The Carcass Wastes were never truly silent.When night fell, the wind whistled through the hollows of giant bones protruding from the earth, sounding like distant weeping. Children in Crust Hamlet were taught that it was the voice of gods unwilling to die. Reksa had stopped listening to it when he was ten. Crying didn't fill an empty stomach.He crouched on the slope of a rib as large as a bridge, scraping at its cracks with a rusted crowbar. Slung over his back was a halfempty burlap sack containing his night's haul: gray bone fragments, scales the size of a palm, and a handful of petrified blood dust. It was enough for a plate of rice and a cup of clean water—and even then, only if the merchants at the Scrap Market didn't haggle with a look of feigned charity.A thousand years ago, this place was the battlefield of the Divine War. In a single night now known as the Night of No Sky, all the gods fell, their bodies shattering into shards scattered to the ends of the horizon. Since the

The Scrap Market was already bustling when Reksa arrived.He slipped in through the western side, merging with the flow of scavengers carrying sacks filled with their overnight haul. He had wrapped the black cloth from Bagas around his neck and shoulders, concealing half his face. All around him, merchants shouted, hawking bones, scales, and blood powder. Children ran between the stalls, and the smell of salted fish mingled with sulfur made his stomach churn.At the market's eastern gate, two Sweeper soldiers stood inspecting everyone who passed. Reksa lowered his head and walked deeper inside.Don't rush, Wiratma said. A man walking fast in a crowd is a guilty man."I am guilty."Exactly. So walk like you aren't.Reksa took a breath and slowed his pace. He threaded his way through lane after lane, passing amulet sellers' tents and potmenders' carts, until he finally found a small shop at the end of the narrowest alley, with a weathered wooden sign that read Kemuning Fabrics.Inside,

Reksa did not answer right away.He stood at the foot of the colossal gate, his palm still pressed against the cold stone, as Wiratma’s words swirled in his head like a whirlpool. I was the one who opened the gate for you."So you let a killer in," he said at last. His voice was flatter than he intended. "And that killer wore the exact same cloth that I was once wrapped in."I did not know if he was a killer. Wiratma sounded weary. I only remember a figure in black cloth, the gate I opened, and after that... darkness. I don’t remember what happened next.Because you died, Sarnika interjected.Because many of us died, Wiratma shot back sharply. But I don’t remember who stabbed us, Sarnika. Neither do you. You only remember his face.That face is enough."My face," Reksa said softly. "The exact same face as mine."No one disputed it. That was what hurt the most.He pulled his hand back from the stone and stared at the three points of light on the gate doors, now extinguished, empty as g