Not everyone leaves.
That is the truth that hurts the most.
By the time the sun fully rises, the count is clear. Twenty-three walked out together. A few more followed later, quietly, like afterthoughts finding courage in someone else’s footsteps.
And dozens stayed.
They stay in Candle houses where the air smells like wax and soup and safety. They stay in rooms where someone always knows their name before they speak it. They stay where fear is translated for them, softened, made manageable by someone else’s certainty.
Kael watches the numbers settle and feels no triumph.
Only ache.
The ones who stayed do not look like collaborators.
They look like people who are tired of carrying themselves.
In the northern district, a Candle house opens its doors at dawn. Light spills out, warm an
