Dawn did not heal the landing terrace.
It only made ruin visible.
In the Hall of Kings, pale blue fire still burned in the bowls. Morning touched the river in a thin line, leaving the hall in shadow.
Eren turned to his sons.
"Night hides mercy in confusion. Dawn counts."
Atum lowered his eyes.
Aru asked, "Did you sleep?"
"No."
Then he was back on the riverbank.
Light over Nam Lapi came weak through smoke.
The sacred landing stones: broken open. Lower stair: gone. Half the river terrace: a black ruin of split carvings, collapsed obelisks, blood-dark water, and bodies.
The river ran heavier that morning. Darker. Like it remembered the fire and hadn't decided where to put it.
Wounded cried in scattered places. The dying had stopped shouting.
Defenders moved with ash on their faces. No one spoke much. Where a body could be recovered, they recovered it. Where it couldn't—corruption, enemy hands—they burned it, cut it free, or gave it to the river with words clenched through teeth.
No one mistook necessity for dignity. But they still tried.
Young Eren stood in the middle. Blood dried on his side, back, thigh, forearm. Armor half buckled. Sword still in his hand. He hadn't sat down. He hadn't let go of the grip for more than a breath.
People spoke to him only when needed.
Not because he was frightening.
Because he looked like a man still standing only because no one had told him he could stop.
The Messenger captain limped over. Arm bound against his ribs with blood-dark rags.
"West edge is clear."
"How many living?"
"On the terrace or in the line?"
"Both."
The captain swallowed. "Terrace: thirty-two who can walk. Eleven might live if healers get here fast. In the wider line…" He stopped.
Eren waited.
"Less than half."
The number settled inside Eren like cold iron.
"Dead?"
"Still counting."
"No. Count them once. Then name them."
The captain nodded. Then: "The court wants word."
"The court can wait until the wounded stop drowning."
Pause. "And the priests?"
Eren looked at the broken center ring. The seal still glowed under collapsed stones—dim, but alive. Rubble pulsed faint blue-white through soot and wet sand.
"The priests can pray from a distance. No one touches the center until I say."
The captain left.
Ilya sat propped against the remains of her pod, beneath a half-fallen slab. Alive. That still felt wrong every time Eren looked.
Healers had reached her before dawn. They'd stopped in confusion—her blood, her skin, the wound that should have killed speech, and the silver light still pulsing under her flesh.
One asked, "How do we close that?"
"With courage, I guess."
An older healer snorted. "With clean hands and less talking."
They bound her chest. Splinted one wrist. Cut away broken armor from her side. Then backed off when the silver light flared under too much touch.
Now she sat alone. A water vessel nearby. Eyes half-closed.
Eren walked over.
She opened her eyes. "You look like you've been dragged through a fire."
"You look like you lost."
"I'm still sitting."
"Barely."
She almost smiled. "Liar."
He crouched. His body groaned. Battle had stopped pretending.
"You're hurt more than you're saying," she said.
"So are you."
"Yes. But I'm not pretending."
He didn't argue. She was right.
He looked across the terrace. Wounded being moved upslope. Two shrine-bearers washing blood from dead faces before the naming. A line of guards at the river's edge, heads down, as three bodies wrapped in torn blue cloth were given to Lapi.
No triumph. Just work.
"They'll call it victory," Eren said.
Ilya turned her head. "Will they be wrong?"
He didn't answer right away. Then: "At dawn, kingdoms use victory to hold themselves together."
"And by dusk?"
"The dead use truth."
"Which will you use?"
"Both. One for them. One for me."
She sat with that. Then nodded.
Across the terrace, Sila knelt near the crater with three priests and two river-keepers. The priests had bowls, ash cords, oil. The river-keepers had black water and old reed bundles.
A priest called out. Eren walked over.
"We want to begin purification rites."
"Not on the seal."
"On the dead. And the stones around it."
Eren looked at the seal. The blood on its edges. The scorch marks. "Fine. No one touches the heart-mark."
The old priest hesitated. "It's still active."
"I know."
"That's not natural."
"No. It isn't."
A younger priest stepped forward. "Then perhaps we should close it before it invites more—"
Eren cut him off. "The men who bled to keep it open have earned a morning. Hold your tongue."
The younger priest's face reddened. The elder bowed. "As you command."
When Eren turned back, Ilya was watching him. "You speak as though it's yours now."
He looked at the blue-white pulse under the stone. "It was always ours. We just didn't know."
"Now you do?"
"No. Now I know ignorance can still be inherited."
That hung between them. Not romance. Something uglier. Two people who'd survived the same night and seen each other at their worst useful edges.
Village women passed with cloths and ash bowls. One glanced at Ilya, made a warding sign, then looked ashamed.
Ilya noticed. "They fear me."
"Yes."
"Because I fell from the sky."
"Yes."
"And because the ones who chased me killed your people."
Eren's jaw tightened. "They didn't follow you. They hunted you."
She held his gaze. "That matters to you."
"It will matter more when the sun is higher and people start deciding what story lets them sleep."
She leaned back against the pod. "You think clearly for a man bleeding through his bandages."
"I think angry. Looks the same from a distance."
She laughed. It turned into a cough. Blood on her lip. She wiped it with the back of her hand and didn't mention it.
The crier began naming the dead.
One by one.
First line. Lower stair. River edge.
Each name under Ru's witness. Each body touched with water for Lapi.
After the first few names, no one answered aloud. Too many throats had closed.
Eren listened to all of them. Didn't move when they named men he'd trained. Didn't move when they named boys without beards. Didn't move when the Messenger captain bowed his head lower at each of his own unit's names.
He moved once.
When they named the boy from the lower stair. The one who'd run blades to the wounded.
Eren closed his eyes. One breath. Then opened them.
Ilya watched. Said nothing.
When the naming ended, river-keepers stepped forward with reed bundles and black water. Priests lit purifying flames in bronze dishes.
Smoke climbed. Not war smoke. Funeral smoke.
"What did your people call themselves?" Ilya asked. "Before this night."
Eren looked at her.
"Not what the enemy called you. Not what the records say. What did you think you were?"
He looked at the broken stones. The burning oil. The bodies. The river. The shattered center.
"The living."
Pause.
"This morning, that feels ambitious."
Ilya's face softened. Just a little. "Then let the living stay stubborn."
He looked at her bandaged chest. The silver ember under her skin. The fact that she was still breathing.
"Yes," he said. "They've already started."
A long silence. Then the old priest came back, slower than before. His hands were shaking.
"Commander."
Eren turned.
"The seal," the priest said. "It's not just active."
He held up a small bronze mirror. In its reflection, the seal's glow did not appear blue-white.
It appeared red.
The priest whispered, "Something looks back."
Eren stared at the mirror. Then at the seal. Then at Ilya.
Ilya's silver light went very, very still.