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Those black flames devour Aleana’s body, and though I understand that this is the best way to ensure her soul isn’t tied to a vessel anymore, the savagery of the black flame eats her bones as it eats her flesh.

It’s a grisly thing to behold.

Silence consumes us as we watch Aleana sear to ash.

It’s no moment to speak. No song, no speech, no dance.

We do not celebrate her life, nor wail over her death.

We watch the black flame sever her soul from this life, so she is free to move on to the next. But in this manner, the circle of life isn’t appeased. The animals of this land are not fed, not nourished, nor provided for as they are in Licht when a fae dies.

Our tradition takes three moons to complete. And the pieces of the body are scattered on the third. We dance and sing in the nights leading up to the final one—and we celebrate the death in flesh but the life in soul.

There is joy in our funerals.

Here, there is silent misery.

Here, there is the oppression of grief.

And so the dokkalves make so much more sense to me now. The way they are, the metals around their hearts, the fight to speak their emotions—because it is beaten out of them in their culture, even in something as agonising as loss.

The pity in me coils in my chest like a writhing snake.

I throw a glance at Daxeel.

Hands rested on the hilts of daggers pinned to his waist, he stands proudly at the head of Aleana’s burning body. His chin is raised, eyes dead and fixed ahead at nothing—but the glisten on his chin betrays his pain, his tears.

Beside him, Caius wears only a slight glitter on a single cheek.

In their leathers, they stand as warriors on guard.

It takes every ounce of will within me to not shake my head in passive judgement.

I turn my stare to the black flame.

It devoured her fast. Too fast. Like she was never a person, never real, never lived, and she was only a feather to be burnt to ash.

I stare at that last piece of bone, flames dancing all around it. It’s not quite white, not quite yellow, but a lovely blend of both—and it sickens me.

Nausea crawls up my throat.

I fight the urge to shut my eyes on the grim sight as the last of the flickering black flames eat the small lump of Aleana that is left.

It takes so long now.

Maybe because I looked, time has shifted.

Eamon’s fingers thread through mine before he inches closer, a mild step that no one notices.

I lean into him, my temple on his arm.

That final flame hangs on. It lingers over the smallest, faintest piece of bone in the pile of ash. Flickers once, twice, then it is gone…

And so is Aleana.

I feel the roll of tears down my cheeks, down my throat.

Cautious movement ripples through the fae in the ash grounds.