The bells began before dawn, deep and unrelenting, echoing through every street and stone. Their tolling pressed down on the city like grief given voice. From my window, I had watched the people gather—black and silver cloth draped from windows, candles burning on steps, flowers scattered like fragile offerings.
By the time I joined the procession, the sound had burrowed into my bones. Each peal was another reminder that she was gone. That we would carry her only once more, and then never again.
The bier moved slowly through the streets, petals catching on the wheels, banners heavy in the still air. Mother’s body lay within a crystal coffin, her face serene, her hands folded. Light caught on the facets, turning her into something more than mortal—though I knew better. She had been flesh and blood, laughter and warmth, secrets and sorrow. She had been mine.
My father walked on my left. I had not seen him since that day three nights ago—too late, too late. His armor still bore the dents of battle, though his face bore the heavier wounds. He looked years older, skin drawn, eyes hollow. He hadn’t been there when she slipped away. He hadn’t held her hand when the last of the Goddess’s light left her veins.
His hand brushed mine as we walked, calloused fingers trembling. I wanted to take it, to anchor him, but I couldn’t. His guilt was a wall, pressing him inward, and I could feel how it ate at him.
At the temple steps, my aunt—the High Priestess, her twin—waited. I had always thought her unshakable, the firm stone of the Gods altar. But as the coffin was lifted toward her, her composure fractured. She staggered, her lips trembling, her hands reaching as if to catch her sister’s spirit from slipping through.
“She was half of me,” she whispered, her voice breaking for all to hear. “How do I live with half a soul?”
No priest answered. No chant soothed. Even the Gods themselves were silent.
We bore the coffin inside, the air thick with incense. The walls flickered with candlelight, shadows bending as though even flame grieved. The priests lined the altar, their voices rising in the Hymn of Passing—low at first, then weaving upward, a sound like mourning turned to prayer.
A sacred flame was lit, the Fire of Continuance, to guide her to the halls of the Gods. Water from the temple springs was poured over her still hands, a return to the source. Her homeland Theros. Petals rained from the High Priestess’s trembling grip, pale as snow, until her knees buckled and attendants rushed to steady her.
My turn came.
The crown weighed heavy in my arms—her crown, my mother’s. I approached the crystal coffin, each step harder than the last. My fingers shook as I set it upon her chest, the metal cold against her silk gown. For a moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. If I stayed still, maybe she would open her eyes. Maybe she would rise, laugh softly, scold me for crying in front of everyone.
But she didn’t.
Tears blurred my vision as I stepped back. My father moved forward then, his hand gripping the coffin as if he could shake life back into it. His voice, hoarse and breaking, spilled into the temple.
“I should have been here,” he said, not to us, not to the court, but to her. “I should never have left you. I should never have let you die alone.”
The sound of his grief hollowed the chamber. Even the priests faltered in their chant. His shoulders shook, his body bent under the weight of his failure, and for the first time in my life, I saw my father as less than a king—just a man undone by love and guilt.
I wanted to go to him, to lay a hand on his arm, but my feet would not move. My grief had rooted me where I stood.
Adrian’s hand found my elbow. To the watching eyes, it was a gesture of steady support, the perfect ally. To me, it was another weight I could neither welcome nor shake. I let him hold me upright, though every part of me wanted to collapse.
The rites went on. The chants built, a wave of sound that swelled and broke, until at last silence reclaimed the temple. The High Priestess gave the final blessing, her voice raw and shaking, then pressed her forehead to the coffin for one long, unbearable moment.
The tomb was sealed in white stone veined with black sigils, a barrier between us and her forever. The bells tolled once more—slow, final, the sound of a door closing.
The crowd murmured prayers. The nobles offered condolences like brittle coins. My father stood stiff, hollow-eyed. Adrian guided me down the steps, his presence a shield and a tether both.
But as soon as I could, I slipped away. Past the whispers. Past the watchful eyes. Past even Adrian.
I closed myself in my chambers and slid down the door, my body shaking, my throat raw. The sobs tore free, ugly and unrestrained, the kind I had buried all day for fear of shattering in front of them all.
When I could breathe again, I dragged myself to my desk. My fingers found the drawer by memory, pulling free the worn parchment. A letter, written years ago when I was still at the temple, still learning what it meant to be a healer.
Dearest Kira, it read in her elegant hand. The temple will test you, but you are stronger than you know. Do not let their lessons dull your spirit. You are fire and mercy both, and I love you beyond every star.
The words blurred as my tears fell. I pressed the letter to my chest, curling around it as though I could fold myself into her voice, into her love.
Outside, the kingdom mourned its queen.
Inside, I mourned my mother.
And the silence swallowed me whole.
—-
The days bled together.
At first, I counted them by the tolling of the bells at dusk. Then I stopped, because each note pressed heavier against me, reminding me that time went on when I could not. The sun rose, the sun set, and I remained here, shuttered away, waiting for something that would never return.
I did not leave my room.
I sat on the floor, on the bed, by the desk—it made no difference. My hands always found the parchment, the old letter, worn soft at the edges. My mother’s hand, her slanted script, her voice caught between the ink strokes. I love you beyond every star. I read it until the words blurred. Until I wasn’t sure if I hated them or if they were the only thing keeping me from breaking apart.
Sometimes, I pressed the page to my chest and imagined warmth there. Her warmth. Other times, I dug my nails into it, half a heartbeat from tearing it in two.
The Goddess stirred faintly in my veins when I wept, like light reaching for cracks. I despised it. I craved it. Every flicker felt like her, and every flicker was proof she was gone.
Fennie came each morning.
The first day, she held a single letter. “From Lord Adrian,” she murmured, hesitant. “He asks after your health. He fears for you.”
“Burn it,” I whispered.
She hesitated. “Princess—”
“Burn it.”
She bowed and left, clutching the letter as if it burned her.
The second day, there were three. One from Adrian again. One from Cassian. One from Kai. Fennie laid them on the desk by the untouched tray of food.
I did not touch either.
By evening, they were gone.
The third day, she brought only two. She lingered, her knuckles white around the parchment. “No letter from Sylas,” she said softly.
Her words cut deeper than I wanted to admit. He hadn’t written. Not once.
I turned my face away. “Leave me.”
Fennie’s footsteps faltered, but she obeyed.
The days kept coming. I stopped opening the curtains. Dust gathered in the corners. I stayed in the same gown until the silk clung to me, wrinkled and worn. My meals went cold, then stale, then disappeared, carried away untouched.
The letters multiplied. From Adrian, always Adrian—his script too bold, his tone too polished, his concern too constant. From the council, pressing me for guidance, for decisions. From nobles, vying for favor. From old friends, from soldiers at the front.
“Back to them all,” I said each time.
Even my father’s hand came once, his name on the fold. I couldn’t bring myself to break the seal. It lay on the desk with the rest until Fennie silently removed it.
I began to fear the moment each morning when she arrived. The knock, the soft creak of the door, the rustle of parchment in her hands. And still, each day, I forced my voice steady: “No.”
And each night, I clutched the one letter I could not refuse. The old one, the only one. My mother’s words bled into me until I wasn’t sure where they ended and I began. Sometimes, in the half-light, I saw her face when I closed my eyes, not as a queen or a vessel of the Goddess, but as my mother—smiling, strong, whole.
And in those moments, I felt her inside me, as if I had inherited not just her crown but pieces of her soul. It terrified me. It comforted me.
I don’t know how many days passed like that. The world narrowed to ink and parchment, grief and silence. Until at last, I wasn’t sure if I was mourning her…or becoming her.
Then even Fennie’s presence became too much.
At first, I let her come and go—silent, steady, leaving trays of food I never touched and carrying away letters I never opened. But one morning, when she knocked softly and eased the door open, I snapped, “Leave.”
“Princess,” she tried gently, “at least—”
“Go.”
She obeyed.
The next day, she returned, her arms full of letters, her face etched with worry. “Please, Princes—”
“Out,” I hissed, louder this time, my chest heaving. “I don’t want them. I don’t want anyone.”
Her lips trembled. She set the letters down by the door, as if offering them to a shrine, and slipped away.
By the third day, I no longer answered her knock at all. I pressed my back to the door until her footsteps faded, refusing even the sound of her voice.
It was easier that way. Easier to sink into the silence. Easier to let the world rot beyond these walls.
But Fennie did not give up. I heard her whispering outside one evening, her voice low, urgent. Then footsteps, heavier this time, fading down the corridor.
She was going to him. To my father.
And for the first time in days, my hands shook—not from grief, but from the dread of being dragged back into a world I wanted no part of.
I knew what Fennie had done the moment the echo of her lighter steps was replaced by a firmer tread. My heart lurched painfully in my chest. Not him. Anyone but him.
“Princess?” Adrian’s voice carried through the wood, too smooth, too composed. A false gentleness layered over something sharper. “You’ve locked yourself away long enough. Open the door. Let me help you.”
I sat frozen on the edge of my bed, the letter clutched in my lap. Help me? The words made me want to laugh—or scream. He knew nothing of the kind of help I needed.
His hand pressed against the door. “Kira, this silence… it isn’t healthy. You must let someone in. You must let me in.” His tone hardened, the patience thinning. “Don’t make me stand out here like a stranger.”
I stared at the door, throat tight, but said nothing.
Fennie’s soft voice rose from the corridor. “Duke Lanovo, please. She doesn’t want to see anyone.”
Adrian exhaled sharply, the sound of a man restraining his temper. “And you think letting her waste away in the dark is better?”
“She needs time,” Fennie whispered back, firm though her voice shook. “Leave her be. Please.”
For a long moment, he lingered. I felt the weight of his presence like a shadow pressing in. Then, at last, his footsteps retreated—measured, but edged with irritation.
Only when the silence returned did I breathe again, my whole body trembling.
But Fennie’s whispers came again that evening, drifting just beyond the wood of my door. Urgent. Desperate. And then the heavier steps, steady, deliberate, that followed.
My father was coming.