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T he funeral procession for the fallen former Lord Protector Rihad, champion of the Protectorate, hero warrior of the Imperium, is a stately masterpiece that will go down in the history books and become a staple of bardic tales for centuries to come.

And perhaps, one day far in the future, it will be footnoted as the total farce it truly is.

I ride stiffly behind Fortiss and my father, struggling vainly to keep Darkwing from prancing at my tension.

Despite my impatience, I feel Fortiss’s steady presence like a physical touch.

Our connection through the crowns has only amplified what was growing between us—this understanding that transcends words, this shared vision of what could be.

Behind me, Lord Tennet and Syril ride silently, and behind them, an honor guard of the surviving delegates of the Imperium ride in a position of honor with the few house lords still in Trilion who we’ve conscripted for this unlikely pageant.

Following after all these noteworthy souls, Nazar the exalted priest of the Light leads a twin procession of mourners—half dressed in bleached-white robes, half in deeply dyed black.

A cluster of white-garbed attendants leads the two lanes, and a final cluster gathers at the end, as the procession snakes its way all the way from the First House to what we’ve convinced the representatives of the Imperium is our primary holy ground—the coliseum.

Though it’s broad daylight, each line of mourners carries braziers billowing forth with smoke. The water-soaked wood of the white-garbed mourners produces thick clouds of white smoke, while the sooty coal of the black-garbed mourners belches out bulky, black plumes.

Nazar’s voice soars high above the procession, a melody weaving around us.

We are born in the Light, and we die in the Light .

I listen to the hypnotic cadence of his words, following along as best as I can.

The path we tread in between those two exalted states is never fully without the Light, but it’s also hung with darkness.

Those who learn how to balance both will gain treasures without seeking—at least if Nazar is to be believed.

How he’s remembered such songs after so many years in the Protectorate, I have no idea, but his voice is loud and clear, reaching all the way up the line to me.

I long to turn around to see the impressive sight of the light and the dark, to be anywhere but here, actually.

Instead, I keep my eyes respectfully and stoically on the backs of the two men who have done so much for the Protectorate, according to all who have been told the tale—Fortiss and the head of the Imperial delegation.

It is the only way, Talia.

I sharpen my eyes on Fortiss’s back. Since he wrenched Rihad’s crown from his head and placed it on his own, our thoughts have been a hopeless tangle of connection, impossible to separate.

But at least the answers I so desperately sought have finally come to me.

My crown, Ehlyn’s crown, was cast into darkness and sank into the rock of the Western Realms for centuries.

It’s battle hardened and true, and its edges are far rougher than the beautiful, pristine circlet that Rihad claimed for his own, handed down for centuries since Mirador gifted it to the First House at the dawn of the Protectorate.

Though both crowns remain safely in my satchel, their characteristics are echoed in the two warriors who have now claimed them.

I am hardened and bitter, rough in my disavowal of the pomp of this ridiculous funeral procession.

Fortiss, however, carries himself like the true leader he is…

shiny and bright, but also far more polished in the deception of this day than I will ever be.

It’s a lie , I remind him harshly, hating every plodding step of this false procession. The way of the warrior is truth.

No. It is strategy. And with this strategy, we secure all that we honor in the Protectorate.

I accept his assessment mulishly, my lips turning down at the corners, though I know he’s not wrong.

And, for all our differences, I also realize anew how we balance each other perfectly—my rough edges against his polish, my impulsiveness against his strategy.

Where I would burn bridges, he builds them; where he might hesitate, I charge ahead.

Together, maybe we can make something stronger than either of us could alone.

We continue along the path for another full hour at this stately pace until we reach the coliseum.

We ride into the fabled space, and even I can’t stop my gasp of surprise and admiration.

There, where barely a day before bodies of warriors and carcasses of snakes littered the ground, the space has been transformed.

A sea of silken carpets has been rolled out in a luxurious, overlapping blanket, leaving only a wide corridor for our procession, until, about a quarter of the way into the great space, the great warrior’s pyre awaits Rihad.

Scattered across the carpets, some standing, some sitting, some weeping, some staring with wide-eyed interest, are the residents of Trilion, as well as many spectators from farther afield, I suspect.

To gain entry in this space and to the feast that will follow in Trilion, all they had to do was give their names and troth to follow the lead of Fortiss, the new lord protector.

The pageant continues, and Nazar announces to all who will listen the tale of the First House’s glorious defense of the realm.

Rihad was a testament to the Protectorate and the Imperium, Fortiss his rightful successor.

Both contributed equally to protecting the First House and, by extension, all of the Protectorate from the loathsome threat of the twisted powers of the Western Realms. At Rihad’s tragic death, the transfer of power between him and his beloved nephew was peaceful and blessed by the Light.

Nothing to look at here.

A chorus of singers finally lapse into silence as we reach the great pyre.

We draw our horses to the side, but only Fortiss dismounts to accompany the bearers of Rihad’s heavily wrapped and draped body to the pyre.

Together, he and Nazar shoulder the body of Rihad alongside the other carriers.

They mount the pyre, then lay the body to rest atop it.

Idly, I wonder what poor structure had been sacrificed to provide the great stack of wood, and I catch Fortiss’s dark mutter as the thought slips through my mind.

Look closer.

Frowning, I edge my horse slightly to the side to see past my father, and blink. Behind the thinnest layer of stacked wood, the interior of the pyre is filled with snake carcasses.

“Fitting, I should think, that he burn with the darkness he cultivated.” I stiffen as my father angles his horse back to be even with mine, his gaze also resting on the snake carcasses as he speaks his words in low tones that only I can here.

He glances over to me, and I see in his eyes a weariness I’d never marked before.

“I should have died too in that battle. Deservedly so. And yet, you not only spared me, you…”

He tightens his mouth, looking away as his eyes shine mirror bright. Then he turns back to glare at me. “Why?” he asks tightly. “I gave you no reason to treat me so fairly. I gave you no grace or compassion, not once. Why did you trust me?”

I hold his gaze steadily, my own heart thudding, as a faraway hooting call sounds deep in my mind—a call of pure, undiluted joy. “Because you gave me Gent,” I say simply. “He would never have been mine if he had not been yours, first.”

We stare a moment longer, and a tear does slip from his eye then—maybe mine too. Neither of us wipes it away.

“Today we send a warrior into the Light!”

Fortiss’s shout echoes off the walls of the coliseum, and I jerk my glance up again as the attendants descend the pyre, leaving only Fortiss and Nazar atop it. They both lift their arms high as a chant lifts all around me, so loud it seems to shake the walls.

“To the Light! To the Light!”

I watch as they both heft the braziers of white-and-black smoke and pull lit tapers out—setting the platform around Rihad aflame.

They step back as the fire licks and curls around the structure, then move with stately grace down the stairs as the fire gains momentum.

The cheering continues around them, lusty and full-throated, and I finally get my horse angled enough to see the faces of the Imperial delegates as they watch the conflagration.

They look…satisfied, I think.

Satisfied is good. They will carry this story back to the Imperium and hopefully never return—or at least not for generations to come.

That is enough, this day. Because all I want is to stay here in the Protectorate—with Fortiss, our people…

and my beautiful, powerful goliath, who even now is singing far away in the Blessed Plane, so close but still so far away.

I haven’t dared to summon him directly yet, but… I can, I think. I can. I will.

By the time we reach the First House again, the celebration in Trilion is already reaching a crescendo.

It’s as if the collective breath of villagers has been let out, a burden unshouldered and allowed to crash to the ground.

I know this celebration will continue for days, and I’m glad to leave them to it—but there are hours yet of celebrations I still must endure before I can finally break free.

Later that evening, the great hall of the First House buzzes with voices and music, the celebration reaching fever pitch as more and more villagers crowd in to toast their new lord protector.

I watch as Fortiss moves through the crowd with practiced grace, accepting condolences for his uncle’s death even as he receives a second round of congratulations for his ascension.

The duality of it all makes my head spin—or perhaps that’s the weight of the two crowns still hidden in my satchel, their power humming against my hip like a half-remembered song.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the noise of the celebration fade as I reach out to Gent with my mind.

The connection that was merely a whisper during the ending moments of the attack on the plains and this morning’s funeral procession is stronger now, and I can feel my mighty Divh’s presence with a familiar warmth that belies his monstrous form.

It’s all I can do not to leave this crowd of celebrating people—even though my heart fills to nearly overflowing to watch Nazar and Caleb, Syril and Tennet, laughing and talking together.

These are my people; these are my friends.

But their song is not the one that calls me. Not tonight.

Still, I bide my time, understanding more with every passing hour how right Fortiss is. The Imperial delegation is still here, still watching. And the way of the warrior must be one of strategy as well as joy.

When I finally manage to slip away from the feast, my feet carry me toward the eastern overlook—the highest point of the First House grounds, where the cliffs fall away to reveal the vastness of the Protectorate stretching out below.

The night air still carries traces of smoke from Rihad’s pyre, but even that is fading away, replaced by the winds of change.

The world has been remade, and I’m still standing, no longer alone.

Never again alone.

I stride out on the overlook as I lift my hand high, reaching to the heavens.

I reach for myself and for the Thirteenth House—I reach for Merritt and his irrepressible joy—but most of all, I reach for my glorious, magical, monstrous Divh, who even now is howling far away in the Blessed Plane, shimmering with joy.

“Gent,” I whisper.

Without another moment’s thought I race out, leaping up onto a chair—a table—and then launch myself off the edge of the banister to soar into the sky.

And, of course, he catches me.