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“Witness,” he says to the Choir. “The verse that remained.”

Cass spits at his feet.

The sound snaps clean through the chant.

Someone moves too fast—eager—but the High Revelation lifts one finger, and the park stills.

“No,” he murmurs, almost fond. “Let her keep her mouth.”

His gaze flicks to me.

“She learned defiance early,” he continues. “It makes the later lines resonate.”

Cass’s mouth curves—not a smile. A blade.

“You’re not God,” she says hoarsely.

The High Revelation doesn’t react the way men do when they’re challenged. He doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t punish.

He corrects.

“No,” he answers. “I am the hand that turns blood into doctrine.”

He turns then, placing one hand on Cass’s shoulder—not restraining. Claiming.

“She has been kept,” he says, voice carrying easily over the resumed hymn. “Untouched by rot. Unclaimed by Hollowborn. Preserved from transformation.”

My jaw tightens.

“That was not mercy,” he continues calmly. “It was preparation. She is proof,” he says, “that a body can endure devotion without belief. That faith can be extracted even when obedience fails.”

Then he leans closer to her, lips near her ear—but his voice carries. He wants this heard.

“Your sister burns brighter,” he murmurs, almost conversational. “But you”—his fingers tighten just enough to register—“you are the verse that makes her legible.”

Something cold and exact slides into place behind my eyes.

He straightens, addressing the Choir again.

“The fire calls the crown,” he murmurs. “But the witness beside it decides whether she rises holy or ruined.”

Cass’s gaze snaps to mine, and in it, there’s warning.

The High Revelation smiles.

It’s warm. Paternal. Almost kind. The kind of smile you give a child before explaining why mercy won’t be happening today.

“And now,” he says softly, “the kept verse answers.”

He lifts his hand.

The Ridge goes still.

I feel it—every breath drawn tight, every body waiting for the word that will decide which life is worth more.

“Trade,” someone murmurs.

Cass gasps. “No,” she whispers—not to him. To me.