The rain started before sunrise and didn't stop.
By midmorning, the estate grounds were packed with black umbrellas, polished shoes sinking into wet gravel, and cameras flashing from beyond the iron gates. Security held the press line firm, but the air still felt crowded, thick with whispered speculation and the low hum of broadcast vans parked along the outer road.
Two coffins sat beneath the temporary canopy, identical in size, identical in dark lacquer, identical in the wreaths laid across their lids. White orchids. Imported lilies. Rattan baskets of roses from political allies who had not yet decided which side they were on.
Arkana stood at the front row, hands folded behind his back, posture straight, expression neutral.
He had slept two hours.
He had not cried.
To the public, the tragedy was brutal and sudden. A late night drive. A wet highway. A collision with a cargo truck. Impact fatal.
To anyone who understood power, the timing felt too clean.
