The news of what happened in the silent village didn't take long to reach the capital.
It never did.
By the time Auren returned to camp, the air had already shifted. Whispers followed him like shadows—some curious, some angry, most afraid. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The Crown would come. It always did when someone stepped out of line.
Three days later, they arrived.
Not in armor. Not with soldiers.
They came in white robes and silver masks. Four of them. Quiet, watching. The symbol of the Crown burned into their sleeves—a flame encircling a shard.
Crown's Watchers.
People said they didn't speak unless it mattered. That they didn't blink. That when they left, someone was always missing.
They asked no questions at first.
Just watched.
Inside the war tent, Lord Mareth Rivenhart stood tall, hands behind his back, flanked by Darien and Caelen. Auren stood alone. Lys wasn't allowed inside. The Watchers said she was too close to him.
Auren didn't flinch.
"You crossed orders," Darien said sharply. "Put soldiers at risk. Defied your command."
Auren didn't answer.
A Watcher finally stepped forward.
"You made contact with a Void-touched."
A statement, not a question.
Auren nodded. "He was a child."
Another Watcher stepped up beside the first.
"And what did you feel, when you touched his hand?"
Auren hesitated. "Fear. Pain. And... music."
"Music?"
"Like... a song, buried beneath stone. Broken, but not wrong."
Silence.
The Watchers turned to each other. Auren couldn't see their eyes through the masks, but he felt the weight of their stare.
Finally, the third Watcher spoke:
"The boy is marked. But so are you."
Auren's chest tightened.
That night, he sat by the frozen stream behind camp, the sky burning with cold stars.
Lys found him there.
"They're going to report you," she said. "To the High Circle."
"I know."
"They'll send Inquisitors."
"I know."
"Then why aren't you running?"
He looked up at her, eyes steady.
"Because I've run before. It didn't change anything."
She sat beside him in silence. For once, she didn't try to cheer him up. She just stayed.
And in that quiet, Auren heard the song again.
Faint. Echoing in his blood.
Calling.
Two camps over, the Watchers stood alone, their hands on the strange tools only they carried—cold silver rods shaped like bone, humming faintly.
One of them whispered, "His Shard is awakening. But not as one of ours."
Another replied, "We must act before it becomes a root."
The third nodded. "Then mark him."
The fourth, the tallest, simply said:
"Let him grow. If he burns, the truth will follow."
By dawn, the sky over the Southern Marches turned the color of rust.
And far beneath the surface, where the dead Shards once slumbered—
—something opened its eyes.