The morning air was cold, though the season was beginning to shift. The ground was firm and lined with frost that cracked lightly as Vencian crossed the graveyard. He carried a small bundle of flowers, held with care, as he moved through the arranged stones.
He reached Caesor's grave first. The marker was taller and better kept than most, standing in the line of family burials. Vencian looked at the name engraved there.
In truth, he had never met the man, only seen him through the traces of memory that did not belong to him alone.
He placed the flowers at the base of the stone and brushed away the thin frost that clung to it. The respect he felt was quiet, more borrowed than his own, yet it was all he had to offer.
Moses's grave stood near. Vencian's steps slowed as he approached, and his hand reached the stone without thinking.
