The hymn had ended, but the ash remained. It drifted through the Mirewalk like a plague of silent snow, clinging to shutters, rooftops, and the skin of those who dared step outside. Even without voices raised, the city still believed. Their faith had been fractured, not extinguished, and ash is patient. It waits. It lingers. It remembers.
I woke with the taste of it on my tongue, bitter and dry. My marrow screamed each time I moved, a hollow echo of what I had burned to scatter the hymn. Seraphine had not slept at all. She sat against the door, iron arm braced across her knees, her other hand clutching a blade blackened from years of smoke. Her eyes, shadowed and sharp, flicked toward me as soon as I stirred.
"It's not finished," she said flatly. "You cut the song, but the ash is writing the verses back in silence."
The Ledger confirmed her words, forcing its pages open:
Phenomenon: Ash That Clings.
Nature: Belief residue infects breath and skin. Witnesses bear fragments of hymn.
Directive: Purge or the Saint of Ash will rise again.
I rasped, voice broken: "How long?"
Ink bled across the page:
Interval: Three nights. After, belief calcifies.
Seraphine swore under her breath, steam hissing from her arm. "Then we break it tonight. Before the city crowns you."
We stepped into streets blanketed with ash. Citizens knelt in doorways, rubbing it across their skin like balm, whispering fragments of the hymn under their breath. They flinched at our passage, but their eyes gleamed with a fanatic hunger. Some reached out, palms blackened, begging me to touch them. They thought contact with me would seal their prayer.
The Ledger pulsed at my ribs, and my candle-mark flared weakly. It scrawled:
Options:
Burn Candle: Cleanse districts. Cost: Six marrow beats.Confess: Admit what you would sacrifice to never be a saint. Cost: Collapse risk.Spine of Iron: Shatter the ash at its source. Cost: Bone fracture, severe.
Six beats would end me. A confession deeper than before might strip away what little identity I still held. And the Spine—it had cracked under lesser tolls. If I forced it now, the break might be final.
Seraphine touched my shoulder, her scarred hand grounding me. "We'll find the source. Break it before the city breathes another verse."
The Ledger guided us through alleys where ash pooled like water. Each step stirred whispers beneath the surface, faint echoes of the hymn. At last we reached a ruined chapel, its roof caved, its altar buried under heaps of grey powder. The air inside shimmered with heatless glow, and the ash moved as if alive, swirling into shapes of faceless saints.
I staggered back, bile rising in my throat. The Ledger screamed across its pages:
Debtor Identified: Ash That Clings.
Nature: Residue of faith unburned. Seeks vessel to crown.
Directive: Contain. Cost required.
The ash surged upward, forming a towering figure—hollow, faceless, a saint of soot and memory. Its arms spread wide, and flakes rained down, coating my skin. My candle-mark blazed, desperate. Seraphine roared and struck with her iron arm, but her fist passed through, scattering ash that swirled back into shape.
The Ledger inked furiously:
Balance requires truth or marrow. Choose.
I fell to my knees, ash choking my breath, filling my mouth. My marrow was gone. My bones were splintered. Only truth remained. I forced the words out, raw and jagged: "I would sacrifice every memory of myself if it meant never being your saint."
The ash screamed—a howl of countless voices shredded into dust. The figure cracked, fissures splitting it into shards of smoke and ember. It collapsed in a storm of soot that howled out the chapel's broken roof and scattered into the canals.
The Ledger inked its judgment:
Debtor Severed: Ash That Clings.
Balance: Partial. Residue dispersed but never gone.
Cost: One confession. Self erasure begins.
I collapsed, coughing black, vision dim. Seraphine dragged me upright, ash streaking her scarred face. Her eyes burned as she whispered: "Every truth you give them makes you less. What happens when nothing is left of Varrow?"
The Ledger pulsed one final line:
Curtain rises. The city writes the next act.
—End of Chapter 37—