The rain had not stopped.
It fell softly now.
Not violent like before.
But endless.
Like sorrow that refused to leave.
Aren's funeral was held beneath a gray, grieving sky.
No grand ceremony.
No royal splendor.
Only soldiers.
Only silence.
Only loss.
The battlefield, once roaring with chaos, now stood eerily still. Mud clung to boots. Banners hung heavy with rain. Even the wind seemed reluctant to disturb the fragile peace carved from devastation.
At the center—
A simple wooden bier.
Aren lay upon it.
Armor removed.
Uniform cleaned.
Hands folded gently across his chest.
He looked…
Peaceful.
Cruelly peaceful.
As though merely asleep.
As though death had been too gentle.
Too merciful.
Too unfair.
Rows of soldiers stood in absolute silence.
Helmets removed.
Heads bowed.
Not for rank.
Not for command.
But for the man who had saved countless lives…
…and could not be saved himself.
Selara did not stand among them.
She could not.
Inside her tent, the world felt smaller.
Suffocating.
Still.
She sat before a small mirror.
Unmoving.
Rain whispering softly against canvas walls.
Her armor rested nearby.
Blood cleaned.
Steel polished.
Yet her hands…
Still trembled.
Because for the first time in years—
Selara saw herself.
Not the commander.
Not the warrior.
Not the storm.
But a woman shattered beyond recognition.
Eyes hollow.
Skin pale.
A grief so deep it seemed to drain life itself.
Her fingers rose slowly.
Brushing against her reflection.
As though trying to understand the stranger staring back.
"…Who are you now?"
The whisper barely existed.
No rage answered.
No fury ignited.
No storm awakened.
Because grief had evolved.
From fire…
Into something far more terrifying.
Nothing.
Outside—
The funeral horn sounded.
Low.
Broken.
Final.
Selara's breath hitched violently.
Her chest tightening with suffocating force.
She clenched her eyes shut.
But memory is cruel.
Relentless.
Merciless.
Aren's smile.
Aren's voice.
Aren's final words.
"…Live… Selara…"
A violent sob tore from her throat.
Her body collapsing forward as grief finally shattered what strength remained.
"I cannot…"
Her voice fractured.
"I cannot live in a world without you…"
But the tent gave no comfort.
Only silence.
Only echoes.
Only unbearable absence.
Beyond the battlefield…
Far away…
Within golden palace walls…
The news arrived.
The messenger's face was pale.
Voice trembling.
Steps hesitant.
Ophelia's heart knew before her ears did.
"…Your Majesty…"
"…Commander Aren…"
The world tilted.
Ophelia's fingers tightened violently around the letter in her hands.
"No…"
A whisper.
Fragile.
Terrified.
"…He has fallen."
Silence exploded.
Ophelia staggered backward.
Eyes wide.
Color draining instantly from her face.
"No…"
"No, that's impossible…"
"…Aren cannot…"
The letter slipped from her trembling fingers.
Tears rising before disbelief could even form.
"My sister…"
Her voice cracked violently.
"…Selara…"
Because Ophelia did not think of war.
Did not think of politics.
Did not think of consequence.
She thought only of Selara.
Alone.
Broken.
Destroyed.
Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face as she collapsed into the nearest chair, hands trembling violently.
Meanwhile—
Merideth stood nearby.
Watching.
And though her expression mirrored sorrow…
Her eyes did not.
A flicker.
"Tragic".
Her voice was soft.
Perfectly measured.
Perfectly composed.
But beneath that polished sympathy…
Something darker breathed.
Because fate had begun removing pieces from Selara's world.
One by one.
Cruelly.
Precisely.
Ophelia wept.
The palace mourned.
The kingdom grieved a fallen hero.
And far away—
Within a rain-soaked tent—
Selara's world lay buried beside the man who had been her last anchor to warmth.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly.
Like distant memory.
Like approaching destiny.
Like a warning whispered by a world that knew…
This grief was far from over.