Lucian stood beside the half-collapsed stage they'd repurposed into a remembrance platform. The morning fog clung low around his ankles like pale cloth, curling off the dew-wet stones.
His fingers fumbled the red twine that bound today's rite tokens: small bundles of ashwood shavings, hand-penned notes, scraps of wool dyed by Henrik's forgefire.
I don't know who I am anymore.
A breath. Not deep, not clean—just enough to get the day moving.
Alice stood nearby, eyes on the line of people snaking across the square. Some clutched objects wrapped in cloth. Others carried nothing at all. One woman held a candle she hadn't lit. Another stared forward as though marching to a grave she wasn't ready to see.
"They're coming earlier now," Alice murmured, brushing back her braid. "They've been here since before dawn."
Lucian gave a slight nod. "And not just the Rememberers."
