A Burial
Zephyros stood at the grave's edge, his reflection splintered in the pooled rainwater—a ghost clad in ruin. The Victorian coat, now a shroud of frayed velvet and tarnished copper, clung to him like a second skin of guilt.
Bloodstains bloomed across his shirt: rusted petals from murders he'd orchestrated, crimes he'd savored.
Her blood, he knew, would never wash away—only theirs.
The air was thick and oppressive, as though the cemetery exhaled sorrow. Zephyros raised his trembling hands. The chill gnawed at his bones, a cold so profound it felt sentient. Am I the only one feeling this? he wondered. Why is it so cold? So cold...
The owl in his pouch vibrated—a dying heartbeat. "Liar," Iris' voice slithered, syrupy and splintered. "Murderer." It fractured further with each accusation, cracks spiderwebbing through its wings. Zephyros clutched it tighter, wishing it would draw blood. Let me feel something real.
"I know," Zephyros whispered, his gaze shifting to his father, Valen. Clad in black, Valen leaned heavily on a staff, his steps slow and labored. The polished surface caught the dim light—a flicker of the man he once was. "Father," the owl croaked, its voice a guttural rasp in Zephyros' skull.
Zephyros stepped forward, his boots crunching against frost-kissed grass. A new Squidi appeared, greeting mourners with practiced solemnity. Zephyros' tears fell freely, hot against his icy skin. He clutched a handkerchief embroidered with the royal crest, the fabric crumpled like a lifeline.
"Father," Zephyros said, his voice cracking. Valen reached out, tapping his son's shoulder with a hand that felt more like a claw. The gesture was meant to comfort, but it only deepened the chasm between them. "Gouge his eyes out!" the owl screamed, its voice a sledgehammer against Zephyros' mind. He hissed—a sound of pain and fury—but forced himself to kiss his father's hand, a hollow and empty gesture of respect.
"I'm so deeply sorry," Valen said, his breath shallow, each word a struggle. His voice was a wheeze—the sound of a man drowning in his own frailty. How is he my father? Zephyros thought, his jaw tightening. How?
"You didn't do anything to stop it," Zephyros replied, his voice low and venomous. "You stood by and let her die. You're no father to me."
Valen turned away, his gaze distant. "My father, and his father, and his father before him… we all bear a curse, Zephyros," he said, coughing into his hand. Valen's hand brushed Zephyros' shoulder—a corpse's caress. "Our curse isn't the throne. It's seeing the rot and calling it gold." His milky eyes flickered with something almost human: regret, or its hollow mimic. He then laughed, spraying phlegm on his robes.
Zephyros recoiled. You taught me to worship the rot, he thought. Now you flinch from its stench?
"A curse?" Zephyros continued, his hands clenching into fists. Valen gestured to the growing crowd, pointing out faces with a trembling finger. "Lysandra, Cassian, Eryndor, Seraphine, Theron... Your sister was meant to be queen. The first in our line. But it was objected to, fought against, weak." Valen laughed, the sound brittle and broken, like a car struggling to climb a hill.
"They are the next ones," Valen continued, his voice gaining a strange, manic energy. "The ones who will fight for the throne. In the next ritual, they will go. Unlike other royal successions, ours is not inherited. Kingship is fought for—earned through blood and sacrifice. Unlike the Mournet, those zealots from Tenebris who despise our traditions and wage war against us, believing their stagnant ways are superior. The Central District thrives on this system, its people raised to revere the strength and cunning of their rulers."
"But it's fine. It will lead to something greater, don't you think?" He smiled at Zephyros—a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
In all my life, I've never had a conversation like this with my father. Why now? At my sister's funeral? Zephyros' mind raced, his thoughts a storm. He talks of kingship, of rituals, as if her death is just another step in some grand design. I don't want the throne. Not now. Not ever. I've seen what it does to people—how it twists them into monsters. But if I don't take it, someone worse will. Someone like Dalit. And then nothing will change. Iris's death will mean nothing.
But as I look at my father, I can't help but wonder: was he always like this? Did the throne corrupt him, or was he always willing to sacrifice others for power? If he endured hell to claim it, perhaps he's pitiable. But now, he's nothing more than a hollow shell, clinging to a legacy built on blood. And I refuse to become him.
Valen watched his son, his expression unreadable. Zephyros didn't respond, his eyes fixed on his father with a gaze that mirrored his dead mother's—piercing, accusatory, filled with a quiet fury.
"Who is your worst enemy?" Valen asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. More mourners arrived, shaking his frail hand. "Greetings, welcome, yes, yes..." he repeated, his voice a monotone drone.
The owl screamed in Zephyros' mind, its voice a cacophony of rage and grief. "I died! I died! Your sister died! They're all your enemies! Scream it!"
"A person's worst enemy is themselves," Valen said, gripping his staff as tears began to fall from his eyes. He tried to shrug them away, but the effort was futile. "Your sister was an amazing woman. So bright. A light in the darkness. A fire that couldn't be extinguished—except in death. I remember when she would run to me in the throne room, screaming about how she wanted to go to the stem. Maybe… maybe she should've just stayed there." His voice broke, and for a moment, he seemed human.
The Squidi nodded, and the mourners began to drop their offerings into the grave—jewels, trinkets, tokens of a life cut short. Zephyros watched, his jaw tight, as his father dropped a ring into the grave. The emerald caught the light, its green glow striking Zephyros' eyes like a blade. Is he grieving? Zephyros wondered. It feels so fake, so… light. As if her death is just another burden to bear, not a wound that will never heal.
"Next time, next time, next—" the owl began, its voice a relentless chant in Zephyros' mind.
"Shut up," Zephyros muttered, his voice raw and desperate. "I'm thinking." He spat the words, his hands clawing at his temples as though he could physically tear the voice from his skull.
"Ah, welcome," Zephyros said to Celeste, his tone flat and devoid of warmth. He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on the grave, on the emerald ring that glinted like a cruel joke. The owl's voice faded, replaced by a silence that was somehow worse—a silence that echoed with the weight of everything unsaid, everything undone.
"She died," Celeste said, her voice low and hollow, like the wind cutting through the graveyard.
"Anyone of these decayed individuals knows that, even you," Zephyros replied, his tone sharp but brittle. He paused, his eyes narrowing. "What have you brought?"
Celeste pulled a small jar from her pouch, its contents dark and granular, like ash. "Your sister didn't only give you a wooden owl. She also left this—dark, gray sand." She stepped forward, her figure towering over the grave, and dropped the jar. It shattered, the sound sharp and final, and Zephyros swore he heard the sand shifting over the jewels and trinkets.
Celeste walked back, her breath visible in the cold air. "It's cold," she said slowly, her voice barely above a murmur.
"Fortunate it isn't just me feeling it," Zephyros said, laughing bitterly. "I thought I was turning mad." He clutched the owl tighter, his fingers digging into the wood.
A faint footfall broke the tension. From the mist between gravestones, Dalit emerged. His cloak fluttered behind him, its edges stained with the kind of mud that doesn't wash off—ancestral. A silver needle dangled from one finger, still wet. "You always mourn like this?" he asked, voice lilting with mockery and melancholy alike.
Zephyros didn't look up. "I see you still don't kill with your own hands."
"Of course not." Dalit smiled, too wide. "That would make me responsible. Why taste the guilt and blood when others are hungry to devour it for you?" Zephyros clenched the owl tighter.
Dalit stepped closer, his gaze drifting to the grave. "She was pretty. Sharp too. What was her name again? Iris?" Zephyros turned, but Dalit was already waving a hand, apologetic in the way only monsters can be. "Don't worry—I didn't touch her. We're siblings, after all. Though… I've heard a relationship like that is allowed in other districts." He laughed, soft and cruel. "Funny how we all do holy things when we're terrified."
A beat passed. Then Dalit's smile faltered. "You think I haven't loved someone too much to let them live? I killed her. My servant. My muse. I kissed her while the poison worked through her veins; her eyes were the last to give, poetic in a sense, but I hate literature."
"Why?"
Dalit's eyes gleamed with something fractured. "Because love is a crown that strangles. And I wanted to remember him perfect. Untouched. Before he could betray me by growing old or disappointed." A pause, "Or maybe I just wanted to experience something on my hands."
Zephyros stared, unsure whether he wanted to kill Dalit or kneel beside him. "You think you're the only one cursed to burn?" Dalit whispered. "We're royals. We were born to die as metaphors, loud and bright."
Then, as if the moment hadn't mattered, Dalit turned to go. "Anyway," he said, pausing only to glance at the grave one last time, "bury your faith however you want. I'll be gambling." And he vanished into the fog.
The Squidi's voice echoed across the graveyard, a somber cadence that seemed to hang in the frigid air. "We are here in honor and praise of a wonderful and beautiful soul—a woman of many names, a light that burned too brightly for this world. Iris Vainar was a beacon of kindness, a wellspring of compassion. With but a few words, she could stir faith in the faithless, hope in the hopeless. She was a woman who willingly gave her heart to the gods, and now, she will be remembered—not just today, but forever. Her name will endure, etched into the annals of eternity, bound to the divine for all time."
"She deserves retribution," the owl hissed, its voice a jagged blade slicing through Zephyros' mind. The words struck like a chord snapping, sharp and discordant, reverberating in the hollows of his skull. "She will be avenged," Zephyros murmured, his voice low but resolute. He straightened, his tears drying as a cold resolve settled over him.
The Feast
A week had passed since Iris's death. The cold of the grave had seeped into the throne room, which had been transformed into a grand dining hall. The long table, once a symbol of royal decrees, now groaned under the weight of roasted meats, steaming bread, and goblets of wine. The air was thick with the scent of food and the low murmur of conversation, but beneath the surface, tension simmered like a pot about to boil over.
Valen sat at the head of the table, his throne a stark reminder of his fading authority. His face was drawn, his eyes hollow, but he forced a smile as he addressed the room. "Welcome," Valen said, his voice hollow. He raised his goblet, the golden liquid catching the light, but his hand trembled. "The war is ending," he added, though his words rang empty. The room remained silent, the weight of Iris's death hanging heavy in the air.
Zephyros sat beside Celeste, his plate untouched. He stared at the food as if it were ash, his mind far from the feast. Celeste, on the other hand, ate with a deliberate focus, her movements sharp and precise. She tore into a piece of pork, her eyes flicking toward Zephyros as she chewed.
"You need to learn how to fight," Celeste said, her tone sharp.
Zephyros glared at her. "I need a story skill, not another lecture."
"And what good's a story if you're dead?" she shot back, her eyes narrowing. "Or have you forgotten what happened to Iris?"
"I'm a prince of the largest district in the city," Zephyros said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I can manage."
"Pride," Celeste said. "Watch it. It's the death of many kings, even gods. And I suppose your current skill is rudimentary, so you're in need of a change."
"A change is already happening," Zephyros muttered, his fingers tightening around the goblet. Rudimentary.
"And what do you plan to do?" Celeste asked, leaning back in her chair, her gaze piercing.
"The exact same thing they did," Zephyros said, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Dalit. The man sat a few seats away, laughing with a group of relatives, his face flushed with wine. The owl's voice screamed in Zephyros' mind, a guttural, insistent command. "Kill him!"
"No…" Zephyros whispered, his voice barely audible.
Valen's voice cut through the room, pulling everyone's attention. "Who do you all think will be the next king or queen?" he asked, rolling a golden goblet between his hands. The room fell silent, the weight of the question hanging heavy in the air. Is he really talking about this now? Zephyros thought, his chest tightening.
A few of the older men gestured toward Dalit, their nods of approval sending a ripple of murmurs through the room. Valen's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Dalit? That's… unexpected. Even though Eryndor isn't here, I'd have thought he'd be the top choice."
"Then I suppose he's smart," Valen continued, his gaze settling on Dalit. "Tell me, Dalit, do you think you have what it takes to be—"
"I do," Dalit interrupted, his voice brimming with confidence. "I've waited years for this. The throne will be mine." His eyes gleamed with a hunger that made Zephyros' skin crawl. Dalit's smile widened, a sickle glinting with poison. "The throne will be mine, and I'll make sure no one forgets the name Dalit Vainar," he purred, gaze locking on Zephyros.
The owl shrieked—or was it Iris? Kill him kill him kill— Zephyros' fingernails bit crescents into his palms. Not yet, he told the voice. Let him taste hope first.