Chapter 22 Of Glass and Gold
Chapter twenty-two
Of Glass and Gold
The rhythmic clang of pickaxes against stone echoed through the mine shaft, a steady heartbeat that had become as familiar to Gage as his own pulse.
Dust hung in the air like suspended memories, catching the flickering light from their lanterns and casting long shadows across the rough-hewn walls.
The other men worked with practiced efficiency—Dax chipping away at a stubborn vein of quartz, Harry sorting through promising specimens, Drew humming a tuneless melody under his breath.
But Gage couldn't focus. His hands moved mechanically, striking the rock with less force than usual, his mind somewhere else entirely—somewhere back at the cottage where Shay would be tending to the garden, or perhaps sitting by the window with one of her books.
“Something's wrong,” he stammered, more to himself than anyone else.
“What's that?” Harry called from across the chamber, not looking up from his work.
Silas inserted, “The air is clear in my lungs and nose. The canary is singing. Not to worry, Gage.”
Gage shook his head, trying to dislodge the feeling that had settled in his chest like a stone.
It wasn't just worry—it was certainty. “Not here. Her!” A deep, primal knowing that cut through rational thought and settled in his bones.
He tossed his mine pick to the ground with a clatter that silenced the other men.
“Gage?” Dax's voice held concern now.
Gage didn't wait for questions or explanations.
He turned and hurried out of the mines, his boots kicking up dust as he broke into a run toward the cottage.
Behind him, he heard the scramble of the others following, their voices calling after him, but he couldn't stop.
Couldn't explain. He just knew. The path back to the cottage blurred beneath his feet as he ran, his heart pounding not from exertion but from dread.
When he reached the small wooden structure, he burst through the door without knocking.
“Shay!” His voice echoed through the empty rooms.
He checked the kitchen first—cold hearth, untouched dishes.
The bedroom—neatly made bed, no sign of disturbance.
The sitting room—books arranged precisely on the shelves, exactly as she always kept them.
Every room was empty, pristine, waiting for an occupant who wasn't there.
The other men crowded into the doorway behind him, their faces etched with confusion and growing concern. “Gage, what is it? Where is she?”
“I don't know,” he admitted, his voice tight with panic.
“But she's not here.” His eyes scanned the room again, searching for any clue, any sign of where she might have gone.
Without another word, Gage rushed back outside and turned toward the stream.
It was their favorite place, where they often sat together in comfortable silence, watching the water flow over smooth stones.
If she'd gone anywhere, it would be there.
The distance seemed to stretch endlessly as he ran, his lungs burning, his mind racing with terrible possibilities. And then he saw them.
Drew was kneeling on the bank of the stream, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Next to him lay a figure so still, so pale, that Gage's heart stopped completely before lurching back into a frantic rhythm.
“No,” he whispered, then louder, “No!” He ran the last few yards and dropped to his knees beside her, his hands hovering over her body as if afraid to touch her.
But he knew immediately. The unnatural stillness, the bluish tint to her lips, the way her chest didn't rise and fall with breath—it was all unmistakable.
“She’s gone,” Drew choked out between tears. “She’s gone.”
The other men arrived moments later, their expressions shifting from confusion to horror as they took in the scene. “What happened?” Silas yelled.
Gage responded. “I don’t know. Drew found her like this. No enemies, no wounds,” he frantically checked her skin.
“We have to help her,” Bennett cried. “Maybe she just fainted, hit her head.” He pulled off his heavy tunic and draped it over her, tucking it frantically around her shoulders.
They tried waking her, shaking her, warming her, cooling her, rubbing her skin, calling her name.
But she did not wake, and she did not breathe.
Finally, as the sun began to dip low, casting long mournful shadows through the trees, Dax put a hand on Gage’s shoulder.
Gage was still holding her, staring at her face. “Gage,” Dax said softly. “She's dead.”
Gage whipped around, snarling, “She’s not! Look at her! She looks peaceful. She looks like she’s asleep. Does that look like death to you?”
“It’s not life,” Dax said, his own voice trembling. “It’s something…else. Heart failure. Or…” he trailed off. “Or the queen found her.”
“But there was no mark, no weapon. She must have just… passed on.” Silas said.
One by one, they removed their hats and hung their heads in sorrow.
The air grew heavy with grief, pressing down on them like the weight of the mountain above their mines.
Harry stepped forward, his voice thick with emotion.
“Her beauty was a gift for the whole world,” he said softly, “and now it's gone.” His mind raced back to their conversations, her laughter, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about the stars. All of it, gone.
Gage couldn't speak. He gently brushed a strand of hair from Shay's face, his fingers trembling. She looked peaceful, almost as if she were sleeping, but the coldness of her skin told a different story.
“We have to bury her,” Silas said.
“We can't just bury her in some dark hole,” Harry said suddenly, his voice firm despite the tears in his eyes. “She's too beautiful for that. The world should be able to see her, to remember her. Not pushed underground in the darkness forever.”
“A glass coffin,” Bennett agreed immediately. “We'll craft one ourselves from the crystal veins in the lower mine. She deserves to be seen, to be honored.”
Dax nodded slowly, his mind already working through the logistics.
They had the materials in their workshop and the skills to create something worthy of her.
As they carefully lifted her body and carried her back to the cottage, Gage felt a strange sense of purpose cutting through his grief. They would honor her properly.
The next few hours passed in a blur of activity.
They worked through the night. Grief gave them a terrible, manic energy.
They mined the purest vein of crystal quartz they had.
They worked the gold they had hoarded for years, melting it down to frame the glass and adorned the sides with gems and jewel stones of many colors.
They built her a resting place not of wood and nails, but of light and treasure.
Dax stood back to admire their work, his expression thoughtful.
“She's a princess,” he declared finally.
“She deserves a royal funeral. We should take her to the castle.”
“But not Queen Liora's,” Gage said quickly, the words surprising even himself.
“The castle to the west,” Dax agreed. “It's farther, but it's the right choice.”
They prepared for the journey with solemn determination. Dax would ride ahead on Grimm to arrange the funeral proceedings with the king, while the rest of them would carry Shay's glass coffin. They would walk the long distance together, giving her the procession she deserved.
As they set out the next morning, the sun rising behind them, Gage felt a strange sensation of being watched. He glanced around but saw nothing unusual. Unbeknownst to any of them, Hunter followed at a distance, his presence hidden by the early morning mist.
The journey was long and arduous, but the men carried their burden with unwavering dedication.
At night, they camped under the stars, taking turns keeping watch over her.
Each man spoke to her in quiet moments, sharing memories and promises, as if she could still hear them–Harry telling her jokes, Drew humming songs, Bennett professing her beauty even in death, Silas lamenting the loss of his spooning partner, and Gage whispering apologies.
They walked through wind that howled like their own grief.
They walked through nights where the only light was the moon reflecting off the glass of the coffin.
When they finally approached the western castle, they found preparations already underway.
Trumpets sounded as they entered the grand courtyard, their procession drawing the attention of courtiers and servants alike.
The coffin gleamed in the sunlight, showcasing Shay's ethereal beauty to all who passed.
A rumbling of gossip and rumor rose from the crowd as the men passed by with the coffin atop their shoulders.
Whispers of the beauty of the coffin itself and the girl inside.
“The princess,” they heard, “Wilhelm's heir.”
At the front of the courtyard, near the grand steps where the king awaited them, the procession paused, and as tradition demanded the men carefully opened the coffin lid to allow the final blessings to be spoken directly over Shay's body.
The king himself—a distinguished man with kind eyes, a fur cloak, and silver-streaked hair—stood to receive them.
He had clearly been briefed by Dax, for his expression was one of genuine sorrow.
As he spoke to the crowd, giving honor and reverence to a neighboring ruler's lineage, his words were drowned out by commotion from the king's son.
Prince Jacob sat astride a magnificent grey horse, dressed in a pristine white riding coat that seemed to glow in the sunlight. His golden hair was perfectly styled, his posture regal yet approachable. No longer a boy, he was handsome, noble, and beloved by his people.