Though his malformed eyes couldn’t clearly see it, Henry Grimhawk stared at the pyre. Next to him, Chester and Chickadee were making the final preparations. Chickadee was holding onto a bucket of fresh goat’s blood while Chester was using it to paint the Grimhawk coat of arms on a white sheet. He added extra flourish to the twisting tails at the bottom of the shield, a mark reserved only for those who had graduated from Braytons.

Chester took a step back and retrieved the bucket from Chester. A musician from Tilrey began to play the traditional funeral music for the Gilded Region. He sat on a rug that had been placed in the grass, with a white sitar on his lap. The gilding on it bounced light in every direction as he played.

The current knights of the barracks, Lady Till, Lady Marjoram, and Lady Blu took the edges of the cloth. They were joined by the members of Grimstone Squad and Prince Duxton. Together, they lifted up the cloth and draped it over Grimhawk’s body.

They stood watch as a procession of barracks workers, squires, and citizens of Tilrey passed by. Each stuck a flower within the gaps of wood. Soon, it looked as though Grimhawk’s silhouette was resting among a bed of flowers, almost as though he were taking a nap among the wild grasses around the barracks. A familiar spring sight for those who knew him.

Those who had placed the cloth were the last to lay their flowers. Nine of them were spread across the old knight’s chest. Till placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder and helped guide his hand so he could place the tenth flower. She then helped him with the torch, setting the pyre on fire.

Everyone stepped away and took their places, sitting in the grass around the pyre. No one made a sound. Weeping for the first hour of burning was considered disrespectful. Only the sound of the sitar was allowed to be heard.

After the grace period had passed, the sitar player stopped his playing. He began to put his instrument away. A few stood up, gathered their things, and prepared for the trip home. Others moved more sluggishly, hesitant to be the first to leave. The first years had no choice but to leave with them. With Buttonweed also dead and Dalkirk still at war, there was no knowing what their squad placements would be now.

Alton’s eyes remained locked on the pyre. Grimhawk’s death was their fault. It was completely their fault. They were impatient and failed to take proper measures to protect themselves. He gritted his teeth and shook his head.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he said in a harsh whisper. Though he had only spoken a few words today, his throat was unbearably sore.

Chickadee placed his hand on top of Alton’s. “... More will die,” he whispered.

And he was right. Over and over again, no matter how many times it happened, Alton would choose Sybil’s life over someone else’s. No… It didn’t matter if it was Sybil, or Chickadee, or Zaniyah, or maybe even Veximarl, Alton would choose their lives over someone else’s. That was simply the standard that they had given themselves.

Behind them, Sybil vanished in a hint of mist. Duxton’s eyes traced an invisible path through the air. He patted Shaw’s shoulder, gestured that he was going back to the barracks, and left. Shaw hesitated and looked to Zaniyah. Rather than follow after the prince, he decided to stay by his sister’s side.

“Can’t you do anything?” Zaniyah asked Veximarl.

Veximarl shook his head. “Any tampering on my end may change the path of his soul… It’s better to let him rest where he has a chance to be with his wife again.”

His letter buzzed within his pocket. Tish was asking him if he wanted to help her organize the barracks. They were preparing for the night’s feast, where they would celebrate Grimhawk’s life over food and stories.

“I must be off,” muttered Veximarl. He glanced over to Zaniyah. “How is your back? Has sitting too long troubled it?”

“Hmm?” Zaniyah brushed him off with a wave of her hand. “Pfft. I can sit here all night.” But her feet were already numb and her shoulders were crying out in agony.

Veximarl took one of her hands into his own and gave her fingers a brief squeeze. His way of stealthily diagnosing her. “Ah, I see,” he said. There was no mention of what he had sensed. “Be sure to come in before it gets too cold.”

She nodded but made no plans on leaving anytime soon. Hours passed, and the moon had already risen. Only a few remained in their places, sitting in silent contemplation.

Till finally stood up and gently put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “It’s time to go.”

Grimhawk’s ashes would be allowed to rest under the light of the moon. They would then be gathered and mixed with the foundations at dawn. Henry wished to spend the night out here, but there was no point in making himself sick from the cold. Not while there was still work to be done. He stood up and followed Till back into the barracks.

His disappearance made the others stand up. Zaniyah stretched out her limbs. She then bowed deeply to the smoldering pyre. Though she had succeeded to keep her tears in before, glops of water were now dripping freely from her eyes.

“Thank you for everything, sir!” She cried out. “I promise I’ll continue to work hard!”

She didn’t bother to check if anyone had bothered to bow with her. Zaniyah secured her axe to her back and headed to the barracks. She was appalled to see the amount of slacking that was occurring within. An outdoor grill had been set up, cooking a range of meats and vegetables, including the goat that had been sacrificed earlier.

“Hey!” Zaniyah hollered. “Bring honor to the memory of your weapons master! You should all be training your butts off!”

“But all Grimhawk did was sit on his butt and complain that he wanted to eat some good food,” retorted Peter. He had a chicken leg in one hand and a mug of chilled cider in the other. The corners of his lips were heavily stained with sauce.

Zaniyah’s face flushed red. “... Ok, fine. That may be true, but as soon as all of you get up tomorrow, you’re training! That’s that!” She forcibly jabbed her finger against Peter’s chest. “And I’m coming for you personally,” she growled out.

Peter began to slowly step back until he was behind Basil, who quickly shook his head and pushed Peter away from him. With nowhere else to go, Peter took a bite of chicken and timidly chewed it. This might be the last time he would enjoy a meal in a while. Last time he trained with Zaniyah, he got punched so many times in the gut that he couldn’t hold down solid food for a week.

Next to them, Emery perked up. He had noticed Chickadee and walked over so that he could nod at him. Chickadee didn’t immediately reply. He only stood there, staring blankly at Emery’s face. There was so much that was important to the little blacksmith. Anything that didn’t hold a strong place in his heart had to be discarded.

Despite his talk with Zaniyah yesterday, Chickadee didn’t understand if he was doing this because he wasn’t happy with Emery, or if it was because he didn’t want to see him get hurt… But it felt like the right thing to do. He was always one to go with his immediate gut instinct. Now wasn’t the time to change who he was.

He briefly dipped his head forward. “Thank you for offering me your love, but I can no longer continue down the same path as you.”

While Emery stood there dumbfounded, Chickadee began to jog away. He wanted to stop by the infirmary, where Blu and Simon were. For some strange reason, being around Simon did make him happy. As weird as it sounded, it was like the same joy he felt when he was given unprocessed ore.

Chickadee skidded to a stop when Alton passed him without saying hi. “Where going?”

Alton looked over his shoulder. “Piano,” he blurted back. But he knew that no matter how many hours he would spend playing tonight, nothing would lift his mood.

And why would it? His song, his love for Sybil, it was a damn curse. No matter what he did, the only thing he did was hurt her… And he was done. Alton was done putting the woman he cared so much about through that pain.

Pain had always been something Sybil wished to avoid, but she also knew she was fated only to see more of it. She stood next to the window of a large room, watching as the people walked through the courtyard. Not once did she drop her mist so she could wave at them.

Across the way, Lady Till was hanging a black Braytons banner from her window. It had been hanging up since the knights left for war, but she had only just now bothered to clean the summer pollen off of it. It was her small sign of respect towards Grimhawk.

Or maybe she should’ve left it on. The Gilded Region received its name from the abundance of pollen that flowed here each summer. Sybil leaned her elbows on the edge of the windowsill. She wondered if pollen somehow gave away her hidden self. Hopefully not. Being hidden right now was the only thing that was giving her a sense of calm.

Behind her, the door opened. Duxton stared at the open window, knowing that he hadn’t left it that way. He let out a long sigh and reached into his pocket. A golden ring was retrieved and slipped over his left index finger. After he had put on the ring, he went to his dresser and began to dig through it.

“I distinctly recall telling you to come directly to me if you were ever in dire need of help,” he muttered. “Not idle about in my room, where it will take me an annoyingly long time to find you.”

Sybil backed away from the window before she dropped her spell. “I didn’t want to risk running into anyone else right now.”

Duxton pulled on a pair of gloves. He walked over to where Sybil was standing and lifted up a lock of her hair. It had turned a golden blonde color, which contrasted heavily with her black hair.

“Pull yourself together,” he said softly.

Sybil put a set of fingers to her temple. “I-I know, it’s just… I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I keep trying to handle everything one step at a time… But every step I take is just making me tumble further and further down.”

“And that’s why I’m here. I tell you what to do,” replied Duxton. “I will organize the chaos in your life and hone you into the blade you need to be.”

Slowly, the blonde strand of hair faded to black. “I don’t like this.” Sybil wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t want anyone else to die. I can’t stay here, but Lady Till refuses to send me away. The thought of her or one of my friends getting hurt or worse because they want to protect me… I’m not worth the trouble.”

“There are those in this world who are ripe for harvest, Sybil.” Duxton tilted her chin up. “We are the ones who carry the scythe.”

She hesitated, but then she slowly gave him a nod. “... Where do we go?” She asked, hopeful that he had at least some idea of where they should head next.

“Home… We’re going home.”