Ophelia's POV
Rain falls in whispers. Not a storm, not a downpour—just a steady, endless drizzle that clings to the air, to the fabric of mourning robes, to the breath of a grieving kingdom.
I stand among them, the people of the Kingdom of the East, cloaked in their grief. Their faces are hollow, drained of light, their eyes heavy with unspoken words. Some weep openly, silent sobs shaking their shoulders, while others remain eerily still, as if grief has carved them into statues.
A sea of black and gray flows around me, signifying how everyone is sharing fair amount of grief I began to immerse myself in.
The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and candle smoke. Incense curls into the cold wind, carrying whispers of prayers—prayers for peace, for rest, for a soul that has already left them behind. The flickering lights tremble against the weight of the morning fog and it was suffocating.
I do not understand this sorrow. Not truly. Emotions have always been distant things, abstract concepts that others seem to grasp effortlessly. But today, I can almost taste it. It clings to the air like an aftertaste of something bitter, something heavy.
The coffin rests at the center of it all—a silent thing, shrouded in white silk, adorned with sigils of passing. A single wreath of midnight roses lies upon it, petals dark as spilled ink. I watch as it is lowered into the earth, the finality of it marked by the muted thud of soil meeting wood. The sound is dull, suffocating. It settles in my bones like something I should not feel but do.
Someone screams—a raw, heart-wrenching sound that shatters the quiet. Others weep, clutching each other as if trying to hold onto what has already been lost. Even the palace guards, always stoic, stand with their heads bowed, their hands clenched into fists at their sides.
And I—I remain still. Watching. Listening. Understanding in a way I never have before.
The kingdom mourns.
And though I do not know how to mourn as they do, I can feel the weight of it—the way grief settles in the air, pressing against my skin, curling into the empty spaces within me.
For once, I am not untouched by the sorrow of the living.
For once, I understand the weight of loss.
The grave is already deep when they place him inside it. The soil, damp from the morning rain, clings to the shovel as the gravediggers move in slow, careful motions, as if hesitant to finish what must be done. The scent of wet earth and incense lingers, thick and suffocating.
The King of the East is dead.
He was supposed to live.
A life for a life. That was the trade. His son's blood for his, the ultimate sacrifice to cheat death itself. I should have known it would be useless. Magic is not mercy; it is balance. There is no bending fate, no tricking the hands that weave destiny. The king was spared from his illness, but not from the blade that found him at dawn.
A waste. An exchange made in vain.
The people do not know the truth. They believe in tragedy, not irony. They only see the loss, the cruel hand of fate that took their ruler too soon. They kneel in the mud, heads bowed, whispering prayers to gods who do not answer. Some still call his name, as if he might return, as if their voices alone could summon him back from the void.
But there is no return.
I stand at the edge of it all, watching. Feeling nothing. And yet, something lingers beneath my skin, an unfamiliar weight pressing against the emptiness inside me. I tell myself it is only the cold, the weight of rain on my cloak, the exhaustion of sleepless nights.
But as the first shovel of dirt falls onto the coffin, as the kingdom releases a collective breath of grief, I wonder—
If magic cannot defy fate, then what can?
I stared at the prince who was spacing out. I guess everything might have been too much for him and he might be thinking everything through.
"It will all be over soon." I whispered as I gently pats his shoulders. "Your father might be on the better side now."
"But when will I be on the good side of the world?"
The funeral ends, but the grief does not.
The people leave in solemn waves, their whispered prayers fading into the mist. The rain has stopped, but the sky remains heavy, smothered in dull grays, as if the sun itself refuses to shine on this day of mourning.
The prince stays behind.
Words are not my strength. Comfort is not something I have ever been taught to give.
So I do the only thing I can. I stand beside him. I listen.
For a long time, he says nothing. The silence stretches between us, filled only by the distant rustle of wind through the trees. Then, his breath shudders. His fists loosen. And suddenly, his shoulders shake.
He cries.
Not the quiet, dignified grief of a prince. Not the restrained mourning of royalty. He cries like a boy who has lost the person who held his world together. Harsh, gasping sobs spill from him as he collapses to his knees, his hands pressing into the damp earth as if trying to hold onto something that is already gone.
"I never wanted this," he chokes out. His voice is raw, breaking with every word. "I never wanted the throne. He knew that. He always knew that."
I remain silent.
"I told him a hundred times—I told him I wanted to see the world, to be free. I wanted to sail beyond the edges of the kingdom, to go where no one knew my name, where no one cared who I was." His breath is uneven, his fingers curling into the dirt. "And now he's gone. And I'm still here. And they expect me to be—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head violently.
"They expect me to be him."
His sobs slow, but his breathing is still uneven. I watch him, unsure of what I should do. I am not the kind of person who holds others, who whispers reassurances, who promises that everything will be alright.
Because it won't be.
So I do not lie to him. I do not tell him that duty is an honor, that he will grow into the crown, that his father would be proud.
I only listen.
And for now, that is enough.
He will only feel awful once I talk about how I thought of inviting him to come and go on a journey with me.
How I thought of asking him to come and explore the world with me.
Because it might broke him.
And I don't want him to make a rash decision of joining me instead of taking care of his homeland.
For now… I might just watch him.