At first, the Rotten-Heart mistook this for absolution.
Work without reverence. Voices that did not lower when they approached. Orders given, argued over, revised. A life where their strength was a fact, not a claim.
It took days to understand the difference.
Absolution erases.
This did not.
Scars still ached when storms rolled in from the west. Sleep still came unevenly, dragged down by memories that had learned how to wait. Choice did not silence the past—it only prevented it from issuing commands.
One evening, as the boats were pulled high and the sky bruised purple with coming rain, an old sailor sat beside them on the breakwater.
"You don't pray," the sailor said, not accusing, not curious. Observing.
"No," the Rotten-Heart replied.
"Good," the sailor said. "The sea doesn't listen anyway. But it notices."
They watched waves break and reform, endlessly decisive, endlessly indifferent.
Back on the plateau, the reckoning changed texture again.
Not in force, but in tone.
