The silence that followed the Priest's offer was absolute. Even the crows froze mid-flight, their wings outstretched like blackened fingers against the cavernous ceiling. The roots piercing Jacob's limbs stilled, their ooze thickening to amber around his wounds.
He stared at the mask—the true mask—and understood.
This was the moment every cycle hinged on. The choice that determined whether the world burned again:
Take the mask. Become the Hollow Priest. Spend eternity herding lost souls into the Crow's feast.
Or—
Jacob reached into his tattered coat with his free hand. His fingers closed around the rusted key still embedded in his chest.
And laughed.
The sound startled even the Priest. Emily's chicks screeched, tumbling from her ribs in a flurry of naked wings. The roots constricted around Jacob's legs, but he barely felt them.
"You're right," Jacob gasped between laughs, tears cutting through the grime on his face. "I am a liar."
He twisted the key.
A sound like a dying universe ripped through the throne room. The scars on Jacob's arms blazed, burning through feather and flesh alike. The key turned with a scream of protesting bone, and Jacob—
remembered
—not just this cycle. All of them. The thousands of times he'd stood here. The thousands of masks he'd worn. The truth carved into his marrow:
He wasn't the sacrifice.
He was the lock.
The throne room screamed.