Slowly, without command, the citizens merged into the streets.
There was no single leader at the head of the procession. The people simply stepped from their doorways and side-alleys, joining the quiet stream because the custom was carved into their blood.
It was a silent honoring of those who had never returned from the bloody civil war, the forgotten skirmishes, or the nameless border fights that had been lost to official records.
Soon, the entire capital became a vast sea of white cloaks moving beneath a canopy of blue light. Across the valley, the high windows of the imperial palace ignited with the same cold, steady flame in solemn solidarity.
For one long, breathless moment, a single heartbeat of absolute silence settled over the thousands gathered below.
Then, as the evening wind blew down the mountain pass, the distant crystal chimes hanging from the stone arches began to sing, and the soft, solemn strings of the city's musicians picked up their song once more.
