The collapse of the chapel should have ended the night, but the city does not release its actors so easily. The ash we had scattered did not vanish—it marched. By dawn, the streets of Mirewalk trembled under the weight of footsteps. Not citizens, not yet. A procession born of dust.
Seraphine and I stood in the shadow of a sagging bridge, watching as figures emerged from the fog. They were tall, gaunt shapes made entirely of soot, their edges fraying in the wind. Where eyes should have been, hollow pits burned faintly with ember-light. Their mouths opened and closed in unison, spilling clouds of ash with every breath. They carried no banners, no torches—only silence that smothered the air around them.
The Ledger burned hot against my ribs, opening without touch:
Phenomenon: Procession in the Dust.
Nature: Citizens' belief given form. Ash marches until vessel is crowned.
Directive: Break the procession or follow it to its altar.
Seraphine's iron arm hissed, steam curling in the fog. "They're moving toward the Cathedral ruins. Toward what's left of the spire."
I rasped, throat a splintered wound. "To crown."
She spat into the canal. "Then we cut them apart before they get there."
We followed at a distance. The procession moved with unnatural rhythm, each step echoing like a drumbeat muffled by dust. Citizens emerged from doorways as they passed, falling to their knees, smearing ash across their faces, whispering the same broken refrain: "Saint of Ash, Saint of Ash…"
Some tried to join, their bodies collapsing into the column of soot. Their flesh peeled away like paper, merging with the ash until only ember eyes remained. Seraphine swore under her breath. "It's feeding itself. Every believer makes it stronger."
The Ledger scrawled options across its page:
Burn Candle: Scatter the procession. Cost: Four marrow beats.Confess: Admit why you cannot refuse sainthood. Cost: Integrity collapse.Spine of Iron: Shatter their march. Cost: Bone fracture, irreversible.
I nearly fell to my knees. My marrow was nearly gone, my truths bleeding me dry. But if the procession reached the ruins, the city would not wait—it would crown me in ash whether I consented or not.
Seraphine caught my arm, her scarred hand firm. "You can't burn yourself again. Tell me what to do. Let me carry it."
But the Ledger pulsed violently, its ink clawing into the air: Not hers. Only yours.
The procession halted at a crossroads, ash swirling upward into faint columns. Faces flickered within the dust, shifting in and out—some familiar, some strangers. Aurelius' face emerged among them, lips moving without sound. My chest hollowed. My brother's image bowed, as though in reverence. The citizens around us fell flat against the cobblestones, whispering louder: "Saint of Ash, rise."
The Ledger screamed across its pages:
Debtor Identified: Procession in the Dust.
Nature: Ash-bound belief. Will crown the bearer unless balance cut.
Directive: Sever now.
My candle-mark flared weakly, desperate. My marrow begged for reprieve. But the choice clawed at me regardless. I pressed my hand against the Ledger, ash stinging my skin. The words tore from me in broken rasp: "I cannot refuse sainthood because part of me wants to be remembered."
The confession ripped through marrow and silence alike. The procession screamed, a thousand ash-throats howling in discord. The ember-light in their eyes burst, smoke gushing upward as bodies dissolved. Citizens cried out as the ash collapsed around them, coating the streets in grey sludge. Aurelius' face shattered into dust, gone with the rest.
The Ledger inked its judgment:
Debtor Severed: Procession in the Dust.
Balance: Achieved, but belief residue persists.
Cost: One confession. Integrity splintered further.
When the fog settled, silence returned. Citizens rose shakily from the cobblestones, coughing, their whispers broken. Some fled, others stared at me with wide eyes—fear, reverence, hunger. They did not know whether to worship or curse. Perhaps both.
Seraphine's iron hand gripped my shoulder, grounding me. "They'll remember what you said," she muttered. "That you want it. They'll carve that into their hymn."
The Ledger pulsed faintly, ink curling into its spine:
Curtain rises. The role tightens.
I shut the book, bile burning my throat. But in the silence, I heard it still—the faint rhythm of footsteps in dust, waiting to march again.
—End of Chapter 39—