In the bruised-purple twilight of the city of Meridian, was not a name one spoke lightly. It was a sound that carried weight—like a stone dropped into a deep well, you had to wait for the echo.
And so, when the city fell silent in its darkest hour, the people did not pray to gods or kings. They simply turned toward the crooked tower and called, softly, into the wind: yousfuhl
“Yousfuhl… we are ready to cross.” In the bruised-purple twilight of the city of
