the drowned hour
the hour-before-dawn, without end
When the tide-clock of the world struck its final hour, the lantern-city of Marrowlight chose drowning over darkness — stone by stone it stepped beneath the mirror-water, taking its thousand lights along. The fen has kept that hour ever since. You are the Warden of Small Lights, last of your order. The reeds still hum where the city's music settled into them, and the drowned chapels hold their rose-windows dark, waiting for a keeper's touch.
Walk the shallows. Relight what you can. The fen remembers.
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