Aaru’s hand slipped into mine. ::Breathe.::

I breathed.

“Thank you for coming.” Paorah looked over the crowd; his voice was deceptively soft, too, yet still commanded people to listen. “While this is an unhappy occasion, I’m pleased to see you all here. This gathering signals our devotion to ensuring the survival of our people. What happened to Idris will not happen on another island.”

Aaru’s hand tightened around mine, and I let him even though it hurt, because it meant he still needed me.

The high magistrate glanced westward, where the sun was easing toward Idris. “We’ve lost a proud nation,” he said. “Idris was an island filled with kind, hardworking people. I knew several of the Silent Brothers personally, and I respected them deeply for their fair rule, the warmth they inspired in their people, and the culture of cooperation they fostered. I will miss them, not only as leaders, but as friends, too.”

Everyone was quiet, just listening to him. He had a compelling way of speaking, almost like a song.

“This loss affects us all. Friends, islanders, trading partners, allies: they are gone now, and so is the long history and culture of the Idrisi people. We’re here this evening to mourn their passing, and hope—pray—that the ships we’ve sent out will find survivors. If the Idrisi ways are to live on, it will be through them.”

All around the quiet garden, people nodded. Some were crying, their tears shimmering in the evening light.

“In a few minutes, when the sun sets behind Idris, we will observe a moment of silence in honor of our fallen friends. Pray, if you like. Mourn. Then we will go downstairs to celebrate this time together, and tomorrow, all the governments and representatives of the Fallen Isles will get to work. Together, we will ensure the Great Abandonment goes no further. Together, we will ensure the survival of our people.”

A polite applause followed, and while we waited for the sun to drop, a few ministers took the chance to talk about their memories of Idris and the generous ways they were treated during their visits to the island.

While they spoke, I scanned the crowd for Mother. She stood surrounded by Hartan matriarchs, her chin lifted and her gaze firmly on the speaker of the moment. If she felt anything about the words they spoke—or the words they did not speak about the Luminary Council—she didn’t show it.

A man was droning on about the quality of Idrisi cotton, bemoaning the future absence of such fine cloth, when the high magistrate stepped forward. The minister shut his mouth without needing to be told.

“The sun is behind the god of silence,” said Paorah. “Please remain quiet until it is fully set.”

An immediate hush wove through the garden, broken only by sniffs and soft coughs as everyone turned to look west. It wasn’t true silence—no one here could give that to the Idrisi people, except for Aaru—but somehow this seemed more potent. This was grief silence. Shock silence. Dozens of people who could never understand Idris’s silence all trying to give him what he valued most. Even the traffic below seemed softer, muted, like a held breath as the god shadow swung over Flamecrest, darkening the city into an early twilight.