The chant did not stop when the fog swallowed the first light of morning. It grew. Voices multiplied, echoing along the canals and across rooftops, a hymn stitched from hunger and desperation. "Saint of Ash, rise. Saint of Ash, rise." The words throbbed like a second heartbeat through the Mirewalk, carried by mouths that no longer cared if they believed, only that they belonged to the chorus.
I leaned against the window frame of the counting-house, my body trembling, marrow aching. Every breath tasted of soot, every blink revealed motes of ash drifting through the room like falling snow. The citizens outside knelt in rows, their faces smeared black, their cups raised high. The ash clung to their lips, staining their teeth, a sacrament of ruin.
Seraphine paced like a caged beast, iron arm hissing, plates glowing faintly as heat bled from within. "They're not just praying," she said. "They're feeding it. Feeding you."
The Ledger writhed in my lap, its cover hot, ink bleeding across its pages without my touch:
Phenomenon: Hymn of the Ashen Crowd.
Nature: Collective belief manifests role. Witnesses bind story to bearer.
Directive: Disrupt hymn or accept coronation.
I forced a rasp, throat flayed raw. "If I break it—"
The Ledger cut me off with new script:
Options:
Burn Candle: Scatter ash, silence hymn. Cost: Five marrow beats.Confess: Admit why you fear sainthood. Cost: Identity collapse risk.Accept coronation: Ascend as Saint of Ash. Cost: Self consumed.
Seraphine read over my shoulder, her breath sharp. "There is no path that leaves you whole."
"No," I whispered, "there never is."
The hymn swelled, the crowd's voices weaving into harmony. From the ash rose shapes—faces half-formed, masks flickering, saints without eyes or mouths. They hovered above the citizens like banners in smoke, flickering in and out of substance. The city was making its choice.
The door rattled. Citizens pressed their palms against it, ash smearing the wood. Whispers slipped through the cracks: "Varrow. Clerk. Ash. Saint." My name was no longer mine—it was theirs, a note in their hymn.
Seraphine braced the door with her iron arm. "We can't hold this house if they decide to storm. Either you break their story, or you drown in it."
My candle-mark flared weakly, desperate. My marrow screamed in protest. Five beats would end me. But the confession—the truth—terrified me more. The Ledger waited, patient and cruel.
I pressed trembling fingers to the page and whispered the words: "I fear sainthood because saints never die—they rot forever in stories."
The hymn faltered. The ash-faces above the crowd shrieked silently, their forms cracking like porcelain under strain. The citizens staggered, clutching their throats, voices breaking into coughs and sobs. The ash on their skin smudged, falling away in clumps. The hymn unraveled.
The Ledger flared, script scrawling in violent strokes:
Debtor Severed: Hymn of the Ashen Crowd.
Balance: Partial. Belief fractured, but residue remains.
Cost: One confession. Identity erosion continues.
I collapsed to my knees, black bile dripping from my lips, body hollowed by the weight of confession. Seraphine pulled me back, her human hand gripping mine. "You did it," she said, but her tone carried no triumph. Only warning. "You told them why you fear becoming what you already are."
The citizens outside scattered slowly, their whispers frayed, their faces smeared with ash that no longer glowed. But some lingered, staring up at the window, their eyes filled with hunger. They had not forgotten. They never would.
The Ledger pulsed faintly against my ribs, its ink curling into one final line:
Curtain holds. Saint of Ash denied. For now.
I shut the book with shaking hands. My marrow screamed. My throat was ash. And the city's hymn still echoed faintly, waiting to rise again.
—End of Chapter 36—