People gathered on both sides of the streets of Brigsar. Young and old, from men and women of various occupations to children playing on the streets. Even babies in the embrace of their parents and decrepit old men leaning on their canes. The overcast skies above rumbled with a faint peal of distant thunder, drizzling rain down on them. But still, no one stayed home. No one could.

They had to come out, and it bothered none of them.

 

Celebrations may be unusual in their war trodden border city, but mourning certainly wasn’t.

 

The persistent but low hubbub died out in waves as they appeared beyond the giant city gates. The defeated army. The hundred beaten and bruised figures refused to lift their heads and face the eyes of the people of the city as they stepped inside. Their shame was not because of their defeat. No. Winning or losing small skirmishes like the one they had fought was fairly common for it to have any lasting impact on the city, but this time they had lost much more than that. The life of their young captain, the rising hero of Brigsar, Rehan Moras was so much more.

 

Worse, after the then heir of the house of Moras, Sena Moras had returned ill from the queen’s quest, he had been the only capable scion left who could take over that role. He had been a qualified leader, too. The hostilities from the neighbouring kingdom of Rukenberk had experienced a rise in the recent year, and he had proved himself as a promising knight and a tactician in the campaigns against them, winning the position of a Knight Enigma.

 

And the soldiers, they couldn’t protect him, losing him to a stray arrow in a worthless skirmish that should’ve been by all accounts, an easy victory. How can they not be ashamed?

 

As a company of new and inexperienced soldiers out on their training facing their second ever battle, his death caused panic to rise. The rest of the chain of command also failed to rally the troops. They fell apart, losing almost a hundred of their men and only escaping with their tails between their legs. So many lives lost because of sheer incompetence! No, they had no courage to face the families of those people, to face the accusing eyes of those mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, wives and children.

 

So they marched in grim silence and let the rain wash away their tears.

 

Robert Moras stood straight, jaws hardened, face impassive, but a slight hint of weariness still seeped through from the corner of his eyes as the four soldiers lowered the casket from their shoulder onto the paved floor of the castle courtyard. As they backed away to stand with the rest of the city folk at the end of the courtyard, he finally turned to look at his brother, Elric Moras.

 

The other man also followed his example, trying to remain as impassive as possible, but it was difficult for him to even stand straight with only one leg. But he still didn’t break his posture.

 

A grey-robed, slightly plump old man stepped forward. The head priest of the temple of Mamon. Him personally coming down to perform the rites was a rare sight, but not for the house of Moras. His acolyte kneeled beside the casket and removed the lid as he prepared, setting up the ingredients for the ceremony.

 

A violent tremor ran through Elric’s body as he stared down at the youth laying inside. If not for the gaping arrow wound at the side of his head, his son might as well have been sleeping peacefully. He opened his mouth, wanting to call out his son’s name and maybe jolt him awake, but before any sound could escape from his throat, a firm yet gentle hand landed on his shoulder, stabilizing both his body and mind. He looked back at the sighing face of his brother and lowered his head.

 

The time for mourning wasn’t here yet.

 

Thick sticks of incense burned on four sides of the casket. The light drizzle didn’t seem to affect them much, instead adding its own flavour with the scent of lilac hanging thick on the humid air. It smelt like loss. The head priest began his ceremony with the hymn of Mamon, waving his oaken staff in a gentle rhythm in front of the deceased. The first rites before the ceremony of departure. Only after it ended, Robert, Elric and the rest of the family waiting inside the castle could begin the true mourning.

 

Thunder crackled along with the downpour outside of Robert’s study. A damp chill seeped through the smooth stone walls. It settled on the surface of the rug, the books and documents stacked neatly on the shelves, and the other few well placed practical furniture around the room. The huge hearth that usually kept the room warm in such days remained dark and quiet, stressing the bleakness farther. The Gloom, seven days of suffering after the last rites of the dead, was a harsh tradition, and only under extreme circumstances should it ever be broken.

 

And the chill. It wasn’t enough for that.

 

The candlestick stood crooked on the oaken desk of the study. The shimmering flame on it lent a gentle yellow light on the last piece of vellum in Robert’s hand as he gave it one last look. He sighed, folding it neatly, and placed it inside an envelope. He took off his signet ring and scrutinised the willow leaf design etched into it. Their house insignia. A chill in his heart overpowered the chill of the room.

 

So he was doing this!

 

He closed his eyes, hesitating a moment before setting his jaws firm. He fetched the red stick of sealing wax from his drawer and held it to the candle flame, melting its tip. He dropped one drop each on the four envelopes in front of him, then pressed down the signet ring on them.

 

“Hubrik!” The door to the study opened at his call, and his steward, an unassuming old man of short stature and bald pate, entered the room.

 

“My lord.” the man bowed.

 

Robert pushed the four envelopes towards him. “Send them out.”

 

Hubrik picked the letters up and studied them. He had worked for this family for ever since he was a child. And as a man privy to all sorts of affairs of the household, the message contained within these wrappers was well within his knowledge. And having seen Sena grow up, having taken care of her, taken care of this glorious family, he found it especially hard to accept.

 

“Are you certain, my lord?” he asked. “Not only would it be demeaning for the family, but that child… you are pushing her in a pit.”

 

Sighing, Robert leaned back in his chair. “You know the circumstances we currently face,” he said, running his fingers over a stack of scrolls at one side of the desk. The reports sent by informants from all over Clover. “A storm is brewing all over Clover. A huge storm, with the queendom caught right in the middle of it. If only the Scarva family didn’t abandon us over that incident, we could…” He sighed.

 

“No need to mention those traitors, sire,” Hubrik grumbled. “Lady Sena did the right thing, sending their useless son of theirs away from her entourage. Who knows what danger he could’ve brought upon her with his ignorance?”

 

“And did that make her any safer?” Robert growled. Remembering the day Sena came back two months ago still made his blood boil. House Scarva may not have been equal to them in power, but as a merchant noble house, they were far wealthier. They had been the primary source of income for their city as well as the supplier of food, quality weapons and armours and other necessities for their border army. The logistical matters of the army garrisoned within the city had also been their responsibility. Their departure from Brigsar had harmed the very foundation of the army. And now with the recent loss of Rehan...

 

“We have no other choice,” He said, shaking her head. “Right now what we need more than keeping our pride is a firm support.”

 

Hubrik sighed, his aged voice carried a hint of defeat. “As you see fit. I am a mere servant. I hardly may fault you.” He turned around and walked towards the door. But before he could exit, his feet stopped. “Lady Sena… her condition is no secret to the people of the queendom. Even if any of these houses accept the proposal, would they be willing to give her any status other than a concubine?”

 

“HUBRIK!” Robert’s voice was colder and harder than the granite blocks that made up the castle. “You are right. You have no business questioning the decisions of this household. Just do what you are told. Deliver those damn letters.”

 

Hubrik clenched his teeth, giving a last, customary dip of his head towards Robert before he Stomped out of the door.

 

Robert slumped back to his chair, feeling the strength drain from his body. He had hardly had the time to close his eyes these past few days. And now the fatigue seemed to chain all the bones in his body all at once. But the decision he made weighed on his mind even more. He had to choose between Sena and the house. And he’d made the same choice he did all those years ago when Sara died.

He covered his face with both of his palms as a deep sigh escaped him.

 

“I am sorry…”

Sena sprinted through her shattered lane of memories, following a fleeting shadow, one so identical to her yet so different. She’d been running after it, maybe for a moment, or maybe for years. But her small feet just couldn’t catch up, no matter how much she tried.

 

“Sara!” she called out, and the running figure turned. She looked just like Sena’s small, golden-haired figure. She stood under the fragmented moonlight, smiling as she beckoned her over.

 

Sena smiled too, stepping forward to meet her sister. But with each step she took, a bruise appeared on Sara’s body. Horrified, Sena tried to scream, to back up, but her feet just wouldn’t stop. Her body kept its involuntary advancement as bit by bit the little figure in front of her crumpled under the beatings of an invisible staff, until, when she reached it, only a battered, lifeless body lay on the floor.

 

“No!” Sena’s face twisted. The voice she had lost came back, but only as heart-wrenching sobs wracking through her body. Strength left her, and she slumped to her knees beside the broken body of her sister.

 

“Sara!” She whispered tentatively as she reached out, but before she could touch her, Sara turned into a dark wisp of mist. It twisted, churned, briefly taking the shape of a wolf before it vanished again. Only a disembodied, almost ethereal voice lingered.

 

“I can only show you what I have seen.”