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I told myself a lot of things.

The truth is simpler.

I went to Selah.

Not because it was clean. Not because it was fair. Not because I knew how to save everyone and chose the easiest body to reach.

Because when the board shifted, my first instinct was her.

Because some part of me, selfish and cowardly and human in a way I have never forgiven, could not bear the thought of her being taken before she understood what she was.

So I chose.

I chose Selah Crow.

Scarlett died at home.

There is no version of the truth where both of those things don’t have my hands on them.

The Hollowborn shift again outside the walls, and I know they feel it when a truth lands because they always have. Not the content, not the shape of the confession, but the weight of it—the moment something settles into place and refuses to move again.

Footsteps approach, human this time, measured and familiar.

Lucas doesn’t announce himself. He never has. He stops where I could see him if I turned my head.

I don’t.

“You awake?” he asks even though he knows I am.

“Yes.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t offer comfort. I don’t ask for it.

Outside, something drags against the metal siding, slow and exploratory. Hollowborn. One of them tests the wall like it expects the old rules to answer if it presses hard enough.

Lucas glances toward the sound, then back at me.

“They don’t know what to do with you,” he says after a moment.

My fingers curl once against the sheet before I make them stop.

“No,” I agree. “They don’t.”

Lucas steps closer, eyes scanning me the way you scan a weapon you’re no longer sure is safe to handle. No pity. No judgment. Just assessment.

“They’re scattered,” he says. “The Iron Gospel won’t recover clean. Some ran. Some turned on each other. Some are still on their knees, praying to ash like it might answer back.”

I nod once because it is the only part of me that moves right.

“And Selah?”

Lucas waits too long.

That is answer enough before he opens his mouth.