Epilogue:The city no longer smelled of fear. For the first time in decades, the canals carried the scent of rain and wet stone instead of decay, and the wind sweeping through the repopulated streets was cool and clean. The Grey Shiver was a ghost, a cautionary tale told to children who had never known a world without the gentle, protective hum of the cure in their blood. The plague had not been defeated in a single, glorious battle, but had been patiently, persistently washed from the world, carried in Sophia’s veins, in the bottles of serum passed hand-to-hand, in the whispers of a recipe shared across ruined borders.Sophia stood on the same bridge where, a lifetime ago, she had watched soldiers drag her father away. The iron railings were still rusted, the cobblestones uneven, but now they were traced by the quick, sure feet of children at play. Their laughter, bright and unburdened, was the true sound of the city's healing. They were the first generation of the new world—children