A rainy day in autumn.

  The sky seemed colder than it had ever been before. The clouds hung low and gray, bleeding softly into the horizon.

  It felt like winter could arrive at any moment — one cold breath away.

  Four men carried Frigg’s coffin upon their shoulders. The wood was dark and polished, glistening with raindrops that slid down like tears. None of them spoke. Their faces shared the same quiet mourning — the solemn unity of those who had carried too many coffins before.

  When they reached the burial ground, they lowered the coffin slowly onto the damp earth. The sound of rain striking the lid was faint but sharp, like a whisper against wood.

  The bishop of Promia stepped forward, his white robes speckled with gray. He raised his hands, and his voice rose against the weeping sky:

  “O Shenrog, Holy Flame of Life,

  One of your embers returns to you today.

  Their fire burned with kindness,

  Their warmth touched those who lived beside them.

  Now the wind has carried their flame home.

  May their soul find rest within your eternal light.

  May their sins turn to smoke,

  And their memories shine like dawn.

  We do not weep for what is gone,

  But bow for what was bright.

  In life, they were warmth.

  In death, they are light.

  O Holy Flame, receive them.”

  His voice trembled slightly on the last line — the way old voices do when they’ve spoken too many farewells.

  Melan?e stood beside him, her eyes sorrowful, her hands clasped tightly before her chest.

  She didn’t cry this time. She couldn’t. The tears had already drained from her the night before. Now, all that remained was the dull ache behind her ribs — the feeling of loss that refused to leave.

  Beside her stood Reid, his small hands buried in his sleeves, staring down at the mud. The reflection of the coffin shimmered in the puddle before his feet. He didn’t say anything — not even when Melan?e gently rested a hand on his shoulder.

  But Lucius was not there.

  He hadn’t stepped outside since yesterday. When they tried to reach him, he had only said — voice hollow, eyes distant —

  “Go. Leave me be.”

  No one could argue with that tone.

  Lexy was there too. She stood among the mourners, her umbrella trembling in her hands. The rain slid down her blonde curls, darkening them to gold-brown streaks. She didn’t really know Frigg — not beyond the way Lucius sometimes spoke about her with a quiet fondness — but she came anyway.

  Because Lucius mattered to her.

  After the prayer ended, Lexy glanced at Reid and approached him softly.

  “Reid,” she whispered, “have you seen Lucius?”

  Reid looked up, his eyes red and tired. “He stayed at home,” he murmured. “He said he wanted to be alone.”

  Lexy nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

  But inside, she already knew what she was going to do.

  Her uncle had died a year ago.

  She remembered the silence, the loneliness that came afterward — the way everyone said “be strong,” but no one stayed when the night came.

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  No one should mourn alone.

  So she left the cemetery, her boots splashing through puddles, and made her way toward Lucius’s home. The rain had softened to a drizzle, but the world still felt heavy — the air filled with that damp, bitter smell of dying leaves.

  When she reached the house, it looked darker than she remembered. The windows reflected nothing but gray.

  She stepped onto the porch and knocked.

  Once. Twice.

  “Lucius? It’s me. Lexy.”

  No answer.

  She waited, shivering slightly. Then she called again, louder this time.

  “Lucius, are you there?”

  Still nothing.

  Her hand hesitated on the door handle — but something inside her urged her forward. She tried it gently, expecting resistance.

  The door creaked open.

  It wasn’t locked.

  A faint chill drifted from inside — colder than the air outside, colder than it should’ve been.

  The scent of burnt candles hung in the air.

  “Lucius…?” she whispered.

  Her voice echoed through the hall.

  No reply.

  She stepped inside. The floor creaked beneath her boots. The rain whispered against the roof, distant now, muted — as though the house itself was holding its breath.

  And somewhere deeper within, in the shadowed room where the last candle still flickered, something waited.

  She felt it before she saw anything —

  a pulse.

  A presence.

  It seeped from somewhere above, heavy and cold, pressing against her skin like invisible weight. The air was thick, humming with something that wasn’t quite sound — an aura, dark and alive.

  Her throat went dry.

  Still, she moved.

  Step by step, Lexy climbed the staircase. Each board creaked beneath her trembling feet. The higher she went, the heavier the air became — until it felt as if the house itself was warning her to turn back.

  But she didn’t.

  Because Lucius was her friend.

  And friends don’t leave each other in the dark.

  By the time she reached the last step, her legs refused to move. Her breath came out in shaky bursts, and her heart hammered against her chest.

  Don’t stop now.

  She gritted her teeth and pushed herself forward — one final step.

  The room before her was dim. The shutters were half-closed, letting in only slivers of light that painted pale lines across the floor. The air smelled faintly of ink and ash.

  It was the alchemy room.

  And in the center stood a table.

  On it — a book.

  Open.

  The aura poured from it like mist. Thick. Unnatural. Almost alive. The pages fluttered slightly though there was no wind. Strange symbols filled the parchment — jagged, swirling, nothing she could understand.

  She stepped closer, trembling.

  And then—

  the aura vanished.

  Just like that. The room fell utterly silent.

  She froze, staring.

  No movement.

  No Lucius.

  The only sound left was her own breath.

  “Lucius…?” she whispered again, barely a sound.

  No answer.

  Her eyes darted around — the empty shelves, the cold vials, the still air. He was nowhere.

  Panic clawed up her throat.

  She turned and bolted down the stairs, her footsteps echoing through the hollow house.

  By the time she stepped outside, the drizzle had stopped. The world felt muted — like even the rain had paused to listen.

  She ran.

  Back at the funeral ground, the last of the ceremony was ending.

  It was Melan?e’s turn to place her rose upon the coffin.

  In Priscilla, it was tradition — each mourner left a rose upon the departed, a symbol of warmth returning to the flame.

  Melan?e’s steps were slow. Her eyes were red, her face calm but tired beyond words. She knelt beside the coffin and laid her rose gently across the wood.

  Then she turned to Reid and took Arttu into her arms.

  The baby blinked, reaching with his tiny hand toward the rose she held.

  “Go on,” she whispered softly.

  She lowered Arttu toward the coffin, helping him release the flower. It fell gently beside the others — a final touch of innocence upon a life now gone.

  Melan?e smiled weakly and lifted him back up—

  Then a voice broke through the crowd.

  “Lucius isn’t at his home!”

  Heads turned.

  Lexy was running toward them, her breath ragged, her eyes wide with fear. Mud splattered her dress, her hands trembling.

  She stopped in front of Melan?e, gasping. “He’s gone— I looked everywhere. He’s gone!”

  The funeral ground fell silent.

  The rain began again — slow, steady, like the sky itself was listening.