The mountain was hungry.
Someone had left in perfect order. No panic. No rush. Just… walked away, all at once, and never came back.
No return address. No signature. Just those three words, inked in a hand that trembled slightly, as if the writer had been running when they wrote it.
The streets were empty. Not abandoned—empty. There was a difference. Abandoned meant things left behind: carts, crates, the detritus of flight. Caliross had none of that. The market stalls were bare. The homes were swept clean. Even the taverns had been wiped down, their glasses stacked neatly behind the bar.
Elara’s mother had run. She’d taken Elara and left in the night, without a word to anyone. She’d never explained why. She’d never spoken of Caliross again.
“That’s why I wrote to you,” the girl said. “Someone has to speak the names. And I’m tired.”
Now she was the last. The last what? The last who?