The river smelled cleaner tonight. No blood. No smoke. Just rain and the faint perfume of wildflowers placed in the shrine niche. Lyan stood at the edge of the old stone bridge, shoulders cloaked in a fine silver mist that beaded on the wool and slid in threads down the braided edging. He inhaled, a long pull that filled his chest with damp air and memories of seasons before the war. Below, the water murmured against moss‑slicked pylons, carrying away the soft blue glow of rice‑lanterns like slow‑moving stars.
Raine stood beside him, her boots still powdered with festival chalk, a small lantern cupped in her hands. The parchment shade shivered in the breeze, casting pale reflections that rippled across the river's skin. She tipped her head, curls—unchained for once—tumbling around her cheeks in damp coils. "You never light one for yourself," she said, voice low enough that it seemed meant only for the water. "Every night you watch and you never send a name downstream."
