The heavy wooden door of the carriage creaked shut, sealing Theron in its dim, opulent confines. He sank into the plush crimson cushions, fingers tracing the embroidered sigils of House Draven. The light outside the winding streets of Aetheria casting long shadows through the narrow window slits. The muffled sounds of grief seeped in, whispers of prayers and cries of loss.

  Theron moved the curtain of his window slightly so he could see the crowd packed into every corner, rooftop and street. Their faces streaked with tears, hands clasped in prayer, voices rising in desperate unison for their king. Women wailed, men knelt with foreheads pressed to the ground, some clutching flickering candles. Children clung to their mothers, wide-eyed.

  Theron’s hand moved from the curtain as his grip tightened on the armrest, knuckles pale, as he turned away. The carriage felt suffocating, the voices outside rising in an endless, grinding hum. His eyes darkened as he leaned back, tapping his knee in a restless rhythm.

  “Adviser Kharis,” he called out, his voice cutting through the thick air like a blade. “Is everything ready at the graveyard?” Theron continued, his tone edged with a hint of irritation. “I don’t want to waste time standing around once we arrive.”

  Across from him, his fathers most trusted adviser sat with his head bowed, hands folded in his lap, his expression a mask of composed grief.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Kharis replied, choosing his words with the precision of a man who had long learned the art of diplomacy. “The Grand Overseer and the temple priests have already gathered. Everything is in place for the ceremony. They await only our arrival.”

  Theron nodded curtly, his gaze returning to the window as if willing the carriage to move faster. “Good. Then let’s pick up the pace and not keep them waiting,” he muttered.

  “Your Highness,” he said cautiously, “the people... they mourn the King. It would be wise to show them patience, a sign that you share in their grief.”

  Theron shifted in his seat, the distant murmur of prayers gnawing at his patience. His eyes, stormy and resolute, locked onto Kharis. He leaned forward; the air thick with unspoken tension, “And what about the coronation?”

  “Your Highness?” Kharis replied, his face with surprised expressions, like he didn’t expect such a question.

  “How soon can we get it done?” He clasped his hands together, "Tomorrow?" his fingers laced in a gesture of absolute calm, belying the urgency simmering beneath.

  The adviser’s eyes widened in shock, and he hesitated, choosing his words with care. “It is customary to observe a mourning period of seven days before the coronation, as per tradition. It shows respect to the late King and gives time for the rulers of neighboring kingdoms to arrive and…”

  “Traditions change, announce the coronation in three days” Theron interjected, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes gleaming with a glint. “Much has to change,” his voice dropping further as he sat back, his gaze distant, as if seeing something no one else could perceive.

  Kharis opened his mouth to protest but paused to choose his words carefully with the Crown Prince, “But, Your Highness,” he began gently, “The kings from farther kingdoms and lords of towns far away won’t reach Aetheria in time for the ceremony. It would be seen as…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Theron interrupted, his voice sharp. “The King of the Capital of the world shouldn’t wait for lesser kings.” His words hung heavy, underscoring his ambition.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Kharis replied, his voice resigned. Kharis’ gaze drifted to the window, lingering on the mourning crowd. His shoulders tensed slightly. He saw the carriages surrounding them, Elara’s with its curtains drawn tight, and behind it, the grand carriage carrying the King’s body, draped in deep indigo and silver. The people reached out, their hands grazing the air as if they could touch the spirit of their fallen king.

  The cries grew louder as they passed, a deafening roar of grief. Theron’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening. Their sorrow pressed in on him like a dark nameless feeling stirred in his chest, frustration, maybe something else he couldn’t grasp.

  “They weep as if the world has ended,” he muttered, more to himself than to Kharis.

  “King Eldrion was a beloved ruler,” Kharis said quietly. “He was the heart of this kingdom.”

  “Perhaps,” Theron replied flatly. “But a heart cannot beat forever.” His eyes turned distant, calculating, as the Royal Necropolis came into view. Its towering stone pillars cast long shadows over the land.

  The carriage rolled on, and the cries of the people faded into a distant echo.

  ***

  The sun hung low in the autumn sky, casting a golden glow over the Royal Graveyard. The air was thick with the scent of fallen leaves and damp earth, as if the world itself mourned King Eldrion’s passing. Tall trees, their leaves ablaze in orange and crimson, stood as solemn sentinels, their branches whispering in the wind.

  Arion stood among them; his heart restless beneath the calm facade he wore. The ceremonial robes of the Custodians weighed heavily on his shoulders. Beside him, Grand Overseer Omid Faris held himself with quiet authority, his face unreadable as he stood alongside Masters of the Temple, Rezar who stared down the path in silent frustration along with the Master Healer and Master of Scribes nearby; their whispered conversation laced with tension.

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  “It’s an insult to the Temple,” the Master Healer muttered. “Denying our healers access to the King and then forcing them out —Prince Theron must answer for this!”

  The Master of Scribes nodded; his expression tight. “It’s unheard of. The Temple has always been at the King’s side. Refusing to let the healers help him in his final moments... What was the meaning of this?”

  Grand Overseer Faris raised a steady hand, “Enough. I will speak to the prince, but not now. This is the burial of our King. We will not stain this day with conflict. He deserves our respect, and his final journey must be a peaceful one.”

  Arion’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing with thoughts. The Grand Overseer’s words rang true, but the brazenness of Theron’s actions lingered like a bitter taste. It wasn’t merely an insult; it was a breach of the sacred respect that bound the temple and the crown. Yet, there was nothing to be done now, not here, not with the solemn duty of the burial before them. He nodded in agreement with his father, though his heart was far from settled.

  “And the Princess?” he asked, unable to keep the concern from his voice. His gaze flitted to the far end of the graveyard, where the procession would soon arrive. “Have we heard of her?”

  Rezar glanced at him, “Our healers reported, even Princess was denied seeing her father's body.” His voice trailed off; the unspoken worry heavy between them.

  “They’re here,” whispered Master of Scribes, his eyes widening as his gaze pointed down the path.

  All heads turned as the sound of hooves and the rumble of wheels on cobblestone echoed through the stillness of the graveyard. The first royal carriage came into view, draped in silver and indigo, bearing the body of King Eldrion. Behind it, the second carriage, smaller and more ornate, carried Princess Elara. Arion’s heart leapt into his throat, his eyes searching desperately through the small windows.

  Then he saw Elara, sitting still and composed, her face pale but resolute. Her dark hair was pulled back, and even from this distance, he could see the grief that lined her features, the sadness that had dulled the light in her eyes. It took everything in him not to rush to her side, to offer some comfort in this storm of loss and confusion.

  The third carriage followed, the largest of them all, and Arion’s gaze shifted reluctantly to its occupant. Theron, Arion’s jaw tightened. Whatever reasons he had for his actions against temple healers offer to help the King, would have to wait.

  “Remember, this is not the time,” Faris whispered again, as if sensing Arion’s and rest of temple masters' rising anger. “We will handle this after the burial.”

  Arion nodded, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. But as the carriages came to a stop, and the royal guards began to file out, the sense of unease gnawed at him like a predator circling its prey.

  The King’s body, shrouded in fine silk and adorned with the emblems of Aetheria’s royal lineage, lay in the open casket at the head of the grave. His face, pale and serene, seemed almost to be at peace, as if the weight of the kingdom had finally lifted from his weary shoulders. Arion’s gaze lingered on the King’s still form, a man he had only seen from afar, yet whose presence had been a constant pillar in his life. He glanced around, noting the gathered nobles and dignitaries, the sorrow etched in their faces like the lines of a tragic play.

  Grand Overseer Faris stepped forward, raising his hands as a hush fell over the crowd. The breeze caught at his robes, making them billow like the wings of a great bird, and when he spoke, his voice was a low, resonant murmur that seemed to echo through the trees.

  “O Eternal Aether, Guardian of our world and Keeper of our souls, we stand here today to return our King to your embrace. Eldrion Draven, who ruled with strength and wisdom, has departed this life, but his spirit remains among us, in the wind that whispers through these leaves, in the earth beneath our feet, and in the hearts of those who loved him. We ask that you guide him safely on his journey to the hereafter, where the burdens of the mortal world no longer weigh upon him.”

  He paused, eyes closed, the lines of his face softening as he finished the prayer. “May the light of the Aether illuminate his path, and may our love carry him to peace in your eternal sanctuary.”

  A low murmur of assent rose from the mourners, a hum of grief carried on the wind. Across the grave, Elara stood in a black dress that seemed to swallow the light. Her head bowed, a delicate veil covering her hair, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. When she looked up, her eyes met Arion’s, raw pain cutting through him like a blade.

  The casket was lowered with slow, deliberate care, for it was more than just wood and flesh, it bore the weight of a kingdom’s sorrow. One by one, mourners stepped forward, releasing white petals like snow against dark earth. Elara hesitated before letting hers fall, watching them flutter before settling on the coffin.

  Arion followed; his own flowers clenched tight. As he scattered them, he whispered a silent prayer for peace, for strength, for the days ahead. The petals swirled before resting over the King’s grave like a final, fragile offering.

  Arion stepped back beside the Grand Overseer, his attention drawn to Theron approaching on the other side, standing with his father. His gaze was distant and unreadable—until he finally spoke, his voice slicing through the stillness.

  “The healers won’t be necessary for my mother's treatment anymore,” he said. “The results have been atrocious, and I’d rather not have temple ears in my palace.”

  Arion stiffened, his gaze snapping to the Prince’s face. The words were blunt, the tone dismissive. Grand Overseer Faris, ever composed, inclined his head slightly.

  “The way the healers were thrown out of the palace was unheard of, Your Grace. But we understand that you must be distressed and acted out of emotion.” Omid responded.

  Theron’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into something that resembled a cold smile. “The Overseer holds no authority to question the King.” His voice was low, dangerous, a challenge in every syllable. “Remember, the Temple serves at the Crown’s pleasure —not the other way around.”

  "I have had the pleasure of working with King Eldrion for more than 30 years, your grace." Grand Overseer Omid’s replied, his expression remained calm but Arion saw the tension in his father's posture, the way his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

  “It is important that the future King and the Temple remain on good terms,” Omid said carefully. “For the sake of the kingdom.”

  Theron’s face remained blank, “My coronation is in three days,” he said, his words dropping like stones into a still pond. “The Temple is not invited.”

  A murmur rippled through the close-by gathered templars and mourners, shock and confusion mingling with grief. Arion’s heart pounded as he stared at Theron, unable to believe the audacity of his words. But Theron had already turned away, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with a cold indifference.

  Without another word, he strode back toward his carriage, signaling the royal guards to follow. The murmurs grew louder, a wave of uncertainty spreading like a dark cloud.

  Arion’s eyes found Elara once again. She stood frozen, her shoulders shaking as silent tears streaked her face. Then, as if feeling his gaze, she looked at him—just once, a fleeting, heartbreaking glance filled with sorrow, fear, and helplessness.

  And then she too was gone, swept away with the procession.

  Arion stood rooted in place, the scent of fallen leaves and the sight of white petals covering the fresh grave filling his senses.

  ***