For remembrance.
This whole district is dedicated to honoring the dead.
As such, life feels slower here.
The streets are barren, shops have shorter hours, and instead of a bustling square in its center with merchants and buskers and filled tables, there’s a cemetery.
And in this realm, to these people, death is one of the few things left without celebration.
Not celebrated, but not forgotten either.
In recent months, Ollorans have been given more than a fair bit to remember.
The stone wall stretches on for nearly two blocks before the entry gate comes into view. Cyran steps ahead, taking the lead as we approach. His fingers dance, beckoning the runes to lower the ward over the gate. A wavering gleam ripples down the ward—and along my skin—as dancing runes fall to the foot of the gate.
Peering through as he pushes the gate open, he pauses, scanning the cemetery with heightened scrutiny, silent. Any sight, any sound of an undead construct and I won’t be able to see Cora. I understand the threat, but the damn fae takes his role too seriously.
I can hold my own against the undead.
After an extended moment, Cyran steps around the gate, clearing the way for me to follow. As I enter, he swings the gate shut, raising the ward behind us.
The Moon Temple Mausoleum lies in the center of the cemetery. It’s the largest structure on the grounds. All of Celesta’s devotees rest there. When I first came to visit Cora, I’d mistaken it for a cathedral or some other place of worship—one potentially dedicated to my father.
I’ve never been more relieved to be wrong.
Time-warped rows of headstones stretch into the distance, lining both sides of the gravel path Cyran and I tread. There are more than a few that remain bright white, standing out among those that have become a darkened gray and laden with lichen.
These were all people at one point.
They each had their own thoughts, loves, dreams, and desires.
And I’m sure many of the more pristine headstones wouldn’t exist if Netharis had left this city alone. At least now no additional stones will be placed as the result ofhim.
The cemetery would feel strangely open if it weren’t for the numerous trees and their drooping branches. Bedecked with small, now yellow leaves, the trees appear to rain streams of fine gold toward the ground.
Weeping willows, Cyran had called them.
Appropriate.
If it weren’t for the leaves, the place would lack color. There’s so much gray—the gravel, the aged headstones, the surrounding wall… it’s too much like the veil. Drained of color andlife. If this place is intended to honor the dead, they do the varied and vibrant lives of their loved ones no justice.
And Cora… she was certainly vibrant.
“Cyran,” I call his name and his lavender eyes peer over his shoulder. “When I lived at the temple, there were those who wouldgive Eve grief for her choice in partner because she was human,” I say and his brows crease. “Is it common for fae to scrutinize such pairings?”
He turns his face forward, remaining silent.
Oh.
He’s going to ignore me.
I suck in a breath, a scathing retort upon my tongue—
“Regrettably, even in Erus, those involved in inter-species relationships will always come across those willing to give unsolicited advice and opinions,” he answers, his voice softer than I’d expect.
My retort dies in the same drawn breath.
“It’s gotten better since King Alaryc’s ascension,” he continues, keeping his voice low and eyes forward. “But dismantling centuries of King Thalion’s purist views, especially among fae, takes time.”
