On Sundays, they had to attend chapel. Not for worship—but for the Matron’s recitation of “donor messages.” Long speeches in dusty robes, thanking faceless nobles for funding their miserable beds.

Lira sat ramrod straight. Mirae slept with her eyes open. Corin drew stick figures on his arm with soot. Akari stared at the stained-glass windows, watching the colors dance on Rael’s face as she tried not to yawn.

Sometimes, Akari would imagine the painted saints reaching down to lift Caeli up, far away from this place. Sometimes he imagined the floor opening beneath them instead, and all the false prayers falling into the dark.