The rain had stopped before dawn, but the River had not calmed. It murmured along the embankments like something uneasy in its sleep — as if the night had taught it a new language and it hadn't yet learned silence.
Leona walked the back streets of Vale, her clothes still damp from the escape. The satchel hung heavy against her hip, its oilcloth wrapping darkened by water and soot. Inside, the blueprints and The Daughter's Testament pulsed like living things — as though the ink itself was breathing.
Nia walked beside her, quiet and alert. The horizon was still bruised from stormlight, and the town smelled of mud and smoke. Every window they passed seemed to blink awake, one light at a time. Vale was pretending it hadn't heard the roar in the night.
"They'll call it a burst pipe," Nia said. "They always need a smaller story to hide inside the big one."
Leona nodded. "But the River doesn't shrink to fit their explanations anymore."
They turned into the narrow lane leading to the outskirts — the one that led to the old Prescott cottage. The last time Leona had walked this path, she'd been a child holding her mother's hand. The house had been dark then, its windows shuttered like closed eyes.
Now, one window glowed.
"Someone's inside," Nia whispered.
Leona didn't answer. She stepped closer, hand resting on the latch. The hinges sighed as she opened the door.
The air inside was still, scented faintly of lavender and iron. Dust lay thick on the furniture, yet on the table by the window stood a small oil lamp — its flame alive, unwavering. The glass chimney was clouded with age, but the light inside was steady, golden, defiant.
Leona's breath caught. "It's still burning."
Nia stepped forward. "How? There's no oil."
Leona reached out, fingers trembling, and touched the metal base. It was warm — not hot, just alive.
"It shouldn't be possible," she murmured. "Mother left this burning the night of the flood."
On the wall above the lamp hung a framed photograph — Miriam Prescott standing by the River, wind in her hair, a small child at her side. Behind her, a second shadowed figure, half-faded by light.
"Miriam," Nia whispered. "You kept your promise."
Leona looked at her half-sister. "You knew she was alive longer than they said."
"I hoped," Nia said softly. "The River took her in and gave her back when it was done remembering."
The lamp flickered then, not like a failing flame but like something acknowledging them. Beneath the photograph, a line had been carved into the wooden frame:
Keep the light burning until the truth is spoken aloud.
Leona felt tears sting her eyes. "She left this for us."
"For you," Nia corrected gently. "You're the one she raised to finish it."
Leona turned toward the table, unwrapping the blueprints. The pages spread out beneath the lamplight — veins of ink, branching like the River's tributaries. She laid The Daughter's Testament beside them, opened to the last page.
When the ashes settle, look for the lamp. It burns where truth is not finished speaking.
A knock startled them both. Once. Twice. A pause. Then three times — deliberate, patient.
Nia moved toward the door, but Leona stopped her. "Let me."
Outside stood Mara. Her copper hair was wet, her locket open and flickering. The flame inside it mirrored the lamp's glow.
"The council's searching the town," Mara said. "They know you have the Testament."
"How?" Leona demanded.
"They have ears in the water," Mara said, glancing toward the River. "But the River doesn't listen to them anymore."
Leona's eyes fell to the locket. "It's still burning."
Mara smiled faintly. "Light listens differently from sound. It remembers."
Nia looked from one to the other. "What do you mean?"
"The lamp's flame," Mara said. "It isn't fire. It's memory. It's everything the River refused to forget."
The light in the room brightened subtly, reflecting in their eyes. For a moment, the cottage walls seemed to breathe — shadows lengthening, then settling again.
Leona closed the Testament. "Then it's time to speak what it remembers."
"How?" Nia asked. "They'll silence you before you reach the square."
Leona met her gaze. "Not if they hear the River first."
She stepped to the window. Beyond, the Vale River shimmered like molten glass. Dawn was beginning to bleed into its surface. Somewhere far off, the church bell tolled — a tired echo of faith.
"The River lied twice," Leona said. "Once to save her. Once to save me. It won't lie a third time."
Mara's locket flared. "Then go before it changes its mind."
They gathered their things — the ledger, the Testament, the blueprints — and stepped into the awakening morning. The streets were slick with reflection. The lamp's glow still burned in the cottage window, casting a steady beam across the mist.
As they walked, people began to open their shutters. Faces appeared in doorways — tired, curious, uncertain. The town was stirring, the way conscience does after too long a sleep.
By the time they reached the square, a small crowd had gathered. Soldiers at the edge, Harrow's councilmen behind him. The mayor's face was pale but resolute.
"Leona Prescott," he called, voice amplified by anger. "You've caused enough unrest. Put down whatever you carry."
Leona stepped forward, the satchel in one hand, the Testament in the other. The River murmured behind the buildings, a heartbeat in stone.
"I won't put down what belongs to the truth," she said. "You burned records. You rewrote history. But the River kept the real story."
Harrow's sneer faltered. "You're delusional."
Leona lifted the lamp from Nia's hands. The flame within flared, casting long, shifting light across the square. The crowd gasped — not at its brightness, but at its refusal to die in the wind.
"This light," Leona said, "was lit the night my mother disappeared. It's burned ever since. You can drown truth, but you can't put out what was born of it."
The air trembled. Somewhere nearby, a water main burst. The River surged through the street, curling around their feet, not as destruction — but as witness.
Mara stood at the edge, her locket glowing in answer.
The people watched, and for the first time, they didn't look away.
Leona raised the lamp higher. "The River remembers," she said. "And so will we."
The light flared again — a wordless oath between water and flame.
And somewhere deep beneath the town, in the tunnels that once held secrets, the current shifted — carrying the truth forward, unstoppable.