The first stone came through a window, not a skull.
Soren heard the shatter from the corridor outside the council room, a bright, brittle sound that did not belong in the palace's measured halls. He paused, one hand on the door latch, and felt the flinch ripple down his spine before his mind named it.
Rian was already moving.
They reached the source at almost the same time: a narrow office off the main archive, glass glittering on the floor, a clerk standing frozen with his hands half‑raised. On the far wall, a jagged hole gaped in the pane that overlooked the lower courtyard.
On the floor beneath it lay the stone.
Someone had wrapped it in a torn strip of cloth.
Rian crossed the room, boot soles crunching on glass, and picked it up.
"Careful," Soren said automatically.
"If they wanted to blow us up, they would have chosen a larger delivery," Rian replied, but he turned the stone in his hand with caution anyway, then unwrapped the cloth.
The message was scrawled in thick, uneven ink.
*Give him back.*
Just the three words. No name. No mark.
Soren exhaled slowly.
"Halev," he said.
"Could be the boy," the clerk whispered, pale. "Or you."
Rian's mouth thinned.
"Wrong window for that," he said. "Too small. Too quiet. This is temple work."
Ecclesias appeared in the doorway, breath only slightly quickened.
"I heard glass," he said. "Tell me someone merely dropped a ledger."
"Someone threw a rock," Soren said. He held up the cloth. "And a sentence."
Ecclesias read it, then looked at Soren.
"They are done whispering," he said.
***
By midday, there were more stones.
Not at the palace that would have been too bold, too easy to punish but at the houses of lesser officials, at the doors of merchants known to donate to Saint Tilas, at the outer walls of the watch‑house closest to Weaver's Row.
Seris' report grew thicker by the hour.
"Mostly words," she said, dropping the latest bundle on the table. "Give him back. Thief of saints. Lantern‑stealer. A few less creative ones about your parentage."
"Any injuries?" Soren asked.
"One broken nose when a watchman decided to wade into a group instead of waiting for backup," Seris said. "He got the worst of it. The others ran."
The queen flipped through the sheets, mouth tight.
"This is still smoke, not fire," she said. "But enough smoke blinds."
Arven tapped one of the notes with a forefinger.
"They have not named us liars yet," he said. "They are not saying we framed him. Only that he is theirs."
"Which is not incorrect," Ecclesias said. "He is theirs. He betrayed them."
Soren rubbed his temple.
"We knew this would come," he said. "You do not pull a priest out of a temple and expect everyone to nod thoughtfully and go back to their soup."
The queen looked at him.
"You stood in the square once already," she said. "Do you want to do it again?"
Larem had finally stopped threatening to chain him to the bed, but he still kept a wary eye on Soren's colour whenever he walked too long. Soren felt the ache along his ribs answer the question before his mouth did.
"Want?" he said. "No. But if they are going to throw stones at windows because they only know half the story, I would rather put the other half in their hands myself."
Arven grimaced.
"You do realise that standing up there and saying 'Yes, we took your priest' is not the best way to keep stones off our glass," he said.
"We are not keeping them off," Soren said. "We are deciding where they land."
Ecclesias' eyes warmed, just briefly.
"Then we choose a square," he said. "And a time. And we make sure that, this time, you have a bench to sit on before you fall down."
***
They chose the same square.
It felt important, in some quiet, stubborn way, to stand where he had stood before when the stew lines were longest. The scaffold was gone; the carpenters had taken it down after the last round of ration decrees. In its place, someone had set up a crude wooden platform, low and broad, used mostly by hawkers and the occasional street preacher.
Today, it belonged to him.
The crowd was different than the last time. Fewer gaunt faces clutching bowls, more people with temple cords around their wrists, lantern tokens on their belts. But hunger wore many shapes. Soren recognised it in the sharpness of their shoulders, the way their eyes flicked from him to the nearest exit.
He walked up the three steps slowly, every movement measured. The pain in his ribs stayed a dull ache. Larem, watching from the edge of the platform with arms crossed, looked ready to leap forward at the first wobble.
Ecclesias stood at Soren's left, slightly behind. Rian and a double ring of guards held the perimeter of the square, visible but not menacing, hands near hilts but not on them.
Soren looked out over the people.
He saw lantern bearers from Saint Tilas. Women with market baskets. Dockworkers with calloused hands. A boy perched on a barrel who could have been Tam if Tam were not currently under guard and explicit orders to stay away.
He lifted his hand for quiet.
The square obliged, slowly, uneasily.
"You know why I am here," he said. "You have thrown enough stones to tell me."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone near the front shouted, "Give him back!" and a few voices echoed it.
Soren let the words hang for a moment.
"You mean Brother Halev," he said. "The man who has been gone from your temple three nights now."
More voices. Agreement. A low growl of hurt.
"He lit lanterns," a woman called. "He blessed our dead."
"He fed my children when the stew lines ran dry," another voice added.
Soren nodded.
"He did," he said. "He lit lanterns. He blessed your dead. He fed hungry people."
He let that sit, because it mattered.
"And while he did that," Soren continued, "he also took coin from people who wanted to move medicine and messages through your yard without names. He chose not to ask where it came from. He chose not to write it down where you could see."
A sharp movement ran through the crowd, as if they had all inhaled at once.
"You say that," a man shouted. "We have not seen proof. Only soldiers in the night."
"You saw crates," Soren said. "You saw vials. You saw strangers at the side door. You told each other it was strange, but you trusted that if the temple was accepting the coin, it must be fine."
A woman near the front flinched as if struck.
"You are saying it is our fault," she said.
"No," Soren said quickly. "I am saying it is his. And the hands that paid him. And the empire that thinks your temple is a convenient cupboard."
He took a breath.
"Halev is not gone because you prayed wrong," he said. "He is not gone because I wanted to hurt you. He is gone because he chose to help people who think of this city as a board they can move pieces on. If I let that continue, then every time you light a lantern, you risk lighting theirs."
Silence. Then, from the middle of the crowd, a voice:
"And you? Are you not a piece on their board too?"
Soren couldn't see who had spoken. The voice was male, rough, familiar in its anger.
"Yes," Soren said. "I am. They have written my name on more lists than I want to count. They have sent men with rings and knives to clear a path for me."
He let his gaze drift over the faces.
"You are paying part of the price for that," he said. "I am not going to stand here and pretend you are not."
A stone arced up from the back, hit the edge of the platform, and bounced away. Guards tensed but did not move. Rian's jaw clenched.
Soren did not flinch.
"You can throw them at me," he said. "I have deserved worse. But when you throw them at the palace walls, remember whose game you are playing. Vharian would very much like you to believe I stole your priest because I enjoy your pain. It is easier to rule a city that hates its own council than one that looks outward."
"Outward where?" someone shouted. "To a border none of us will ever see?"
"To the hands paying for the crates in your yard," Soren said. "To the merchants whose ledgers do not match their wagons. To the factors who show up at your doors with heavy purses and light explanations."
He stepped closer to the edge of the platform, feeling the boards give faintly under his weight.
"I cannot show you every proof," he said. "Some of it is still in Halev's head, or on paper we are sorting through. But I can promise you this: when we are done, there will be names you recognise on those pages. People you have trusted. People who chose coin over your safety. Those are the ones you should be saving your stones for."
The murmur shifted, from raw grief toward something sharper.
"And Halev?" a woman asked. "What happens to him?"
Soren closed his eyes for a brief second, then opened them.
"He is answering questions," he said. "When he is done, when we know how deep his choices go, there will be judgment. I will not promise you what it will be. I will promise you that it will take into account the people he fed as well as the people he put at risk."
"And you decide that?" the same woman asked.
"No," Soren said. "The queen does. The council does. I will stand in the room and say his name, but I do not swing the hammer."
He felt Ecclesias' steady presence at his back like a hand between his shoulders.
"If you want to hate me," Soren said, "hate me for dragging this into the light. Hate me for making it harder to pretend nothing has changed. But do not let the people who paid him convince you they are blameless. They are counting on your anger to keep you from looking at them."
Another stone flew. This one landed short, skidding across the cobbles.
Soren looked at it.
"That is a good throw," he said. "Save the next one for someone who came to your door with a purse and no name."
A reluctant, choked sound somewhere near the front might have been a laugh.
He let out a breath he had not realised he was holding.
"I am not asking you to trust me," he said. "I am asking you to watch. The next time someone tells you they can make your lanterns brighter if you do not ask questions, remember Halev. Remember this square."
He stepped back, slowly.
"If we fail you," he said, "I expect you to come here and tell me to my face."
"Will you listen?" someone called.
"I did last time," Soren said. "It ruined my month. Do it again."
This time, the ripple through the crowd carried less heat and more complicated sound. Not approval. Not forgiveness. Something like a grudging willingness to wait and see.
It was all he had hoped for.
Ecclesias' hand brushed his elbow, guiding him toward the steps. His legs felt unsteady, but the world did not tilt. Larem's scowl softened by a hair.
"Better," the healer muttered when Soren reached the ground. "Still stupid. But better."
***
That night, back in the study, the stones found their way to his desk.
Rian had gathered a handful from the base of the platform once the square emptied: dull grey, rough‑edged, heavy in the palm.
"Souvenirs?" Ecclesias asked when he saw them.
"Reminders," Soren said. "Of how close we are to breaking windows we cannot mend."
He turned one over under his fingers, feeling the weight.
"Any trouble after we left?" he asked Rian.
"Grumbling," Rian said. "A few knots of people arguing about whether they believed you. One woman shouted at a factor outside the temple when he tried to tell her Halev was a victim of palace jealousy. I consider that a good sign."
Soren huffed a tired breath that might have been a laugh.
"Tam?" he asked. "I assume he sulked when you told him he could not go to the square."
"He sulked when I told him he could not go to the square, and then sulked again when I told him he was not allowed to throw stones at anyone," Rian said. "But he stayed put."
"Good," Soren said softly.
He set the stone down beside the list.
Mera.
Tam.
Saint Tilas – lantern fund.
Dorven Hale – Blue Rope.
Brother Halev – cells.
He added a new line.
*Square – stones*.
It was not a name, but it felt like something that needed recording.
Ecclesias sat down opposite him.
"You are changing the shape of this city," he said. "Even if it does not want to admit it yet."
Soren shook his head.
"Vharian is changing it," he said. "I am just pointing at the cracks."
"You are also deciding where to put splints," Ecclesias replied. "Do not pretend that is nothing."
Soren looked at the stone again.
"If they decide I am not worth the trouble," he said quietly, "they will take the offer Vharian keeps dangling in the background. 'Let us have him and your streets will quiet.'"
"Them?" Ecclesias asked.
"Some of the council," Soren said. "Some of the merchants. Some of the people in that square."
Ecclesias considered him for a long moment.
"Maybe," he said. "But by then, you will have taught enough of them to ask questions that Vharian will find the city less comfortable than they expected."
He reached across the table and tapped the list.
"These are not just names you might lose," he said. "They are also witnesses. To what you are trying to do. To what Vharian is trying to do. That is harder to erase than a signature on a treaty."
Soren let himself believe that for the length of one slow breath.
Then he picked up the quill again.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we go back to Halev. If the stones have not convinced him to talk faster, perhaps the thought of them hitting the wrong people will."
Rian's mouth tightened in something like agreement.
"And Dorven?" Ecclesias asked.
"Dorven keeps walking," Soren said. "We cannot afford to lose his eyes now. Not when the snake will be looking for a new door."
Outside, in the dark streets, lanterns burned in front of saints' faces carved in stone. Some were paid for with clean coin, some with money that had passed through hands Soren would one day write down.
Inside the study, ink dried on paper, and a man who had once been nobody in a hidden room tried to decide, one line at a time, how much of the cost he could bear to make visible.