It was the twentieth year since Father Rhedan led the first Severance, and for the first time in months, the circles were silent not from labor—but from rest. The iron bell rang at noon instead of dusk, its tone deeper than usual, echoing through the trees like a low heart. Every man, woman, and child had the day to themselves—no grinding of wheat, no tanning of skins, no burying of the dead. As the sun lowered, they gathered barefoot and clean in the Main Hall, a vast timber-framed structure where no one usually spoke unless called upon. Tonight, though, there was warmth—firelight glowing against packed-earth walls, the long wooden tables lined with handpicked roots, roasted game, and thick bread made from stored grain. Even laughter flickered at the edges of the room, low and unsure, as if the cult itself held its breath. For once, they were not laborers or circles—but one body, stitched together, feeding itself in honor of the day the world had been severed, and something purer took its place.