The silence hung like a drawn bowstring.
Outside, thunder rolled across the distant peaks—low, grumbling, and slow. Aevkareth shifted, her breath fogging the skyward atrium, the sound of her scales scraping stone like the grinding of distant glaciers.
Then Rosaryn broke the quiet.
"We'll need the rites performed," she said, eyes still on the map. "Before the moon turns. The last time we marched without them, the dead didn't stay buried."
Several around the table stiffened. Even Griselda, iron-willed and hard-eyed, looked away.
"Have the rites been… tested?" Malaica asked softly. "After the Tower's fall?"
Rosaryn's lips twitched, almost a smile, almost sorrow. "Tested, yes. Perfected, no. But they'll hold. For now."
Aragon nodded. "Then see to it. Every commander, every battalion priest, every flamebearer—they must all know. No one dies without a name. No one burns without a blessing."
