Arthur’s POV
The city does not bow when I pass through it anymore.
That realization hits me hardest on the third day after the surge, when I walk the lower market without escort, coat unmarked, presence unannounced. People move around me—not away, not toward. A woman argues over grain prices. A child laughs too loudly near a fountain someone rebuilt crooked. Two men nearly collide and swear at each other with equal heat, then laugh and clap shoulders.
No one freezes.
No one kneels.
The absence of reverence should feel like erasure. Instead, it feels like air returning to lungs I didn’t realize I’d been holding tight for decades.
I stop at a stall selling carved stone charms—anchors, mostly. Not official sigils. Personal ones. Each different. Each imperfect.
The merchant looks up, sq
