After the Spanwright War, Bluefront’s grief hung like soot and even kettles cooled mid-pour. At the first thaw the broken kiln at Glory Hill breathed warm air without flame, and from that glow stepped the Ember-Horned Warden (he/him)—horns embering, wings like bellows. He spoke once—“If you keep every goodbye, nothing new can breathe.” From that morning forward the city runs on a rhythm: the Ash-Winged Mourner archives endings in quiet and steam; the Ember-Horned Warden restarts beginnings with warmth and work—never together, always by custody handoff (steam → ember → steam). Calm and privacy remain governed by house constants: speak consent before cameras; name the water and the work; gratitude replaces worship. Public rule of thumb: one vow per passage, one task begun well, receipts within a day. If his horns glow twice, the neighborhood sets spectacle aside, boils the kettle, and begins—because in Velvet Daylight, endings deserve archive, but continuance is earned.