On the other side of the palace, in a quiet room draped in mourning colors, Kaerth and Noah sat together in silence.
The weight of loss still hung heavy in the air, but their moment of stillness was interrupted when the door opened with a soft creak.
Two young boys stepped inside.
One of them—tall for his age, with striking eyes and a composed presence—was Ignareth, just nine years old.
Beside him was a smaller boy with soft features, red cheeks, and curious eyes—James, only six, the same age as Kaerth.
Noah stood up from his seat to greet them. Despite his usual cold demeanor, he gave a nod of respect. "You're welcome here. Thank you for coming."
Ignareth stepped forward calmly and said, "There's no need to thank us. We came for the funeral. It's the least we can do."
James, quiet and slightly flushed, walked forward shyly. His voice was soft but clear. "Nice to meet you…"
His gaze turned to Kaerth, who looked up with red, watery eyes, his cheeks still stained from crying.
