The gutter water soaks through my stolen boots as I press against the alley wall. Above me, fireworks celebrate the new crop of academy graduates—children who'll never know the agony of a core fracture. The brick digs into my spine where my house sigil was burned away. Then it comes again: that voice like grinding stone. 'Kneel, broken thing, and taste the fire denied you.' The shrine's entrance yawns beneath a rusted grate, pulsing with heat. But boots echo at the alley's mouth—Inquisition patrols always check the ruins after the ceremonies. I could slip into the dark now and embrace the whisper... or use the last of my coin to bribe the patrol captain who once saluted me.