“That’s what makes you dangerous.”