39. Alexei
The wheels slide against the tarmac, and the entire cabin seems to exhale with them.
Zurdonia.
Home.
The word feels foreign in my chest.
By the time we descend the steps of the plane, the world below is already in formation. Lines of agents stretch across the tarmac, dark uniforms crisp against the glaring afternoon light. No movement. No whispers. Rows of still bodies waiting.
Lance stands at the front. He doesn’t move until my feet hit the ground. Then, one step forward. “Welcome back, Your Majesty,” he bows, his voice steady.
The title lands heavily after everything we’ve been through.
I give a short nod. It’s all I have in me.
Before anything else can be said, Hannah breaks from the line.
She doesn’t hesitate. She goes straight to Elena, wrapping her arms around her, pulling her in tight like she’s afraid that if she lets go, she’ll disappear.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she breathes into her shoulder.
Elena’s arms come up around her, slower. Tighter. “Not all of us are,” she answers quietly.
The words hang between us. Heavy. Unavoidable.
Hannah stills. I see it the moment it hits her, the shift. Her body pulls back enough, her eyes lifting past Elena… over her shoulder… toward the open cargo hold behind us.
They’re bringing him out.
Everything slows.
The casket appears at the top of the ramp, draped in the Zurdonia flag. The fabric catches the light, the colors sharp against the dull gray of the plane. Six agents move in perfect sync as they carry him down.
No one speaks.
Hannah’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes glassing over before a tear spills down her cheek. She turns to me, her voice breaking under the weight of it. “I’m so sorry, Alexei.”
There’s nothing I can say that would make that sentence less true.
I nod. Once.
Braydon steps closer, his gaze following the casket as it descends. “He was a good man.”
My throat tightens.
A thousand memories press forward at once; his voice, his laugh, the way his hand used to land on my shoulder like nothing in the world could touch me as long as he was there.
I swallow them down.
Another nod. That’s all I give.
Because if I open my mouth, I’m not sure anything will come out.
The agents move with precision, carrying him past us.
And then, as if pulled by the same invisible thread, everyone turns. In perfect unison, hands rise.
A salute.
Dozens. Hundreds. The sharp movement cuts through the air, leaving silence in its wake.
The only sound left is the low hum of the plane’s engine and the measured footsteps of the men carrying Dad forward.
I don’t realize my hand has curled into a fist until I feel something brush against it.
Elena.
Her fingers slide into mine, threading through, warm and steady. Grounding.
I hold on. Not tightly. Enough to let her presence comfort some of the ache that grows with each passing moment.
Together, we watch as they carry Dad’s casket toward the waiting at the edge of the tarmac. The vehicle stands still, black and polished, its presence stark against the bright expanse around it. They move carefully. Slowly. Like even now, they’re protecting him.
The doors open.
For a moment, only a moment, I expect him to step out. To shake his head at the formality. To tell them to stand down. But he doesn’t. And that’s when it becomes real: Dad is really gone.
They guide the casket inside, and the doors close. The sound echoes. Hollow. Final.
No one lowers their hand. Not yet.
The engine turns over, a low rumble vibrating through the ground beneath my feet. The hearse begins to move, slow and deliberate, carrying him away from us.
From me.
I watch it until it disappears from view. And still, no one moves. No one speaks. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into the spaces he used to fill.
Only when the road is empty do the salutes begin to fall. One by one. Arms lowering. Heads bowing. The formation breaks, but something lingers in the air, something heavier than grief.
Expectation.
I feel it before I see it. The subtle shift. The way their eyes find me. Not as his son, but wondering what comes next. Who will fill his shoes?
My grip tightens around Elena’s hand, slightly. The weight settles fully onto my shoulders. Not all at once. But enough.
I draw in a slow breath, the kind he used to take before stepping into a room that demanded everything from him. Now it demands it from me.
I don’t look away. Not from them. Not from this. Because there’s no one left to stand in front of me anymore.
Only forward.
And the silence he leaves behind follows me there.
The funeral unfolds exactly as he would’ve planned it; measured, dignified, every detail in its proper place. Nothing excessive. Nothing lacking. Quiet reverence, the kind that settles into your bones instead of demanding attention. It fits Dad too well.
He should be here for it.
I stand where they left me at the start of the receiving line, spine locked, shoulders held in a rigidity that has long since turned to ache.
The service ended over an hour ago, maybe more.
I’ve stopped tracking when the line hasn’t thinned.
It only reshapes itself, new faces stepping forward as others drift away, like a tide that refuses to recede.
Hands clasp mine. Voices murmur.
“I’m so sorry.”
“He was a remarkable man.”
“Let me tell you what he did for my family…”
I nod. I listen. I hold each story like it’s something fragile, something that might break if I don’t handle it carefully enough. Stories I’ve never heard before; small kindnesses, quiet interventions, moments he never thought to mention. Or maybe he didn’t need to.
In the telling, he lingers.
For a few seconds at a time, he isn’t entirely gone.
I don’t say much. My voice feels misplaced, as if it belongs to someone else. Gratitude sits heavy on my tongue, dulled from overuse, so I let silence do most of the work. A nod. A squeeze of the hand. Eye contact that lasts long enough to mean something.
Then the next person steps forward. And the next. Eventually, the current shifts.
They don’t approach the way the others have, hesitant, softened by grief. They move with quiet certainty, measured steps that part the space around them without effort.
King Maxwell from Petrova. Queen Lizzie rests beside him, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, her posture composed but not distant. There’s something steady about the two of them, something that doesn’t falter even here, even now.
When he reaches me, King Maxwell takes my hand firmly, his grip solid, grounding. His other hand comes to my shoulder, not heavy, but thoughtful. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The words land differently from his mouth. Not hollow. Not rehearsed. Full understanding.
My lips press together before I can stop them. I nod once, because anything more feels like it might fracture. “Thank you.”
It sounds thin to my own ears, but neither of them reacts to that. They don’t expect more.
Queen Lizzie’s gaze softens as it settles on me. “He was so proud of you.”
Something tightens in my chest at that sharp, sudden, unwelcome. I hold it there, keep it contained, the way I’ve held everything else today.
“If there is anything we can do…”
“I appreciate it,” I acknowledge, finding my voice enough to shape the words. “It means a lot that you came.”
A faint smile touches her lips, warm despite the weight of the day. “I think we’re well past alliances and titles.”
King Maxwell glances at her, then back at me. “Family.”
The word lingers between us.
Family.
I nod again, slower this time, letting it settle. After everything they did, everything they risked for Elena, there’s no part of me that questions it. “Family,” I echo.
His hand tightens briefly on my shoulder before he lets go, guiding Queen Lizzie with him as they move on, their presence receding but not entirely gone.
The space they leave is quickly filled again.
Zurdonia’s nobles approach as a unit, their steps nearly synchronized, their expressions uniformly solemn. Lady Camille, Lady Penelope, Duchess Cassia, Lord Bradley with Abby at his side, Duke Henley, and Duke Andrew form a line that feels less like a procession and more like a statement.
Each of them inclines their head as they stop before me.
“Our deepest condolences,” Duke Henley offers, his voice carrying that familiar, commanding depth even when softened by grief.
“Your father was a good man,” Duke Andrew adds.
I meet their eyes one by one, letting my gaze linger long enough to acknowledge each of them.
When I reach Lady Camille, I pause. She doesn’t mask it, not entirely.
There’s something in her expression I’ve never seen from her before, something unguarded.
Not warmth, exactly, but… respect, stripped of its usual edge.
It catches me off guard more than anything else today.
“He was the best of us,” Duchess Cassia remarks, and there’s a slight fracture in her voice, a crack she doesn’t bother to hide.
For a moment, none of them look like titles or positions. Only people standing in the absence of someone who mattered.
“Thank you,” I repeat for what feels like the thousandth time.
They bow again, a fraction deeper this time, before stepping away in unison, everyone except three.
Lady Penelope lingers, her composure softer, more visibly shaken. “I’m going to miss him,” she sniffles, her voice dipping with the weight of it. “He was… extraordinary.”
I almost smile at that, but it doesn’t quite make it to the surface.
Lord Bradley clears his throat, a subtle attempt to steady himself. “If there is anything that Abby—” He glances beside him.
Abby is already breaking. She presses a tissue to the corners of her eyes, but it does little to contain the tears. Another quiet sob escapes her, shoulders trembling despite her effort to remain composed.
She worked beside him. Day in and day out. If anyone here understands the shape of the void he’s left behind, outside of me, it’s her.
“—that we can do,” Lord Bradley finishes, his voice gentler now, “we’re here.”