The night air hung heavily with smoke and rain.
The storm had washed the blood from the stones, but it could not rinse away memory. What remained of the wedding altar lay scattered across Silverfall—marble shards fractured by spell fire, vows never spoken, and the faint, stubborn scent of burnt myrrh clinging to the ground.
Talia stood at the center of it all, cloak drawn tight around her shoulders, staring at the ruin that had almost become her grave.
Lucian lingered a few steps behind her, watchful even now. “We can rebuild it when the moon returns.”
She didn’t turn. “No. First, we bury the day.”
The pyres for the fallen burned low at the edges of the clearing. Warriors, guards, innocent names already being etched into memory. Talia bent to light the final taper, intent on ritual, o
