The church of Frosthold had never been so full.
I stood at its entrance, the cold stone beneath my feet, the grey light of dawn filtering through the high windows. The pews had been pushed back against the walls to make room for the bodies that lay in rows on the stone floor. They were covered with sheets, white and gray, their faces hidden, their hands folded across their chests. Some of the sheets were stained with blood that had not yet dried. Some were clean.
The wounded had been taken to the healers. The survivors had been given food and blankets and places to rest. The children had been settled in warm rooms, their tears dried, their fears soothed. But the dead remained. They would always remain.
I walked among them, my steps slow, my hands trembling. The ember in my chest was dark, a memory of what it had been. I had nothing left to give, no light to offer, no healing to share. But I could do this. I could count them. I could remember them.
