Not a single zealot moved. Not one smuggler breathed too loud.
The scythe thrummed, louder, fire pulsing. Kael didn’t need to swing it. Just being near it was enough.
The Choir captain’s jaw clenched under his helm. "Blasphemy."
The Syndic leader’s smile twitched. "Touchy, touchy."
And then—chaos.
It came soft at first. A whisper.
Not Kael’s. Not anyone’s.
A dozen voices at once, sliding through the crowd like oil, repeating words none of them had said. Accusing. Mocking. Threatening.
The Penitent.
Men turned on each other instantly, snarling. A zealot shoved a smuggler. A smuggler drew steel. Someone screamed.
"Stop!" the Choir captain bellowed. But his voice was stolen—warped, thrown back at him from three different throats in mockery.
Kael’s eyes narrowed. "Ghost-walking bast
