Mournwall

Mournwall does not have a street. It has a wall � one wall, facing the mist, built from stone hauled out of Greyvast's ruins by hand. The wall is forty feet high and two miles long, and every stone is carved with a name. The names of the dead who have not been recovered. The names of oaths sworn and kept. The names are the city's only decoration. There are no statues, no banners, no monuments. The wall is the monument. Behind the wall, the city is a functional skeleton. Armories. Mess halls. A temple without a roof � open to the sky, so the dead can see the stars they died under. The Remnants do not build for comfort. They build for readiness. Every structure in Mournwall can be converted to a defensive position in under an hour. Every street is wide enough for a cavalry charge and narrow enough to bottleneck an advancing force. The city is a weapon disguised as a home. The grief is not hidden. It is the city's atmosphere. The Remnants do not mourn in silence � they mourn in ritual, in song, in the nightly roll call of the unrecovered. Mournwall is named for the Hollow King, but its faith is older than his name: the belief that to be remembered is to be saved, and that to forget is the only true death. Every night, the names on the wall are read aloud. Every night, the mist listens.