The square had become an ocean.
Waves of fire, shadow, and steel crashed together, the cries of the living swallowed by the chant of the Veil. Smoke clung to the air, heavy enough to choke, but still the people did not scatter. They pressed forward, shoulder to shoulder, eyes lifted—not to the flames, not to the soldiers, but to me.
My body swayed with each breath. The crown burned against my brow, its thorns biting deeper as if to root me to the stones. My hands trembled at my sides, fingers stiff with cold though the square blazed hot.
I could feel the truth settling in my chest: I could not last.
Yet when my knees threatened to buckle, the people shouted louder. When my vision blurred, I saw their faces sharpen with fire. When I stumbled, they lifted their voices as if to hold me upright.
"Do not kneel," they cried. Some with cracked throats, some with whispers. All of them with faith.
I raised my hand, thorns pressing into my palm until I thought I might break. The pain was nothing compared to the silence the Veil demanded of me. And still, I broke it.
"Do not kneel," I said. My voice was raw, but it carried.
The sound rippled through the square, louder than the iron masks, louder than the priests, louder than my own heart pounding too fast.
The chosen closed in. The chants thickened, heavy as chains. My body felt like glass, ready to shatter with a single strike.
And yet I stood.
I would stand until I could not.