He doesn’t nod or move his mouth, and neither do I. We have learned to keep our silent communication undetectable. He just blinks, and I blink in return, before he turns and takes his seat across the aisle.
The great doors at the back of the prayer hall swing open, and the murmured conversations dissolve into hushed reverence. This time, I do glance over my shoulder. King Silas enters first, his broad shoulders squared, his chin lifted with the self-importance of a man who believes even his grief must be seen as grand. His funeral attire is regal, an embroidered black coat lined with gold threading. His long cloak, edged in dark fur, sweeps the marble floor as he walks, the heavy footfalls of his polished boots echoing in the vast chamber.
Queen Eleanor follows a few steps behind, draped in a flowing gown of deepest obsidian. Black lace veils the bodice, trailing down her arms in sheer, delicate patterns, and a thick band of jet beads circles her throat like a chain. A veil, also black, cascades from an intricate golden comb in her hair, framing a face as pale as moonlight. But beneath all the elegance, she is a woman hollowed by loss. Her movements are slow, deliberate, like someone navigating through an endless fog. Her hands, covered in elegant, black silk, tremble where they clutch at her skirts, and though her gaze is lowered, the sorrow is prominently etched into every strained line of her expression.
Perhaps it is more than that. I can’t help but replay her argument with the king in my mind. This woman is not only grieving the loss of one son, but the many children she never got the chance to hold. And perhaps she is grieving the life she is trapped in, married to a powerful, merciless man who has no respect for her.
Several high-ranking nobles and trusted courtiers flank the king and queen—lords, council members, and the king’s advisors, including Farvis, who keeps his face carefully blank as he escorts them to their seats facing the altar. They take their places with a solemn grace, across from the pedestal where Torbin’s coronet gleams beneath the dim candlelight.
Neither the king nor queen glance my way as they pass. There are no cold, condemning stares, no sharp glares filled with quiet accusations. But their indifference is just as unsettling.
The silence stretches, thick and expectant, until the sound of approaching footsteps shifts the air in the room. Soft singing from a small choir of girls at the back of the room causes everyone to turn their heads. The high priestess enters, her long ceremonial robes whispering against the stone floor, and all eyes remain on her as she travels up the aisle.
She ascends the altar, placing herself behind the podium, and turns to the crowd, her eyes sweeping over us while her face remains stoic. The flowing silver and white of her robes are almost identical to her pulled-back hair. When she lifts her hands in a gesture of quiet reverence, I straighten in my seat, as does the rest of the crowd.
The singing stops, and the stillness in the room is almost too loud.
“The gods thank you for your witness today. It is not only in life that we serve them, but in death as well.” The high priestess’s voice, smooth and unwavering, carries through the great hall. “Beneath the watchful eyes of the gods, we bow our heads to honor the life of His Royal Highness, Prince Torbin Copperhammer. Though his body was lost to the darkness of battle, his spirit lingers in the halls of memory, etched into the hearts of those who knew and cared for him. A prince of strength and ambition, a celebrated hunter, a warrior who fought for his kingdom, and his name shall not be forgotten.”
She pauses, letting the words settle, letting the weight of them press into the stillness. The unease is almost unbearable. I fight the urge to cover my ears and close my eyes.
“Death is but a doorway, a passage into the eternal beyond. We mourn because we are left behind, but those who have passed walk new paths unknown to us. May the gods guide the Ivy Prince with mercy. May they grant him peace. And may those who loved him find solace in the legacy he leaves behind.”
Her gaze sweeps over the gathered crowd, lingering on the king and queen before shifting toward the empty space where a casket should havebeen.
“Let us not dwell in sorrow, but in remembrance. Let us not speak of what was taken, but of what remains. Prince Torbin’s deeds, his victories, his joy, and his trials—all have shaped the course of this kingdom. We honor him today, and always.”
She lowers her hands, signaling the moment of silent reflection, and the hall is swallowed by quiet grief. The stillness worms itself into my stomach and turns it sour.
Almost a minute into the silence, whispers reach my ears. Nadya’s brow scrunches as she turns to look past me. I follow her gaze to find a young woman whispering to her friend, her cold eyes on me. She doesn’t even bother to look away when I match her stare, but when Nadya clears her throat with a menacing edge, both women slink back in their seats, one of them going red in the face and averting her gaze, the other giving Nadya a onceover, as if measuring how much of a threat she might actually be.
I turn away from them, and I catch Nadya clenching her jaw as she faces forward. I let my gaze drift toward Dante, and I see the way he pulls his hands into fists when our eyes meet. Very carefully, I shake my head. His jaw goes rigid, but then he releases a breath and returns his focus to the altar.
When the high priestess speaks again, I tune her out. My thoughts go from the whispering women to my uncle to the fate of my kingdom. It isn’t until King Silas rises from his seat and steps forward, his heavy, black robes trailing behind him like a shadow, that my mind returns to the present. The prayer hall falls into silence, every pair of eyes locked on to the king as he replaces the priestess behind the podium and lifts his chin, his expression a masterful display of solemnity.
“My son,” he begins, his voice deep and steady, “was a man of strength, of honor. Even in his youth, Torbin proved himself worthy of the Copperhammer name. At the rife age of eleven, he downed his first stag. I remember the first time he ever bested a man with his sword—he was but thirteen years old, yet his skill with a blade already surpassed that of grown warriors. And it was not only his strength and hunting skillsthat made him exceptional. It was his loyalty. His devotion to his family.”
His gaze flickers to Dante, and I feel the weight of it between us. “When I first learned I had another son,” he continues, “Torbin was the one who insisted that Dante be brought into our home, that he be given a place among us. He would not see his brother cast aside. He believed in unity, in blood, in the duty of a prince to protect those who belonged to him.”
Dante’s posture is rigid, his jaw clenched as he holds the king’s gaze. I don’t know if it’s grief, guilt, or something else entirely that flickers behind his eyes, but I know this much—Torbin may have once been kindhearted, but that version of him, the one who fought for his brother to be a part of his life, ceased to exist when he became a ruthless, uncaring creature who only used others to benefit himself.
I swallow hard as the king’s voice changes, losing its practiced reverence and taking on a sharper, more cutting edge.
“But Torbin deserved more than this.” His grip tightens on the arms of the podium. “He did not deserve to be lost to the wretched hands of fate. He did not deserve an end so obscene, so unworthy of his station. And if the gods are just, then they will see to it that those who ever held ill will toward my son”—his voice drops to a low growl—“will suffer their wrath.”
His gaze snaps to me, cold and venomous. It’s only a fraction of a second, but I feel it like a blade to my chest. My hands curl into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms.
Fucking lies. All of it.
Torbin was never the golden son the king paints him to be. And Silas himself—his grief is nothing but a performance. He is cruel to his wife. He was cruel to his son. And this was the example Torbin learned from. Now the king stands here, acting as if Torbin had been some beacon of righteousness. As if he didn’t drive his own son into darkness. The hypocrisy and posturing are enough to make my blood boil.
A strange, heated buzz starts low in my chest. My pulse thrums harder. My breathing sharpens. The prayer gallery is too warm, too stifling.
Thunder rumbles, and the windows darken from the approaching clouds.
I shiver, startled by the sudden shift in the air. A gust of wind rushes through the chamber, rattling the heavy drapes and snuffing out several candles at once. The murmurs start almost instantly, heads turning to the ominous clouds that can be seen through the large windows, like a shadow swallowing the sky.
The king keeps speaking, but I barely hear him over the pounding in my ears. My breath comes faster, and the buzzing sensation spreads, tingling at my fingertips. The moment my fury peaks, lightning cracks.
