The air smelled of honeysuckle and death. Wren stared down at the jewel-encrusted box that held her brother’s body. The stench of decay battled against the floral scents of her family’s estate. The foul smell won. The salt and dried flowers the academy ambassadors likely packed his body in did nothing to disguise the rot that had developed during the two weeks at sea.
Two men stood on either side of the casket. One at attention, the other fidgeting with a pocket watch. Wren’s father held her weeping mother a step down from where Wren stood at the apex of the estate’s entrance. The duchess had collapsed in her husband’s arms as soon as a servant rushed the family outside.
Guilt and sorrow sank into Wren’s bones like a cold chill. She could barely keep her feet beneath her as the weight of her parents' emotions smothered her. She swallowed down the unbearable agony and met the eyes of the man standing stiff as a board in all yellow. It was a custom on the Wild Holm to wear pale yellow when a pure soul died, but this man had the look of one from Stonemouth with his braided beard and black warrior markings on his exposed arms.
“Ivanhild,” Wren said. The man’s thick gray eyebrows rose in recognition. “You trained my brother in weaponry.”
A wave of grief slammed into her. He must have cared a great deal for Heron. Wren’s Curse didn’t lie.
Ivanhild dipped his chin. “Yes, Lady Kalyxi. Your brother was a promising young warrior. The most righteous man to ever grace the halls of the academy.”
The duchess let out a high-pitched keen that reverberated through Wren. Her muscles began to ache with the weight of despair pressing in on her from all sides. She steeled her focus on the conversation at hand.
“He spoke kindly of you the last time he was home,” she said softly. “He told me you were his favorite instructor.”
Ivanhild’s jaw clenched. His pale green eyes shone with tears.
“I am unworthy of such high praise.”
The other man with him, who was dressed in brown trousers and a white shirt that was half-untucked, chose this moment to speak up.
“There is no appropriate way of making introductions during such a grievous time.” He flipped open the gold case of his pocket watch, then clicked it closed again. “My name is Aurelian Dalensworth. My colleague, Ivanhild Dorn, and I have come to express the academy’s great sorrow at the loss of your son.”
Wren’s mother wailed. Her father made soft shushing sounds and rubbed circles on the duchess’s back. No one reached for Wren. The only one who would have was now a corpse.
“What happened?” The Duke of Riverwild did not ask, but rather demanded an answer.
“His body was found on the edge of the forest,” Ivanhild said. “We believe one of the cryptura attacked him.”
Wren’s stomach heaved at the thought of her brother ripped open and left for dead. The putrid stink of his body filled her nose with each short breath. Her ribcage fought against hercorset. Ivanhild’s pond green eyes were lined with concern as he watched her.
“Why was he alone near the forest? Aren’t you supposed to keep our children safe?” Wren’s father barked.
Aurelian tugged on the sleeves of his shirt, then adjusted the collar. “The academy cannot be held responsible for the actions of the adult students. While we express our deepest condolences–”
“Your words mean nothing to me!” The duke shouted. Wren flinched as his anger seared her as if she were suspended above an open flame. “My heir is dead.”
Ivanhild bowed his head. “Please forgive my colleague, Your Grace. While the academy may not accept responsibility for the loss of your son, I will. Whatever punishment you see fit for my neglect, I will bear.”
Aurelian stared at his companion in disbelief. No doubt the man had never sacrificed for anyone other than himself before. The duke looked just as surprised and had no weapon to wield against the humble instructor.
“You will aid in the burial rite,” Wren’s father spoke over the sound of her mother’s now softer weeping. “That is your recompense.”
Ivanhild raised his head, then crossed two fists over his chest. “I accept.” The symbol was one Wren recognized from Stonemouth, where she originally suspected he hailed from. She’d read about it in a history book not long ago. It was a sign of great respect.
“You–” The duke looked at Ivanhild. “May stay as a guest on our grounds. Your colleague,” he spat the word. “Will have to find somewhere on the island.”
Aurelian looked at Ivanhild with fire in his gaze. Indignation careened into Wren like a strong wind off the coast.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Ivanhild replied, then gestured for Aurelian to follow him back to the black carriage.
The two spoke in hushed tones for a moment before Ivanhild retrieved two handled cases out of the carriage. One was black with the academy insignia, the other made Wren’s chest tear open with longing. Ivanhild walked up the estate steps and held out the scuffed brown bag to Wren. She took it with shaking hands.
“Aurelian will retrieve the rest of Heron’s belongings from the ship and bring them at first light tomorrow. This case holds the contents of his desk.”
Wren clutched it to her sternum as though it would prevent her heart from spilling out.
“Let me help my wife retire, then I will meet you in the parlor room for discussion,” the duke said. He didn’t so much as spare a glance at Wren. All of his attention was directed toward his wife. Wren’s mother was pale, the only color in her expression being the red rim of her eyes. She stared at the bejeweled casket while being dragged away.
