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Reyla

H is tortured gaze fell on Erisandra. “I want to do one last thing for the woman I loved.”

The silence that followed her collapse was suffocating. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a move, a sound, anything. Dust swirled in the sunlight cutting through the newly shattered windows, the debris settling around Erisandra's fragile body.

Lore’s knees slid on the blood-smeared floor. His face could've been carved from stone. He moved with the kind of grace I’d only ever seen in his most ruthless moments, yet his hand trembled as he stroked her dirt-streaked face, brushing away blood already caking on her cheek.

“You didn’t deserve this.” His voice ghosted over her still form, full of tenderness. “No one does.” His jaw worked as his other hand brushed a snarled lock of hair from her face. So intimate. Gentle. Seeing him this way shredded something inside me.

His breathing rattled his chest, and I suspected his wall of self-control was beginning to crack. He traced her shoulder with his fingertips, the hollow in his throat bobbing as his voice rasped out. “She’s at peace now.”

My hands felt useless at my sides. I stepped forward, placing one on his shoulder, squeezing. “You're not facing this alone.”

He didn’t react at first, but he didn’t pull away from me either, and that was all I needed to move closer, to drop down and curl my body around his.

The doors quivered opened, and courtiers and guards cautiously crept back inside, peering around at the devastation with shocked expressions and wild fear in their eyes. When they saw Erisandra lying on the floor, the few in the lead gasped, the sound echoed by those behind.

We rose to our feet.

Several of Erisandra’s ladies-in-waiting pushed to the front, their cries tearing through the stillness. They collapsed together, sobbing as they clutched each other’s clothing. A few rushed forward, dropping to their knees beside the queen mother and draping themselves over her body.

“Who killed her?” one woman hissed, her pale face full of confusion. “Please tell me. We must go after them at once!”

Had the curse snatched back what they'd seen already?

“A beast got inside the throne room,” I said, my voice growing stronger when Lore looked my way and jerked out a nod. “The queen mother died defending King Lorick and I, and her sacrifice…” I choked off, my eyes stinging with tears. I had not loved the person I’d met when I arrived at Evergorne Court, but if Prager hadn't been inside her, forcing all he r actions and snide words, I might've. “We defeated the beast, a magical being whose spirit has fled. They murdered the queen mother and destroyed the throne room in the battle.”

“The fates curse them,” a lord snarled. “How dare they enter the sanctity of this court and do such a horrible thing?”

“Such a brave soul,” someone said. “May the fates preserve the queen mother now.”

“Our poor queen mother,” a man cried out, his body shaking with sobs. Others joined in, wailing along with him.

“So brave.”

“She adored our king and queen. It's not surprising she’d give her own life to protect them.”

Among most, Erisandra had inspired fierce devotion, and her loss would be felt deeply.

Lore reached out, taking my hand. Tension spiked through his body, and his voice cut through the room. “The queen mother is gone.” His tone didn’t waver, though I knew him well enough to hear the strain underneath it. “She’ll be honored according to tradition. High Lord Briscalar, announce her death to the city. Ensure the pyre is built, Talvon. Tonight, my mother’s body will be returned to the loving arms of the fates with a pyre in her favorite royal garden.”

Briscalar bowed and strode from the room, barking orders as he disappeared through the chamber doors. Talvon moved to oversee the staggering nobles, his presence steadying them in a way that cleared space for Lore and me.

Lore scooped up Erisandra in his arms. She hung limply, her bruised arms dangling free, reminding us of the battle that had ended her life. Gasps and cries rippled through the court as he began walking along the red-carpeted aisle toward the exit.

I remained close behind him, near enough he’d know I was there. He angled his head toward me, but he didn’t look down or speak. Words weren’t necessary in moments like this.

He carried his beloved mother through the silent corridors, courtiers parting in a quiet wave to allow us passage. No one spoke, but they all bowed their heads.

Erisandra’s personal suite felt chilly despite the flames crackling in her hearth. I stayed near the entrance to her bedroom, watching as he carried his mother’s limp body across the plush rug and lowered her gently onto her bed. As he arranged her arms on her chest, his knuckles went bone white.

Maintaining his control was slowly slicing him apart.

Her ladies hurried in, their faces blotchy and with sobs wrenching up their throats. They stopped and bowed their heads as Lore turned to them.

“Prepare her for the pyre.” His voice quavered, but I was sure I was the only one who noticed. “Dress her in her finest gown and jewels. She’d want that.” His jaw locked, and his eyes glistened as he strode across the room and stopped in the doorway, taking my fingers, squeezing them before releasing them and motioning for me to follow.

One of the ladies met my eyes. “We’ll take care of her,” she said, her voice a guttural wail. “We swear it.”

“Thank you.”

Lore paused in the hall, his every muscle screaming. Stiffening, he strode forward. I followed, trailing in the shadow of his pain. Neither of us said a word. When he finally stopped in a dim alcove, he braced his arms against the stone wall and lowered his forehead onto his forearms. I wrapped my arms around him from behind, resting my cheek on his back.

“She deserved better than this.” Anguish wrenched through his voice. “Why didn't I see what was happening? I could've done something. Found a way to drive that… thing out of her.” His body shook, and I tugged him away from the wall, turning him to face me.

I held him again while tears slid down his face.

We bathed, changed into formal clothing, and returned to Erisandra’s suite to find her lying sweetly on the bed, her eyes closed but looking as if she’d open them soon. This time, she’d smile and give us welcome. That’s what I told myself she’d do, what the real Erisandra would do. Not the wizard who’d pushed her to be nasty to me and stage a coup to seize the throne from the son Erisandra had loved.

We helped her ladies wrap her in a shroud, and Lore lifted her and carried her downstairs and all the way to the back entrance. He only relinquished her to her ladies before we stepped outside.

The air buzzed with the sounds of preparation. Workers moved around solemnly, speaking to each other quietly as they got the last things ready. A towering pile of wood had been stacked in his mother’s favorite garden. Flowers wavered in raised beds around us, and the wind skittered through the trees.

Clusters of ribbons tied with lavender, thyme, and sage had been tucked among the kindling, the fragrance mingling with the thick, earthy scent of damp soil and wood. Lords, ladies, and villagers alike scattered petals near the base of the pyre, the vibrant colors dimming now that the sun had started to drop in the sky.

Lord Briscalar and Talvon wove through the workers, their instructions quiet. Briscalar pointed out an uneven beam at the edge of the pyre, and Talvon corrected it with a sharp nod. Around them, whispers floated on the chilly air as people streamed into the garden, dressed in their finest. Some carried lit candles that flickered in the breeze, while others clutched flowers or nothing at all, their grief filling their empty hands.

I remained at Lore’s side. As he watched and waited, his broad shoulders remained straight and his face stoic. Only the twitch of his jaw showed his overwhelming grief.

When we passed through the iron gates and into his mother’s favorite garden, the growing crowd shifted, creating a pathway for us to take toward the pyre. Conversation ended, and heads dipped low, all clasping at least one hand against their chests.

At the heart of the garden, the pyre loomed. Flower petals brushed against the hem of my gown as I stepped closer, and a faint floral scent clung to the cold air. Erisandra’s ladies-in-waiting followed behind us, their faces pale, their hands clutching the shroud that cradled the queen mother’s broken body.

They handed her gently to her guard, who climbed the newly built stairs and arranged her on the top of the pyre before smoothing the fabric of her shroud. A strand of her hair, a lighter brown than Lore’s, had come loose, and one of the guards tucked it back gently.

Lore stood beside me a few feet away, his arms stiff at his sides. Watching him from the corner of my eye, I could see each breath shudder, as if he was pulling the surrounding night into himself. Overhead, the sky bruised deeper into night, stars peering through a pall of thick clouds.

After her guard had returned to the ground and tugged the stairs away, Lore strode over to the base of the pyre like a man walking into battle. The gathering held its breath, the silence making my ears ring.

“You gave me life,” Lore said, his voice low. The rawness in words carved into my chest. “You raised me. You stood by my side after my father died. When I was crowned. You loved me, and for that, I am eternally grateful.” He paused, his fingers curling into fists, before he forced them open again. “No words can undo what you endured, what was taken from you. But tonight, I vow this: you will not be forgotten. Your sacrifice will be remembered. You will find peace, even if I have to burn half the world to make it happen.”

And he would. I could see it in the way his flame-bright eyes gleamed, the steadiness of his voice. Lore would destroy the realms themselves to bring her justice.

Bending down, he reached for the jar of blessed oil sitting in the grass nearby. With a lurch, he lifted it and sprayed the contents across the wood, the petals, the clusters of beribboned herbs. After Talvon took the jar from him and stepped back, Lore stared at his mother for a very long while.

I joined him, sliding my arm around the back of his waist.

He curled toward me and kissed my temple. “Love, I'm so grateful you're here. Help me do this?”

Tears scorched my eyes. The most profound pyre I'd attended was Kinart's. There was nothing worse than lighting the flames that would claim the remains of someone you loved.

“I’m here for you. Always,” I whispered.

With a jerk of a nod, he snapped an arm out, and his magic tightened the air until the first lick of fire sprang to life at the tips of his fingers. He flung his hand toward the pyre, and a blaze surged out. It caught at the base and raced up, greedily consuming the dry, oil-soaked wood. The fire grew fast, the warm hues of orange and gold painting the faces of the sobbing crowd. The sound of crackling wood and smoke scorched through the garden.

Faces glistened with tears. Some people knelt, their heads bowed, while others simply watched, their expressions molded with grief. Every now and then, a choked cry broke through.

I remained with my husband, wondering if anything could patch the jagged tear Prager had made in his heart .

Lore’s eyes reflecting the fire’s hunger. The flames climbed higher, swallowing his mother whole in a heat so intense I tugged him back to avoid being burned.

“My king,” someone whispered in the crowd, but Lore didn’t turn or seem to hear.

Erisandra’s body burned along with the sweet-smelling herbs and dry tinder, the fire roaring for what felt like an eternity. Lore didn’t look away. If this was a reckoning, he was enduring it to the very last ember.

The heat from the pyre waned as the flames died down to an enormous, rippling mound of coals. People began to leave, tears streaking down their faces, until only a handful of lords and ladies remained, their heads tilted toward the ground.

Finally, Lore moved. His hand shifted to take mine, and he wove our fingers together. He looked down at me. Stroked the fingertips of his other hand across my face.

“It’s done,” he said.

I swallowed, nodding, ash and pain coating the back of my throat. His arm slid around me, and he tugged me into his side.

He only turned back once before we stepped inside the castle.

The smoldering embers of the pyre flickered faintly in the center of Erisandra’s favorite garden, a death watch of the night.