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As if the heavens themselves hadn’t quite decided how to mourn.

Noel stood alone in the cemetery outside the Holy Capital. Rows of fresh graves stretched behind him, each marked with a simple headstone. Wind rustled through the dry grass.

The one before him read:

Erick

You were brave, even when you shouldn’t have had to be.

The others had names, too. Children who never got to grow up. Faces Noel remembered from the orphanage, from laughter and small m ...

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