I should go to her. Should comfort her. Should be the uncle she needs.
But I can't move. Can't think past the roaring void in my head.
Keira goes instead. She scoops Amisra up, holds the sobbing child against her chest, and carries her away. I watch them disappear down the hallway, my little bird clinging to the only parent she has left now.
And still I just stand there, useless.
The pyre is built in the garden—Daryn's favorite spot, where the aracin blossoms grow wild and reckless. The servants work quickly, stacking wood with practiced hands. Someone strings flowers through the logs. Someone else lights incense that fills the air with sweet, cloying smoke.
A Priestess of the Mother arrives as the sun begins its descent. She's elderly, her silver hair elaborately braided, her violet eyes kind despite the ritual severity of her expression. She moves through the space with quiet authority, blessing the pyre, murmuring prayers to the Thirteen.
Keira appears with Amisra just as the Priestess begins the formal rites. The child's face is blotchy and swollen, her pale eyes red-rimmed and glazed. She doesn't look at me. Won't look at me.
Every time I try to catch her gaze, she turns her face into Keira's shoulder.
Does she blame me? Does she see her father in my face and can't bear it? Or does she know—in that way children sometimes do—that I failed? That I promised to save him and couldn't deliver?
The thought hollows me out further. Carves away everything until there's nothing left but shame and grief and this terrible, aching emptiness.
The Priestess places Daryn's wrapped body on the pyre with help from two servants. Her voice rises, melodic and ancient, speaking words in Old Elvish that I know by heart but can't seem to process. Something about the journey between worlds. About the Thirteen receiving their child home. About peace and rest and?—
I stop listening.
All I can see is that white-wrapped form. All I can think is that he's inside there—my best friend, my brother—and soon there will be nothing left but ash and memory.
The Priestess lights the torch.
Fire catches, spreads, consumes. Orange flames climb toward the darkening sky, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. Heat washes over us in waves. Smoke spirals upward, carrying prayers and incense and whatever remains of Daryn's spirit toward whatever waits beyond.
Amisra starts crying again—quiet, hitching sobs that shake her whole body. Keira holds her tighter, murmuring soft words I can't hear over the roar of flames.
I should go to them. Should put my arms around them both. Should be strong for Amisra, for Keira, for the family Daryn wanted us to be.
But I can't make my feet move. Can't tear my eyes from the pyre. Can't do anything but stand here and watch my brother burn.
The Priestess finishes her prayers. She approaches me, places one aged hand on my shoulder. "He's with the Guide now. At peace."
I nod because that's what you do. Because arguing with a Priestess at a funeral pyre is the height of rudeness.
But I don't believe it. Not really.
Peace is what Daryn deserved in life—years and decades more of it. Peace is watching his daughter grow, seeing her smile, hearing her laugh. Peace is not this.
This is just ending.
The Priestess moves on, offering similar platitudes to the assembled servants. They nod and weep and accept her comfort with more grace than I can manage.
I just stand there until the fire burns low. Until the sun has fully set and stars prick through the velvet sky. Until there's nothing left on the pyre but glowing embers and ash.
Only then do I finally turn away.
Keira has already taken Amisra inside. I find them in the child's bedroom—Amisra curled into a tight ball beneath her blankets, Keira sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking her hair with infinite gentleness.
I linger in the doorway, unsure if my presence is wanted.
Keira glances up. Her hazel eyes are dull with exhaustion and grief, but she doesn't send me away. Doesn't tell me to leave.
So I step inside. Move quietly to the other side of the bed. Reach down to brush my fingers over Amisra's silver-white hair.
