29. AUREVYN
AUREVYN
The air in the temple had curdled.
What should have been laughter, lingering music, and wine-soaked congratulations had soured into silence and panic. King Thalen convulsed on the floor beside the bridal altar, his crown tipped sideways into the wine pooled beneath him.
“Thalen!” Frey’s voice cracked through the stillness, heels skimming across scattered petals as she dropped to her knees. The priestess was already beside her, fingers at his throat, then jaw, then chest.
“He’s not breathing—he’s not—” she said, voice desperate.
But his lips had gone blue. And the priestess—fumbling, frantic—could find no blockage. Just a man gasping for breath who refused to answer.
Theodore stood as if frozen in amber. His ceremonial cloak clung to him. His wedding band glinted faintly on his hand as if mocking the moment. His knuckles had gone white.
Lance didn’t speak. His eyes drifted to the wine on the floor. His entrance moments earlier had been chaos—vows interrupted, a brawl between princes. But now, he stood still, unreadable. The silence around him felt watchful.
He turned, looking past the grand temple, watched the sun gleam across the steps Cavric had marched down. His stride was steady, confident, like he knew Mabel would run—and knew what came after.
The torches guttered low, and the sound of Thalen’s wheezing stilled.
Frey collapsed against Thalen, forehead pressed to his unmoving chest. She clung to him like grief could will breath back into his lungs. The cry that left her ripped through the temple.
Her hands trembled as they smoothed the folds of Thalen’s robe, trying to make him presentable, regal—as if the crown still sitting crooked near his shoulder meant anything now. Her fingers lingered on his jaw, brushing gently where the color had already faded.
“You said you’d reign until your bones turned to dust,” she whispered hoarsely. “This isn’t dust, Thalen.” Frey pressed her forehead to his, breath ragged. Her sobs no longer tore through the air. They whispered, softer now, bleeding into the hush like mourning that refused spectacle.
“Rest well, my husband. My king.” Her palm stilled over his cheek. “I will take care of it.” She brushed back his hair, the one lock that always defied his crown.
Behind her, no one moved. Not Theodore. Not Lance.
Because a queen broken open was a sight so rare, the kingdom itself dared not interrupt.
And still—
Thalen’s lips remained frozen.
The echo of Frey’s heels against the temple floor was the only sound that dared speak.
She rose from Thalen’s side slowly, her gown still soaked with spilled wine and grief, her hands marked where she’d gripped his collar.
Her face was pale—not fragile, but forged.
Every breath steadied something deeper, and every blink refused to give away more than she had already lost.
She turned.
Theodore flinched, as if expecting her gaze to find him with fire.
Lance held his ground.
But Frey didn’t look at either. She walked between them, her presence cold, distant—as though her spirit had already passed through mourning and landed somewhere quieter. She didn’t speak, but her steps fell quick, determined.
Two guards hurried forward, arms tense beneath their ceremonial armor.
They lifted Thalen’s body with reverence, struggling under the stiff weight of dignity clinging to his broken frame.
Without ceremony, without music, the king was carried through the grand doors toward the waiting carriage—the one that had delivered him as a monarch and now received him as a corpse.
Theodore’s fingers twitched by his side.
Lance remained frozen, jaw clenched.
They stood alone beneath the temple’s vaulted archways, surrounded by the remnants of a wedding never meant to hold.
And somewhere beyond the stone walls, the kingdom held its breath.
They burned him on the cliffs. High above the fjord where his fleet once launched in conquest and celebration, a great pyre had been built—wood seasoned by storms, soaked in oil, bound by rope etched with runes.
The sky had turned to mourning, a deep iron gray that pressed close to the waves. Crows circled overhead, silent.
Thalen’s body was laid atop the wood in full regalia. His crown rested with him—not on his head—but in his hands, as if gifted back to Auren and Varkeyrish both. His sword lay across his chest, polished and gleaming.
Frey stood nearest the flame; her veil traded for a black fur-lined cloak. Her eyes were dry now, but distant. Like she’d already buried half of herself with him.
No priest recited passages. No bard sang a dirge.
Only the sea roared below.
And the fire answered.
The torch was lit by Theodore—his hands steady but face pale. Lingering beside him, Lance watched with unreadable stillness. He did not kneel. He did not pray.
As flame licked the wood, smoke spiraled upward—thick and sweet with resin, mingling with the scent of salt and memory.
The body of the king curled and cracked, robes burning away until he was no longer man, but an offering.
As the fire consumed what remained of Thalen, the mourners watched in silence.
Cavric arrived late.
The fire had settled into its final stage—embers glowing like bruised gold, flickering beneath the dark canopy of smoke that stretched toward a godless sky. Maybe they truly had abandoned Aurevyn.
His boots cut through ash and wind. He made no effort to hide the shadows beneath his eyes or the tension in his jaw.
But his gait was measured, determined—as though grief fit him like armor.
He stopped beside Theodore, who hadn’t spoken since the torch was lit.
The younger prince’s eyes remained fixed on the pyre, lips pressed into a thin line, hands tucked rigidly at his sides.
Cavric bowed his head faintly. “My deepest condolences, Your Highness,” he said, voice low but clear. “Thalen shaped a legacy few can rival.”
Theodore didn’t speak. His gaze stayed locked on the flames, as if searching for the part of himself that was burning with the king—some tether, some truth, some final thread.
Cavric’s voice cut through the silence again.
“When Thalen lost his father, he didn’t hesitate.
He rose. He conquered. He let grief shape him into something the kingdom could follow,” he said, eyes reflecting the flicker of the pyre.
“Grief carves men differently,” he uttered.
“Sometimes it leaves a chasm. Sometimes a blade. I wonder which it will leave for you.”
Theodore turned, just slightly. His face was carved from stone and shadow.
Cavric smiled then. Crooked. Knowing. Like he’d seen this moment before in another lifetime.
“When the smoke clears,” he said, “we’ll all know who you’ve become.
” His hand settled on Theodore’s shoulder, brief, a gesture that might have offered comfort.
Then he stepped back into the crowd, vanishing into the hush of citizens gathered to mourn their king.
Theodore didn’t speak. His ceremonial cloak felt heavier now—soaked through with salt and smoke, the fabric stiff where grief had dried into it.
Behind him, courtiers lingered at a respectful distance, guards stationed with unreadable faces.
All had proclaimed him king. The ritual had been swift.
Necessary. But names don’t change hearts.
He stared into the fire’s final breath, his jaw tense, hands stiff at his sides. His father was not just ash—he was legacy. Expectation. And now, burden.
He’d been trained for rule, yes. Schooled in diplomacy, battle formations, the weight of signatures and blood. But there’d always been a buffer—Thalen’s shadow, vast and commanding, absorbing the sharpest blows of ruling.
Now that shadow had vanished, and the silence left in its place settled into his ribs like frost.
The coronation would come. There would be banners. Oil. Song.
But for now, there was only mourning. And memory. And the flickering questions no proclamation could extinguish.
Was he ready? Would he rule like Thalen?
Or rule because of him?
He didn’t know.
All he knew was that the embers were rising—and with them, the last thread of who he used to be.
Theodore didn’t move, save for the way his jaw clenched—tight, rigid, holding back words that might cut more than cleanse. His eyes were locked on the horizon, not to escape, but to hold himself together.
Lance stepped beside him, slow and cautious. He said nothing at first, the silence between them thick with history—most of it broken, most of it bruised. The arguable title of brothers did little to soften the edges.
He parted his lips to speak, voice hesitant, “I didn’t mean—”
But Theodore stepped away. The motion was quiet. Subtle.
But final.
It wasn’t a rejection born of drama—it was a boundary carved by grief. By betrayal. By a lifetime of being the one who watched, and now, the one who must decide what survives the fire.
Lance said nothing more. He remained in place, eyes not on the smoldering pyre but on the trail of ash drifting into the sky. His fists were clenched at his sides, not out of anger this time, but to keep himself tethered.
Thalen had saved his life. And yet, Lance had never belonged—not truly. There was always Theodore. Groomed, revered, heir by blood and name. Lance had shadowed him like a ghost of circumstance, trained at his side but never alongside. Thalen’s praise always came secondhand.
And now?
Now, the man who had raised him was ash.
Lance drew a sharp breath, forcing his hands to unclench. He tried to summon anger—at Mabel, at the gods, at the timing of it all. But grief drowned fury in silence.
He lowered his gaze to the edge of the cliff, watching embers fall. And somewhere in that quiet, Lance understood. He hadn’t just lost the closest thing he had to a father. He’d lost the only tether to whatever home had tried to hold him.