Seven days had passed since the battle.
Now, Spawnhold stood quiet. Not from fear but from grief.
The firewood had been prepared. The priest stood ready. And on the raised stone platform lay the body of King Rody, wrapped in silk and royal blue cloth. His hands were crossed over his chest, and his silver crown rested beside him.
At the front of the crowd, Queen Aiah of Bulcan stood with her royal guards behind her. She bowed her head respectfully, her cloak catching in the wind.
Isaac stood a few steps behind her. Silent. Still. His eyes fixed on the old man's peaceful face.
As the priest's chant deepened, Isaac's gaze fixed on the crown beside the king's still hands… and in that flickering firelight, a memory returned, uninvited.
A few days earlier…
The old king lay weakly on his bed, his skin pale and paper-thin. His breath was shallow. His once-powerful voice had softened to a whisper. Only Isaac was in the room.
Rody opened his eyes slowly.
"...Isaac. Are you there?"
