Emris stood at her side, his huntsman’s cloak shifting in the icy breeze. “Look,” he said. “That must be the last of them—at least for today.”

She turned her eyes to the courtyard far below, where Emris pointed. The cryptlings were arriving through the castle’s gates, carrying bulky packs on their shoulders, home from their day’s work at the city walls. Lena noticed a few cowls pushed back, timid faces turned toward the sunset—but far more of the cryptlings were hooded, heads bowed, hiding. She tried not to feel impatient. Duke Winton had lifted many of the restrictions on cryptlings, but the people themselves would take time to change.

One memory returned to her again and again—a memory like a joyful song she couldn’t wipe from her mind. She thought of it now: the moment she, Emris, and Winton had stepped out from the crypts into a moonlight so bright it had cast shadows, to find the people calm and wondering, and the world washed new in silver. She held on to that feeling, blinked, and returned her attention to the present.

One by one, the cryptlings lowered their burdens onto the ground while someone opened the trapdoors to the warren of tunnels beneath the castle. The bundles of cloth contained the skeletons of those executed under the Justice’s tyranny, finally finding a home in the sacred crypts. The evening was so quiet, she swore she could hear the bones rattle as they were set down on the cobblestones. Vigo was there somewhere. If she shut her eyes, she could almost sense him standing at her side, watching along with her. How would he feel about the person she had become?

He would be proud. He always told me I was strong. He always knew that I was important. Now I know it too.

“So many dead, Emris,” she said quietly, raising her hand to touch her forehead, lips, and heart as the remains were borne down into the shadows.

A moment’s silence. She didn’t realize he’d been watching her until he said, “What does that mean? That gesture?”

She wondered for a moment what he was talking about—then smiled. She’d done it subconsciously; perhaps it was because she’d been thinking of Vigo. “It’s like a promise. It says to the Ancestors: you will be alive in our memories”—she touched her head—“in our prayers”—she touched her lips—“and in our hearts”—she rested her fingers lightly against her chest. Then she shook her head, letting her hand drop to her side. “I suppose I’ll have to get out of the habit one day.”