It is, by some arcane measure, Lord Corbeau's birthday. I have always found public acknowledgment of the day to be a peculiar custom. The date is a marker of survival, not an accomplishment.

My brother sent a letter, along with a new whetstone for my rapier. The weight of it in my hand was a more meaningful gift than any title. It is a tool for maintenance, for ensuring what you value remains sharp and ready. A quiet, practical thing. He understands.

I spent the morning at the memorial wall in the refugee quarter, as I do every year on this date. Not for myself, but to remember those who did not survive to see another. To remember the weight of the choices that led me here.

The afternoon was spent with Volosacro, high above the spires. No drills, no signals. Just the wind and the silent understanding that we are both still here. That is gift enough.

One does not celebrate the turning of a page; one reads it, learns from it, and prepares for the next chapter. Duty continues tomorrow.