The capital's main market square bustled with afternoon trade. Merchants called out prices. Customers haggled over produce. The normal rhythm of commerce continued despite everything.
But the conversations between transactions told a different story.
"One hundred forty-eight." A baker named Bren spoke quietly to his neighbor while weighing flour. "That's how many children died. One hundred forty-eight families got notifications instead of their sons and daughters coming home."
His neighbor, Maris, nodded grimly. She sold pottery three stalls down. Had done so for fifteen years. Long enough to know most of the merchant families in this section. "My cousin's boy was one of them. Awakened six months ago. B-rank ice manipulation. They were so proud. Sent him to the Academy with high hopes."
"Was?"
