Rosalyn’s eyes snapped up to him, the weight of the stone crushing her in slow torment. His visible eye was burning, his expression full of rage, his chest heaving. She watched him with dignified pain. They said nothing to each other but their eyes conveyed everything.

  Would you be able to raise your voice in my defense and take on the punishment with me?

  She felt his grip on her elbow tighten in answer. Police officers arrived, pushing him away.

  “Sir, step aside!”

  Victor’s eye stayed locked on her. And then he soon released her, looking away in guilt, unable to face her any longer. She gave him one last glance, then continued on her path.

  With every step, Rosalyn felt bruises gradually form on her shoulder and back, her breathing growing harsher from the effort. The crowd’s chatter, murmurs, amusement, and merciless stares only amplified it.

  She clenched her fists, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the ground, concentrating on her breathing.

  She made it through half of the Expanse’s perimeter. The crowd’s agitated interest following her every motion. Voices naming the injustice rose in her chest, but she forced them down. The blame laid on her as well. After all, she had helped with the break-in in the end, and she had gullibly accepted Elisabeth’s offer. She exhaled. She would assume it.

  Once she finished the first round and carried on into the second, her shoulder ached and prickled, as if an open bruise had formed from the friction. She tried to adjust the stone on her back, shifting its weight so it would not rest as heavily on her shoulder. It worked for only a few meters. Fatigue drew beads of sweat to her forehead, her breathing now loud with exhaustion and pain. The crowd’s chatter faded into an eerie silence, as if everyone wanted to capture every painful sound she made.

  The last half of the perimeter remained for her to endure. By now her walk was uneven and painfully slow, her skin pale, nausea and feverish heat creeping in from the exceeding exertion, her shoulder screaming helplessly for her to stop. Unbeknownst to her, each of her steps caused tiny flickering sparks to appear on the ground, on her boot prints, their intensity growing the closer she came to finishing the torment.

  Finally, she collapsed to her knees in front of the Memorial Monument, the two rounds completed.

  David had returned to the stage, towering over her with a sadistic smirk. Police officers approached, grabbing her to unstrap the stone from her back. She hissed as they did it roughly, heedless of her wounded shoulder. She remained on the ground, trembling, too exhausted to stand. Her chest convulsed painfully as she coughed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the first part of the punishment has been completed according to the ancient rite,” David began solemnly. “What remains now is the social punishment that must be inflicted as a complement to the physical one, to form a whole.”

  He turned to Rosalyn, looking down at her.

  “You will be expelled from the Academy, barred from setting foot on the grounds you sullied for three years. All finances the Academy was covering, as well as your dormitory -the shelter the Academy had offered you as a student -will be taken away from you. This trespassing will remain on your record forever, impacting your future.”

  Rosalyn stared at him, her heart racing as she tried to steady her breathing. Pale, she was unable to find her voice, her throat hoarse. Some chatter rippled through the crowd, but no protest rose. A few whistles of approval or mockery echoed instead.

  David, clearly enjoying his role of tormentor, launched then into a self-inspired speech about justice, the cost of disrespecting the Dead and the Academy, and how ancient punishments should be fully reinstated in Arctar.

  Rosalyn no longer heard any of his words. Something inside her had broken. This was marking her ruin. She saw her future shatter before her. Despair crept into her chest, and a silent tear slipped from her eye, falling onto the ground.

  Her vision blurred then steadied as she noticed a tiny sprout piercing the soil by her knees, where a thin crust of earth surrounded the Memorial, the ground at the base of the glass pool left untiled.

  The sprout developed rapidly into a faintly glowing chrysolite vine. It kept expanding, delicate tendrils and triangular leaves unfurling with care. It remained unseen by the mob, having grown between Rosalyn and the Monument, hidden from their view.

  She watched, perplexed, her heart pounding, as the vine stopped gaining height at her hip, accounting for her kneeling position. It seemed to restrain itself, trying to remain discreet, as if aware of the danger of the setting. From a single bud, a stunning translucent trumpet flower unfurled. Its delicate, radiant corona tilted toward her, as if waiting, while the vine’s tendrils lightly brushed her skirt.

  Rosalyn’s breath caught. She stared at it for a long moment. Then her hand lifted, and she dared to touch its petals with two fingers.

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  In an instant, all went black. Everything and everyone around her disappeared.

  She found herself standing in a dark void.

  “Rosalyn.”

  A deep male voice, clear and solemn, echoed around her, though there was no one in sight.

  “Where am I?” she asked uneasily, scanning the darkness.

  “Your spirit has briefly separated from your body, which remains at the Memorial Expanse, in the position you left it. There will be no uproar. No one noticed any change.”

  Her eyes widened, her heart rate quickening.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked warily.

  “Do not fear. You are here to gain knowledge and to face a life-altering decision.”

  A glowing screen with blurred Gaussian edges appeared before her, floating vertically in the void. It displayed moments from her life. She saw herself smile, cry, laugh, struggle; the bullying she endured as a child; her years at the Academy; the isolation; moments of levity with Rodderick; and finally her unjust torment at the Memorial: the stone strapped to her back, the mockery of the crowd, the sustained injury.

  She watched, reacting despite herself as each memory stirred emotion within her.

  “Rosalyn. The Tree of Humility has chosen you.”

  “Me…” she echoed. “Why?”

  “You have shown humility throughout your life, culminating in your acceptance of an unjust punishment without defending yourself. You did not blame others, denounce the culprit or point fingers, even under circumstances in which many would break. You remained silent and accepted it with resignation. Your virtue frequencies resonated with the Tree of Humility in such depth that it triggered your selection as its representative. The mechanism opened. Hence the blossom that appeared before you.”

  Four thin, shining trails -gold, pink, white, and blue -materialized, circling her in every direction, almost brushing her skin. Faint sparks of color rained down with their movement. Slowly, they converged in front of her, interweaving into four blossoms connected as one. The voice resumed:

  “Wisdom guides action. Hope shelters hearts. Purity cleanses corruption. And Humility assesses, redirecting hounds, walking undetected before evil. Only those who seek no recognition may pass unseen and unscathed before it. This is not illusion, but the absence of ego.”

  The trails vanished, and the screen reappeared. It now displayed a vast, dark chamber, its walls sliced by luminous green circuitry. The image zoomed in on a translucent prism encasing a blurred, dark silhouette. The prism shimmered with chrysolite and purple hues, the purple nearly overtaking the chrysolite entirely. Smoking black cracks veined its surface, and at its center, from within, a faint eerie point pulsed in a steady rhythm, reminiscent of a heartbeat. The sound of cracking grew louder as the fractures slowly expanded.

  “Morter never died 500 years ago,” the voice said.

  “He was imprisoned within this prism, held together and powered by the Sentinel. Morter exists in stasis. The creator of the Sentinel sealed him away 500 years ago so humanity could prepare, knowing this would only be a temporary solution. He foresaw that Morter would one day stir again, making humanity bleed and suffer, ripping and rotting them once more, to a far larger extent than during the First Collapse.

  The Second Collapse approaches. Morter’s goal will surpass the destruction of humanity; his hatred will transcend into something far greater, far more horrifying.”

  The images on the screen shifted rapidly: trauma, waves of darkness, people screaming as limbs rotted and fell away; mothers clutching children, men pierced and thrown aside, bleeding. A dark figure levitated in the sky like a phoenix, his black cloak with teal and purple sheen spread wide, expanding through the air.

  “The final destruction of Morter will require agents who embody the virtues the Sentinel has channeled and preserved across centuries through the Trees: Purity, Wisdom, Hope, and Humility. These virtues grant immense power, the only possible counter and destroy Morter’s core. Only the Chosen can wield such power safely, and only they can face Morter, unite, and prevail.”

  The screen vanished once more. At Rosalyn’s feet floated the transparent trumpet flower that had bloomed before her at the Memorial, gleaming softly.

  “This vine blossom serves as the Chosen’s personal turning key. It allows their virtue energy to be threaded into the Sentinel’s Virtue Conduit Grid, enabling full recognition and integration with the Sentinel’s operations. However, the Chosen remains free to decline. The creator embedded a hard-coded safeguard within the Sentinel to prevent forced bonding. Without consent-based harmonization, the Sentinel will reject the link. If you refuse, your choice will be respected, and the bloom will wilt.”

  Rosalyn slowly bent toward the flower. Silence followed, until the voice resounded again, this time as a warning.

  “Being Chosen will not be a blissful stroll, but a relentless climb. You will experience moments of joy, but far more often you will face pain, horror, and temptation. Physical, moral, and spiritual. You will face loss.” It paused. “However, it will grant you peace and clarity. Always.”

  She stared at the flower, motionless.

  “The choice is yours now, Rosalyn. If you accept the role of Humility’s Chosen, take the blossom and blow into it. Humility’s blessing will descend upon you.”

  The dark void began to dilute and thin around her, the last words of the voice echoing faintly. She closed her eyes-

  -and found herself kneeling once more on the cold ground beside the Memorial Monument, the crowd on one side and the waiting bloom on the other.

  David was still absorbed in his speech, the crowd listening in approving silence.

  “…-lenient. We’ve become meek, harvesting incompetence as a result. This, what has happened here tonight, marks the beginning of an era where we finally-…”

  Rosalyn fixed her gaze on the transparent flower, mesmerized, numb to her surroundings. Her fingers trembled slightly, having completely forgotten her aching and bleeding shoulder. Slowly, she reached for the blossom, feeling its velvety texture beneath her fingertips but still hesitating to pick it up.

  Then she tugged gently.

  It detached easily with a soft click.

  Her throat tightened, but her resolve held. Having made her choice, she raised the trumpet flower to her lips and blew into it.

  A pillar of light instantly shot skyward from the western district, where the Tree of Humility stood.

  Cries erupted across the Expanse. People screamed and gasped, standing on tiptoes to see better, pointing, their attention completely torn away from David. Phones were pulled out, screens glowing as the pillar was filmed from every angle.

  David himself felt oddly destabilized. Something had shifted. When he turned back toward Rosalyn who was still kneeling on the ground, he froze.

  A chill ran down his spine.

  Her irises now glowed with an unnatural blue light, and clutched in her fist was the trumpet flower, fully crystallized, pale blue and radiant. She slowly lifted her gaze to him, calm and heavy with quiet gravity, utterly silent.

  “Davey boy, you whiffed it.” came a smirking, amused male voice.