I staggered, nearly falling to my knees. Five beats would end me. A confession deeper than Aurelius, deeper than my fears—there might be nothing left after. And to accept… would be to let the city crown me, turn me into its False Saint.
The chants grew louder, echoing through the fog. Faces pressed to windows, cups raised toward the counting-house. Ash drifted through the air like snow, settling across the canals, glowing faintly with embers unseen. The city itself was feeding the story.
Seraphine seized my collar, forcing my gaze to hers. "Varrow. You are not their saint. Do you hear me? You are not."
But the Ledger disagreed. Ink bled across the page, curling into the air like smoke:
Curtain rises. Role chosen. Saint of Ash steps forward.
I tried to scream denial, but only silence tore from my throat. Ash settled on my skin, clinging to the candle-mark, flaring bright. The citizens roared with belief outside, their whispers knitting into a hymn.
And in that moment, I felt the Ledger tighten its hold—not a book now, but a mask pressed against my marrow, writing me into the next act.
—End of Chapter 35—