The question arrives before dawn.
It doesn’t come as words at first. It comes as the way people hesitate before stepping into the street. The way doors open only halfway. The way eyes track every uniform, every candle, every familiar face as if weighing what it might become under pressure.
The city wakes holding its breath.
Someone has washed the blood from the stone at the eastern junction, but the darker stain remains, sunk deep into the cracks. People stop there anyway. They stare. They whisper. They touch the ground with careful fingers, as if the answer might still be warm.
No one asks the question aloud yet.
But everyone feels it pressing against the inside of their ribs.
Kael has not slept.
He stands on the high walk as the sky pales, hands braced on cold stone, watching the
