They built the pyre in the clearing where the pines made a high roof.
Open Hands stacked the wood with a quiet that sounded like prayer even when his mouth didn't move.
Bone-Ear fetched resin as if the jar weighed more than glass.
Scar Mouth swore softly at knots that wouldn't behave and then tied them perfect, because it mattered.
Isabella stood by Aaron's body.
Someone had washed him clean and left the hair the way he wore it, short and practical.
The spear wound was hidden under a strip of cloth that everyone knew had no work left to do.
His hands lay on his chest, fingers that had taught and struck and pointed still like tools put away.
“What words?" Bone-Ear asked.
“His," Open Hands said.
They looked at Isabella.
She didn't look away from Aaron when she spoke.
“He said, 'D
