Morning arrived quietly, as if unsure it was welcome. Pale sunlight slipped through breaks in the cloud cover and touched Dagavia in narrow beams, brief and uncertain. The sky held the color of old ash, heavy with the promise of rain that never quite came. It lingered instead, as if watching.

  By Nadrin’s order, the women of Dagavia gathered in silence to prepare Lord Omni’s body. Their hands moved with reverence, washing away blood and earth, mending torn cloth, closing wounds that could no longer be healed. Elsewhere, out of sight and away from the village heart, a handful of men carried out a harsher task. Beiru’s body was taken beyond the paths, his fate severed cleanly and without ceremony.

  Tyrus did not look toward either place.

  He had claimed a patch of ground near the village edge, where the soil was dark and soft from recent rain. The shovel bit into the mud with little resistance. Each thrust sank deep, each pull sent wet earth spilling aside. The work was honest and brutal, and it demanded everything from his arms and shoulders. Sweat ran down his spine despite the cold air, and he welcomed it.

  Nadrin was called away soon after, drawn back to the gates where the Evokians waited in ignorance, seated behind steel and banners as if nothing within Dagavia had changed. Tyrus remained alone with the task.

  The rhythm of the shovel became his refuge. Lift. Drive. Pull. The earth yielded again and again, too easily, as if the ground itself had been waiting. The chill of the morning air pressed against his skin, sharp and grounding, and he clung to it.

  Anything was better than remembering the weight of Omni’s body in his arms.

  Anything was better than the hollow stillness of his eyes.

  Nina approached quietly, careful not to disturb the rhythm he had built for himself. A small woven basket rested in her hands. She stopped at the edge of the grave and looked down into the darkening hole.

  “Tyrus?” Her voice was gentle. She lifted the basket slightly. “These were the items Lord Omni had on him.”

  The shovel struck the earth again. Tyrus did not look up.

  She hesitated, but stayed. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.” The word came flat, followed by another hard swing that sent mud scattering.

  Nina lowered the basket to the ground beside him. “It is alright to be sad, Tyrus.”

  That did it.

  “That foolish old man…” Tyrus muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “I told him not to turn his back like that!” His hands tightened around the handle until the wood cracked with a sharp report. The shovel split beneath his grip. “Damn it!” The sound tore from his chest. He dragged himself up from the shallow grave, breath uneven, and turned toward the village. “I need another shovel!”

  A few Dagavians arranging flowers looked up, startled by the sudden outburst.

  Nina stepped forward and rested her hand on his shoulder.

  “What!?” Tyrus snapped, spinning toward her.

  She flinched and took a step back.

  The sight of it hit him harder than the broken tool. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping. “I…am sorry…” he said, quieter now. “I did not mean to…”

  The words failed him.

  Nina closed the distance and wrapped her arms around him. She held him tightly, longer than he expected, longer than anyone ever had. He stood stiff at first, then allowed himself to breathe. When she finally pulled away, tears streaked her face.

  “Come,” she said softly, taking his hand. “You need to eat.”

  Tyrus did not argue. He let her lead him away from the grave, leaving the broken shovel resting in the mud beside Lord Omni’s waiting place.

  They found a Dagavian woman tending a shallow pan of oil set over coals. She handed them two fried wheat balls, still warm and dusted with salt. Tyrus and Nina sat beneath a broad-limbed tree whose leaves filtered the pale morning light into soft, broken patches.

  “Thank you,” Tyrus said, offering Nina a small nod before taking a bite. The food was simple and anchoring. It gave his hands something to do.

  “We should take some food to Master West,” Nina said quietly.

  Tyrus chewed, then swallowed. His gaze drifted past the tree, past the paths that led deeper into the village. “I do not know where he is… He was not at the hut when I went to look for him earlier.” He watched Nadrin’s men working in the distance, their movements slow and considerate. “I am worried about him.”

  Nina folded her hands in her lap. “But he will not miss the burial. Will he?”

  “I…do not know?” Tyrus exhaled as a cool breeze stirred the leaves overhead. “He and Omni argued the night before.” The words tasted bitter. “I could have prevented this...”

  “Don’t do that to yourself Tyrus" Nina said.

  Tyrus stared towards the burial plot, but in his mind all he could see is Omnis face.

  Footsteps approached from below the hill. Wallo climbed toward them, his face bandaged, one tooth conspicuously gone. He stopped a respectful distance away and bowed his head. “Lady Nina, may I have a moment with Tyrus?”

  Nina did not hesitate. “Now is not the time, Wallo. Please leave us.”

  “Lady Nina, please…?” He lowered himself onto one knee, desperation plain in the way his shoulders sagged.

  She glanced at Tyrus, who was finishing the last of his food. “No.”

  Wallo remained kneeling. He turned his attention fully to Tyrus and bowed his head lower. “I wanted to apologize. No. I needed to.” His eyes stared at the ground as his hands cupped together, trembling. “I should have told you where Master West had gone when you first asked me. I am so sorry!” His voice cracked. “Perhaps Lord Omni would still…”

  The words died in his throat.

  Tyrus stood. He looked down at Wallo for a long moment, then stepped past him without a word.

  Wallo lifted his head, tears spilling freely now. He turned to Nina. “I am sorry…”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Tyrus stopped a few paces away. He did not turn back. “You are a weak man, Wallo,” he said, his voice calm and cold. “But you are not responsible for this. Forgive yourself. I owe you nothing.”

  Wallo sank fully to the ground. He scrubbed at his face with shaking hands. “He is right,” he whispered. “I am weak… I let Beiru take my spear… I let him because…I am weak!” He swallowed hard and began unfastening his armor, piece by piece, as if the weight of it had finally become too much for him to bear any longer.

  Nina knelt beside him and rested a hand between his shoulders. “You should get some rest,” she said softly. “You have had a long day.” She helped him to his feet. “Come. I will take you home.”

  Wallo clutched her, his restraint finally breaking. He wept openly against her shoulder as she guided him away, leaving the tree, the hill, and the quiet grief beneath its branches.

  Tyrus returned to the grave and took up another shovel. He worked without speaking, driving the rusty iron into the wet earth until the hole was finished. When it was done, the Dagavian men moved toward the house where Omni’s body had been taken, their heads bowed as if the weight of what they carried had already settled on their shoulders.

  Tyrus remained at the edge of the grave. He stared down into the dark soil, his chest tightening until it hurt to breathe. His hand curled into a fist at his side. “Damn it, Omni,” he muttered, the words barely louder than the wind.

  Footsteps approached behind him. Nadrin returned from the gates, where the Evokians still lingered, unaware of the death that had reshaped the village they waited outside. The strain of command sat heavy on him, etched into his posture and the lines around his eyes. He dismissed his men with a quiet gesture and walked toward Tyrus.

  He stopped beside the grave and looked down. “It is a good hole,” Nadrin said after a moment. “Deep.”

  Tyrus did not respond. His gaze never left the earth.

  Nadrin shifted his weight, folding his hands behind his back. “Have you heard anything about Master West?”

  Silence answered him.

  “Tyrus…” Nadrin’s voice softened. “Perhaps this is not the right time, but I need to understand.” He glanced toward the path that led back to the dungeon. “West and I had already decided what was to be done with Beiru.”

  Tyrus finally turned. His eyes were red, but his expression was hard. “West is not like us,” he said. “He does not carry death the way we do. He could not bring himself to condemn Beiru, but he also could not defy your order outright.”

  Nadrin frowned. “He is a warrior. Not a fool.”

  Tyrus shook his head, a bitter breath leaving him. “No. He is a child, Nadrin.” His voice broke despite his effort to steady it. “And now he is alone… Alone with the guilt of all of this.”

  Nadrin’s gaze lingered on the open grave, the dark earth waiting in patient silence. “Lord Omni was his master,” he murmured, more a statement than a question. He swallowed, the truth already settled in his chest.

  Tyrus did not answer. His eyes remained fixed on the hole, as if speaking might pull him into it.

  “I knew he was a slave,” Nadrin continued, rubbing a hand over his face. “From the first day. When I shook his hand, I saw the mark.” He drew in a shaky breath. “I told myself it did not matter. I told myself Dagavia had finally found someone strong enough to defend her and its people.” His voice faltered, and he turned away before the emotion could fully show. “But strength like his was never meant to carry so much. I see that now. I asked too much of him…”

  Tyrus lowered his head. The weight of the moment pressed down on his shoulders, heavy and unrelenting. “We all did…” he said quietly, casting one last look into the waiting earth before turning away from the grave.

  The bell at the heart of Dagavia began to toll, its low voice rolling through the village and calling the people from their homes. Boots and shoes alike pressed into the mud as the streets slowly filled. The grey clouds continued their slow march overhead, heavy with promise, yet the rain never came. Only cold air moved between the gathered bodies, and a restless wind that slipped beneath cloaks and sleeves.

  Seven Dagavian elder women emerged, bearing Omni’s body. White sheets covered him completely, the fabric stretched smooth across the stillness beneath. His form rested on a wooden plank worn pale by age and use. As the women carried him through the village, doors opened one by one. People stepped out in silence and fell into line behind the procession, until the streets themselves seemed to follow, winding toward the place where the earth waited.

  Tyrus stood beside the open grave. His eyes lifted again and again to the approaching crowd, searching the moving faces, the bowed heads, the familiar outlines of cloaks. Each time, his chest tightened when he found nothing. No sign of West. Only strangers and neighbors united in quiet grief.

  The procession reached him at last. Nadrin’s guards carefully lowered the plank, easing the Kesh Lord into the ground. Tyrus watched until the white sheets settled below the rim of the grave. Still, West did not appear.

  The women of Dagavia stepped forward first. One by one, old hands and young hands released flowers into the earth. Wild blooms. Garden petals. Simple stems gathered from the roadside. The grave filled with vibrant colors, a fragile brightness against the dark soil.

  Then the men formed their line. Each took the shovel, each cast a measure of dirt into the hole. The sound was soft, and satisfied. When Tyrus’s turn came, he gripped the handle and drove the shovel deep, perhaps deeper than needed, as if the ground itself had offended him. He lifted the dirt and threw it down. When he looked again, Omni was gone from sight, buried beneath petals and soil alike.

  Tyrus stepped back into the crowd. The line continued until the grave was filled and smoothed over. The priests of Dagavia began their ritual, voices rising and falling in practiced cadence. Tyrus followed the motions without thought, keeping his mouth shut while his mind remained elsewhere, still searching for West. By the time he realized it, the prayers had ended.

  Nadrin stepped forward.

  “Despite his short time among us, Lord Omni prayed for every sick and injured soul in our infirmary,” he said. “He asked nothing in return. He was a good man.” His voice wavered, and he paused, searching for what came next. His gaze drifted beyond the gathered crowd, toward the edge of the village.

  There, half-hidden within a black cloak, stood a lone figure.

  “Today, Dagavia is safer because of him,” Nadrin continued, his eyes never leaving that distant shape. “His teachings were not grand proclamations. They were simple reminders. That we do not need to be holy to be righteous. That kindness, to others and to ourselves, is enough.”

  Tyrus followed Nadrin’s line of sight and finally saw him.

  West stood apart from the crowd, unmoving. A hollow relief loosened something tight inside Tyrus’s chest, though it brought no comfort.

  “I will remember Lord Omni,” Nadrin said, bowing toward the grave, “as a man who believed that every one of us could be more than what the world decided we were meant to be.” He straightened and turned back to the people. “If anyone else wishes to speak. Now is the time.”

  Silence answered him.

  No one stepped forward. The people of Dagavia lowered their heads instead, some folding into private prayer, others whispering softly as if afraid to disturb the dead. Tyrus’s eyes found West again at the edge of the gathering. He did not move. He did not look away. He simply watched, as if the weight of the moment had rooted him to the ground.

  “I want to say something.”

  Tyrus raised his hand and broke from the crowd. Each step toward the grave felt heavier than the last. He stopped beside Nadrin and turned to face the villagers, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles ached.

  “Lord Omni saved me from a life of chains under the Evokians,” Tyrus said. His voice was forced, though his chest burned. “He offered me freedom when I had none, and I never thanked him for it. He extended his friendship to me, and I never returned it.”

  His gaze dropped to the grave.

  “That is the bitterness I will carry,” he continued quietly. “Not his death. My stubbornness.” He swallowed hard. “Thank you, Lord Omni.”

  His jaw locked as a single tear broke free and traced its way down his cheek. Nadrin stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding.

  “Anyone else?” Nadrin asked, turning toward the crowd.

  His eyes searched for West.

  The place where the young man had stood was empty now.

  No one else came forward. The priests resumed their rites, and the earth was finally closed over the grave. Words were spoken, blessings given, and Lord Omni was committed fully to the ground of Dagavia. When it was finished, Nadrin murmured one last prayer and left in haste for the gates, the Evokians still waiting beyond them.

  Tyrus tried to follow, his eyes scanning the streets, his heart already reaching for the hut where he hoped West might be waiting. Before he could take more than a few steps, hands touched his arms and shoulders. Villagers stopped him. Not with suspicion. Not with fear. Instead, they offered quiet words of comforting prayers. Bowed heads and gentle touches meant to console a man who had carried too much.

  West was nowhere among them.

  The clouds remained overhead long after the funeral ended. The sky stayed grey and heavy, thick with promise of harsh rain. But the dreaded rain never fell from the miserable sky.