They met beneath the opera house, where acoustics turned whispers into symphonies. The Whisper Parliament gathered like ghosts at dusk—seven voices, seven shadows. But one didn't speak. One kept their eyes too still.
Her name was Veyra.
Caelum had trusted her first. She'd helped him draft the Quiet Creed, rewrite culture, cradle myths like they were truths. But now her silence choked the room.
Reports had surfaced—small, subtle anomalies. Leaks. Delays. The Mirror Rebels knew phrases they shouldn't. They quoted doctrine still under development.
Caelum confronted her gently. No rage. Just frost.
"You let something slip."
Veyra blinked. "I needed to know who we were becoming."
"You knew."
"No," she said. "I knew who we were when pain guided us. Now we're sculpting loyalty. That's not the same."
The room hushed.
Caelum stepped closer. "You gave truth to the wrong eyes."
She didn't deny it.
He could've erased her—through influence, through systems—but something stopped him. A flicker of memory. The way she once held his grief like scripture.
Instead, he told her:
"You're no longer part of this."
Veyra left without speaking. No fury. No apology.
And Caelum watched her go, knowing the Mirror Rebels would grow stronger with her voice.
The devil didn't whisper that night.
Because some pain teaches more than her darkness ever could.