They had bowed. Even the ones who had voted against her. Even Shu’Khan, unmoved and unreadable, had nodded once beneath his veil of calm. Even he had seen sense in her proposals, had acted in secret to give her knowledge, clearance, a voice where she’d had none.
On that day of victory, she’d turned to Kailorien—to her Resh’Agar—to her staunchest ally and her Bonded, and smiled in triumph.
Things should have improved. Lives should have changed. She had given the Writ everything. Every drop of her breath. She’d even halted construction on the Sokâr’s wing. And it still wasn’t enough.
The Council had donenothing.
Just like always.
The shipments had trickled in. Too little. Too late. Half of what was promised. Spoiled poultices, dried herbs, cracked phiros stones. And then… silence. The Council had found a dozen new emergencies to fund—each more prestigious, more visible than the Commons. The Prismatum received a new wing. The Companions received imported silks.
The Temples of the Commons received a whisper of mercy, then were forgotten again.
Now, Auryn stood at the threshold of the easternmost temple in the Commons, known by the acolytes as the River’s End. Her hands folded within the sleeves of her outer white robes as she stared at a cracked column where vines had started to grow inside.
There had once been crystal veins threaded through the altar, she was told. Lustral stones meant to ease the pain of the sick. Now, the altar was bare and dark, surrounded by huddled shapes swaddled in old shawls and thin silks.
You come once again to see death, emberling.
Vargrún.
Another force of nature that refused to let go. Ever since she’d started Weaving Kailorien’s runes at night, his voice had been ever-present. Intrusive. Maddening.
Yet, not a threat.
Not yet.
So, she kept it from Kailorien. Would continue to keep it while she could hold this secret close. In all things, they were honest and open witheach other. But in this—in her need to keep him whole and safe and rested—she would not bend.
You come to these death-ridden temples too often.
What has changed, do you suppose, from several days past? What are you, to fight like this? To burn yourself for others?
She ignored him. She always did. Pushing him to the back of her mind, she proceeded through the temple’s archway. The stench hit first—sour breath and sweat, the copper tang of old blood, the stink of opened bowels and unwashed skin. It clung to everything.
Her Reskala shifted behind her, uneasy but silent.
'Your Radiance,'signed a young acolyte in stained linens, bowing. 'You have returned. We are in your debt.'
Auryn nodded once, then stepped inside.
Every Veilday and every Moonfell, Auryn dedicated several hours to a temple. Cleaning linens. Mopping floors. Sitting with the sick. Praying over them. Offering whatever hope she could.
She walked through the halls with her chin held high, wrapping suffering around her like armor. Using the screams to boost her resolve. Gagging from the stench and reminding herself that she fought every day for these people. With every floor she mopped, she helped in some way.
Maybe then, she could make up for her failure.
The divine Sokâr, swimming in filth. How quaint.
Some voices were low and hollow, rocking with fever. Others were erratic, sharp, shrill. The madwoman by the entry clawed at her face, sobbing into the stone. Another man shouted names into the air, names that belonged to no one. A child, no older than five, sat cradling a stuffed animal, her mouth open in a voiceless scream.
'She hasn’t signed since the fever took her,' explained a healer, kneeling beside the girl.'But she tries. Void help her, she tries.'
Auryn swallowed, then knelt and took the child’s hand as the healer walked to another cot. The girl trembled, barely conscious. Auryn brushed back sweat-damp hair and offered a steady, soft breath.
“You are not alone,” she whispered. “I am with you. The Rivers are with you. We are not done searching.”
Careful not to be seen, Auryn reached for the Weave. The child's hand glowed silver as Auryn channeled her magic into her small body. For a moment, the little girl's breath steadied. Then pain. All consuming agony in the center of her chest—that soul-deep crack that had been there since she'd sealed the rift on the Moores decades ago throbbed and burned. Nausea flared, and Auryn nearly lost the contents of her stomach. She gritted her teeth so she wouldn't make a sound, not wanting to frighten the child.
