Alden came to Ashfen twenty years ago as a young priest ordained by a traveling chapter of the Order of the Dawn, sent to tend a chapel that most of the Order had forgotten. He arrived during the first of the bog plagues and never left. Over two decades he buried more parishioners than he married, learned every family's name in the village, and turned the Chapel of the Dawn from a dusty waypoint into the beating heart of Ashfen's stubborn little faith.
The plague years forged him: he dragged the sick from flooded cottages with his own hands, performed last rites by candlelight through the night, and once held a dying woman's hand until dawn because she was afraid of the dark. It was during those years that the Order's archivists first shared with him the fragmentary records of the solar Solarael—the sleeping celestial whose name could one day unmake the Codex of Flayed Whispers.
Alden copied the ritual's first verse in his own hand and sealed it beneath the altar stone, a secret he has kept even from his acolyte, Brother Kaelen. He has prayed to a solar he has never seen for twenty years, and the not-seeing has never once shaken him—or so he tells himself. In truth, the plague victim whose eyes opened during last rites has haunted him ever since, and the Codex's whispers, when they first reached Ashfen, sounded uncomfortably like that man's voice.
When the Unbound Choir came hunting Elara Voss and the first page, they took Alden in his own vestry, defaced his altar, and put a silver dagger to his throat. Under the blade he gave them a half-truth about the ritual—enough to buy time, not enough to satisfy them. He does not know whether that half-truth will save his congregation or doom it, and the uncertainty sits on him heavier than the broken arm the raid's void-touched raven gave him days before. Now he waits for worthy hands to cut his bonds, weighing the oldest question of his faith: whether the light is meant to be guarded, or given away.