Stephan stood stiffly between Martin Harrington and Queen Eleanor as the wind tugged gently at the black mourning banners draped along the outer courtyard walls. The sky above Cliffort was a pale, colorless gray, as if even the sun had withdrawn out of respect.
The castle was quiet enough to hear the sound of metal grating and boots squeaking as people shifted in place, while thousands of breaths rose and fell in an uneasy rhythm.
Lord Silas stepped forward in a pristine white uniform, the fabric catching what little light filtered through the clouds.
“Hearken unto me, ye grieving souls…”
His voice carried, calm and resonant. It washed over the crowd and the shifting stopped.
“We are gathered this day to mourn the passing of a great man and a great woman. Their departure is our loss…”
The cadence was familiar. Stephan had heard such words before in Brighthollow, spoken by Lady Clara beside simple wooden coffins lowered into modest earth. A stark difference existed, though. Back home, the praise had been gentle and small: faithful wife, devoted husband, diligent baker, loving father. Their virtue measured in loaves baked, fields tilled, children raised.
Marshal Harrington had lived on a different scale.
Seven hundred and thirty-nine Knights trained under his tutelage. He had executed two dozen warlocks and crushed six would-be bandit lords and three dark rebellions, undead and fiends among their number, all of which were pacified before they could spread.
Brighthollow’s Stephan Cobblerson had heard none of it. In his peaceful little town, in his short life, there had been no talk of warlocks attempting coups. No whispers of fiend-led uprisings. The most urgent crisis had been a roof collapsing in winter.
He glanced sideways at Martin.
The young lord stood straight, jaw clenched so tightly a vein throbbed along his temple. His face was pale but stern. Controlled. Grim violence and quiet heroism had been his reality since birth.
Why didn’t a man like that become the Paladin? Stephan wondered. He was born for the role. And he has both the skill and the education to do it. He has already proven himself in real battles. Why choose me? A nearly illiterate country boy with barely any training?
Why not pick Bernard? He was twice the Paladin I am.
Stephan knew how much progress one could make in a month. He felt it. And not just skills and abilities gained through his class. His reading speed had doubled. He could scan a crowd and count heads without conscious effort. He could spot the subtle tension in shoulders before a hand reached for a blade. His sword grew lighter each day.
Every part of him developed at an incredible rate. But he still believed it was better to pick someone who already had those skills. Who understood the politics holding their kingdom together.
The wind lifted the edge of the white cloth covering Lady Anne’s casket before it settled again, drawing Stephan’s attention.
Lord Silas finished praising the deceased marshal and continued with his wife. Back in Brighthollow, the first thing women were praised for at their funerals was their fine sons and daughters. Not Lady Anne.
Where her husband pacified with sword and shield, she settled disputes and de-escalated conflicts through mediation and negotiation. She held court in her husband’s stead, dealt justice, and listened to petitions, governing the city wisely. She resolved disagreements before they became feuds. Mediated between noble houses, ensuring peace and prosperity.
Sword and shield met word and wisdom. They were the perfect couple. The born rulers of the eastern borderlands.
Movement caught Stephan’s eye. His gaze flicked to Queen Eleanor. Her posture was flawless, spine straight as a spear, but her hands were balled into fists so tight her knuckles had gone white.
She must have known of Lady Anne’s achievements, but hearing them listed made the loss seem even more dire.
Someone lit incense behind Stephan; its sharp sweetness cut through the hot summer air. Finally, after two hours in the baking sun, the ceremony ended, caskets ceremoniously lowered into the ground.
The ropes squealed until polished wood thudded against the earth.
One by one, attendants stepped forward. Martin led, followed by his family, then the Queen. Stephan was behind them, watching them throw handfuls of soil into the pits.
When his turn came, he bent, scooped cool earth into his palm. It thumped softly on the still-covered coffin. He stared at the hole, not for the first time wondering what he was doing in high society, then he turned around.
As he stepped away, his gaze drifted over the crowd.
Five thousand people. A morbid part of him wondered whether they would fill the graves and how long it would take.
There was to be a somber feast; a lavish banquet for the gathered dignitaries, which Stephan would have liked to skip, but couldn’t. He felt it a tactless, bizarre affair, held in the same feasting hall in which Marshal Harrington had breathed his last, with nearly an identical cast of people sitting in nearly identical places.
The same tapestries, the same banners, and the same stone walls that had witnessed the marshal’s final breath awaited.
The central seat at the high table stood empty, as did the one to the right. To the left sat Martin, the new Lord Harrington. Stephan watched him place food, one bit of each dish, into the plates for people no longer there. A sliver of roasted lamb. A spoonful of stewed carrots. A piece of bread. The meal for the ghosts.
I can change this, Stephan repeated like a mantra. It’s not real.
Yet, the pain and loss were. The empty seats before him certainly were real.
Dorian appeared silently at his side and set down a plate.
Stephan glanced at it and found cornbread.
“Thank you.” He looked around and noticed he was the only one with cornbread; everyone else was eating the more luxurious, white-flour kind.
He took a bite, and it was just like in Brighthollow.
It’s like turning back time without anyone forgetting me.
They ate quietly.
Cutlery clinked, chairs creaked, but no laughter. Hardly a few whispers escaped lips before silence swallowed them.
When the meal ended, one by one, the dignitaries approached Martin.
Formal bows. Measured condolences. Words spoken with careful neutrality.
Stephan watched closely.
The only ones really close to Martin were the Bellas and Harringtons; the rest, those who sought him at the party the night before, kept their distance while remaining polite.
The house of Harrington’s standing had plummeted in a single evening. Stephan’s stomach tightened. He wanted to get away, he couldn’t stand the sight. Martin was the son of those two incredible people, their heir, and even if he lacked their power and wisdom, he had potential.
“Lord Harrington,” Stephan approached once everyone was done with him. “I hold immense respect for your father and his competence. He must have trained you hard, and if you don’t mind, I would like you to be my tutor and advisor.”
The indifferent gazes and those who had completely avoided the young man once more focused on him. Martin instantly realized what Stephan meant and inclined his head.
“It would be an honor, Sir Paladin.”
With that, Stephan left the reception, feeling better and lighter. He gained no surge of warmth from his action, but in his own humble view, he had done the right thing. And that mattered more.
Too many levels await the war’s start.
“The feast will last another hour, Sir.” Captain Ernest appeared out of nowhere. “Please take the time to rest before the meeting.”
Right, the meeting!
“Thank you for reminding me. Make sure to invite Lord Martin Harrington.” The jealous gleam in Captain Ernest’s eyes helped add some pep into Stephan’s step, offsetting part of his grim mood. But only a part.
By the time he reached his study, the brief satisfaction had faded, leaving only problems behind. He looked out the window, leaning on the sill. People still queued to pay their final respects to the late Lord and Lady Harrington and cast soil into their graves, but fewer than half of them remained, patiently waiting.
Beyond the walls, the city breathed and buzzed, alive. The sky had cleared, and smoke rose from chimneys. Carts rolled along cobbled streets. Merchants haggled. Life did not pause for grief.
Despite their ruler’s death, most citizens had their daily tasks to perform, and mostly it was the nobles, the influential, and the off-duty soldiers at the funeral.
In the distance, the great temples of War and Knowledge rose above the cityscape. Temples to Trade and Love, while smaller, also stood out. The shrines of the other gods, such as Hunt, which Stephan had noted in his few outings, were housed in humbler buildings indistinguishable from normal houses from afar.
Come to think of it, one of the attendants last night was Cliffort’s chief Priest of War. I wonder if he approves of me taking the mantle of the Marshal of the East? He certainly didn’t argue against it.
Stephan had rested for all of five minutes before a chime drew him away from the window. In the spy-mirror, he saw Dorian coming to the door.
“Pardon me, Sir,” he knocked, “a kitchen girl approached me. The late Lord Marshal told me to find her a job in the kitchens four days ago. He specified she should personally make any cornbread you requested.”
Stephan frowned. The words struck strangely. Dorian’s tone was odd, too. Thoughts, tastes, and memories swirled, and an idea he didn’t dare voice came to him.
“What’s her name?”
Dorian pretended he hadn’t heard the nervous pitch in Stephan’s voice.
“Lacy Potterson, Sir. She arrived five days ago…”
Dorian kept talking about something, but Stephan couldn’t hear him. There was only room for one thought in his mind.
Lacy? Lacy is here, and she remembers me?