The Book of Days opens its first chapter: grief.
The dying are remembered by what they believed. A soul's last line — in its own story and in the world's chronicle — now reads by its faith: the devout die blessing the sky, the doubting die owing it nothing, and every closing line is written anew.
The Widowing. When a pledged partner dies, the loss finally enters the survivor's story — "the fire is mine alone to keep now." The chronicle names who buried whom, and the widowed wear a quiet tear of mourning for a few years.
The Passing Vigil. When a soul you keep the deathwatch over enters its final days, you may sit with them: time slows to a crawl, the world hushes, and the trappings of the interface fall away. At the passing a bell tolls, their last words are read in full, and a quiet felt-piano elegy carries them out. Step away whenever you wish.
Cities that look like cities. From the map's height, every settlement now raises real rooftops — era-formed buildings crowding its true ground, following its coastline, growing grander as it develops, from first huts to stone towers. Zoom in close and the skyline gently settles onto the real dwellings below; zoom out and the town gathers itself back into its emblem.
Also: the small floating signs above your followed people now track them faithfully on their errands at the closest zoom, and the About page carries a small inscription for those in the know.
For older worlds: the first load after this update rebuilds your world from its full history (it may take a moment) — and from then on, your people's past losses are remembered too.