Three days after the rite, Austmark had developed the strangest schedule Lucian had ever seen.
Morning belonged to the Rememberers. Before dawn, they gathered quietly in the square, lighting candles and sharing stories with voices still hoarse from grief. Henrik's forge-side garden had bloomed into a shrine. People left ribbons, tokens, sometimes just names scratched into stone. Nothing organized. Everything mattered.
Afternoon was Neutral Time. The marketplace buzzed with cautious civility. Vendors served all factions. No mention of grief, no sign of it, unless you counted the too-careful smiles. Children played hopscotch on streets scrubbed clean of memorial chalk. Official business resumed like it never broke.
Evening belonged to the Suppressors. They met in tidy circles, discussed practical matters, and recommitted to the Harmony Pact.
There were no candles or tears, and no names of the dead.
