-Ruik-

  Dawn crawled over the Great Mountain in bruised shades of orange and gray, its light bleeding into the ruins of what used to be home.

  I stood over three graves.

  Two had been dug through the night. The first had existed not long before this—shallow earth, untouched by time. My hands still trembled, dirt ground beneath my nails no matter how hard I scrubbed. It would not come clean.

  The stones lay side by side on a quiet hill, facing the endless rise of the sun.

  The first bore the name:

  Brie “the devoted one.”

  I stared at it longer than the others. The wind tugged at my cloak, cold against my shoulders. In my hand, I held Thorn’s silver medallion—the Dawnsworn sigil—its edges dulled and scarred from years of service.

  I knelt and rested my palm against the second stone.

  Thorn “the mentor.”

  The name caught the light like a wound.

  “You taught me when to kneel,” I said quietly, “and when to stand.”

  My voice nearly broke.

  I lowered my head further, pressing my forehead to the stone beside it.

  Myrren “the mother to all.”

  “Good dawn,” I whispered. “My light in the shadows.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Around the clearing, the dead were being buried in uneven rows. The few Dawnsworn who remained moved among the graves in silence—faces gray with exhaustion, cloaks burned to threads, hands shaking as they worked. Some knelt alone. Some clung to one another. No names were spoken.

  Grief had become quieter than breath.

  I saw Tom kneeling before a smaller mound of earth, marked only by a scorched Dawnsworn pendant half-buried in the dirt. Jarold knelt before another, broader grave built of stacked stones, his hand resting on the topmost one as if it still held warmth.

  Their clothes were still stained with ash. Their eyes hollowed by smoke and loss.

  The morning wind carried a trace of smoke. Not enough to choke. Just enough to remember.

  I stared at my parents’ stones until the world blurred.

  “I should have been here,” I whispered.

  Tom didn’t answer right away. He brushed his thumb over the pendant before him, a tremor running down his arm. Only then did he lift his head.

  Jarold rose slowly, wiping ash from his cheek with the back of his hand. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tight set of his jaw—usually unbreakable—said everything.

  One by one, the surviving Dawnsworn stepped back from their own graves. They gave me space without leaving me alone. Their presence lingered at the edge of the clearing—shadows of grief and solidarity.

  Only when Tom and Jarold had left their dead behind did they come to stand beside me.

  Jarold stopped at my side. Tom stood just behind him.

  Neither touched me.

  The heat inside my chest had faded with the night, but its echo remained—an ember beneath my ribs, pulsing faintly with every breath. It no longer offered strength.

  Only guilt.

  “They died because I wasn’t here,” I said. “Because I failed.”

  The truth slipped out broken and raw.

  My legs gave way. I dropped to one knee, head bowing until my hair brushed the soil. My fingers dug into the dirt as if I could undo it—as if I could pull them back if I clawed deep enough.

  Tom’s voice cracked. “Ruik… they wouldn’t blame you.”

  I laughed, hollow and empty. “They’re dead. They don’t get to blame anything.”

  Jarold shifted closer, solid as stone. “You lived,” he said. “That means you get to stand again. They’d want that.”

  I didn’t answer.

  A tear slid down my cheek and vanished into the ground.

  Minutes passed. Dawn brightened. Behind us, the remaining Dawnsworn bowed their heads, murmuring final farewells. Some rose. Some stayed kneeling. The world moved on without permission.

  At last, I forced myself to stand.

  My jaw trembled, but I steadied my breath. I turned away from the graves.

  I did not look back.