The Pyre  

The rain had not relented. 

It fell in a relentless downpour, soaking through Caelan's cloak, past his travel-worn leathers, and into his skin. He barely felt it. His fingers were buried in Arrow's thick fur, his forehead pressed against the beast's lifeless body. The world around him had blurred—just the sound of the rain, the ragged pull of his breath, the distant, muffled thud-thud of approaching hooves. 

He did not lift his head when the carriage stopped. 

Did not turn when the doors creaked open. 

Did not care when heavy boots met the rain-soaked ground. 

"What happened here?" 

The voice cut through the storm, deep and steady. Familiar. 

Caelan's breath caught. 

He lifted his head slowly, rain dripping from his lashes as he turned to face the man standing before him. 

Edric.

Caelan's heart lurched into his throat, anger searing through the grief like a blade through cloth. 

The man who had stolen his throne. The man who had betrayed him, who had caused this, all of this. The years of exile, the loss, the grief—Edric had set it all in motion, and now here he stood, cloaked in deep navy and gold, a fur-lined mantle draped over his broad shoulders, untouched by the storm. His blonde hair was shorter than Caelan remembered, neater, streaked with strands of silver at the temples. A thick belt cinched at his waist, bearing the unmistakable weight of a finely crafted sword. The crown rested on his brow—Caelan's crown, polished gold and lapis, a cruel mockery of the man who should have worn it. 

At Edric's side stood another noble, younger, dressed in deep crimson and black. His tunic was lined with intricate embroidery, his sword hilt well-worn, his posture easy yet alert, like a man accustomed to danger but not seeking it. Behind them, two guards stood in polished armor, their helms shielding their faces, their hands resting lightly on their weapons. 

The carriage rider held a coverlet over the two royal men, shielding them from the rain. 

Caelan's fingers twitched toward the knife at his belt. 

He could do it. Right now. 

End Edric here, in the middle of this storm, cut him down like the traitor he was and, in turn, cut out the thirst for vengeance that had been festering within him like a gangrenous limb. His heart pounded, warred between grief and vengeance. Arrow's body was still warm beneath his hands, reminding him of all he had lost, of what he was fighting for. 

But Caelan wasn't a fool. 

Edric was flanked by two guards. The noble beside him looked young but that well-worn hilt on his sword meant he was dangerous. And Edric himself—Edric was a master swordsman. They had fought countless times before, when they were still something closer to brothers than friends. Caelan had held his own back then, but now? He was cold, exhausted, half-starved from years on the road. The blade at his hip would do him no good if he was dead before he could use it. 

No. Not yet. 

"You refuse me an answer?" Edric asked, voice steady but expectant. 

Caelan hesitated. 

Then—realization struck. 

He doesn't recognize me. 

The knowledge sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. 

After all these years, after everything, after the blood Edric had spilled—he was looking Caelan in the eye and seeing nothing more than a nameless traveler kneeling in the mud. 

Caelan forced his fingers to unclench from Arrow's fur. He lowered his gaze, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat. 

"I apologize," he said, voice even. "I did not hear the question." 

One of the guards bristled. "You will bow when speaking to the High King." 

Caelan's teeth clenched. He was already on his knees, soaked and grieving. What more did they want from him? 

But he forced himself to lower his head further. Let them believe I am nothing. Let them look past me.

"Neither did I know of your status," he said smoothly. "I apologize, Your Highness." 

A beat of silence. Then— 

"You are forgiven." 

The words struck harder than Caelan expected. 

The sheer audacity of them. 

His nails dug into his palms as Edric turned away, glancing at the still form of Arrow behind him. 

"I asked what was going on here," Edric said again. 

Caelan swallowed hard. Grief lodging in his throat anew. He would not give Edric the luxury of seeing him cry. 

So, he looked down, fingers running absently through Arrow's fur. 

"I have lost an old friend, Your Highness." 

Edric studied him. "I see. Did he fall to illness?" 

Caelan's throat tightened. "Some say old age is an illness." 

Edric said nothing but, through the corner of his eye—Caelan saw it. 

Edric lifted his hand, pressed two fingers to his lips, then to his heart, then back to his lips. Softly he whispered, "Journey well, friend." 

It was a blessing. A prayer. The highest form of respect one could give to the dead. 

How dare he!? 

Rage crashed over Caelan like a tidal wave. 

The audacity to stand there, wearing his throne, his crown, and speak those words as if he had not played a role in the death of the very beast before them. As if he had not razed Caelan's kingdom to the ground, forced him into exile, made him a fugitive, reduced him to this—kneeling in the mud, mourning alone. 

Caelan's hands trembled. 

It was disrespectful. Something akin to sin.

Edric's voice cut through his fury. "How would you like to lay him to rest?" 

And Caelan thought, 'I will not let him defile your corpse.'

He would not let him touch Arrow. He would not let him claim him, even in death. 

Caelan lifted his chin, meeting Edric's gaze. 

"I will carry his ashes." 

Edric studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. 

"Then we will build a pyre." 

***

The fire burned high and bright, the only source of warmth in the frigid cold of the aftermath of the storm. 

Caelan stood before it, face shadowed in flickering orange, the heat licking at his soaked clothes. The scent of burning wood, flesh and fur filled the air, thick and heady. The drizzling rain hissed as it met the flames, steam curling up into the dark sky like whispered prayers. 

Edric stood beside him. 

He had ordered his guards to gather the wood. Had ensured the structure was sturdy. Had called for the animal fat that forced the wet wood to blaze. Had watched in silence as Caelan carried Arrow's body himself and laid him gently atop the pyre. 

Caelan hated him. 

Hated the way Edric stood there, solemn, respectful, like he belonged here. Like he had the right to mourn alongside him. 

The crackle of fire was the only sound between them. 

Until Edric said, "Come to the palace with me." 

Caelan stiffened. 

"Am I under arrest, Your Highness?" he asked flatly. 

Edric's expression didn't shift. "I mean to give you a place in my court." 

Caelan's heartbeat roared in his ears. 

"Stablehand, gardener, guard—it does not matter. I want to be sure you are provided for." 

Caelan turned, finally meeting Edric's gaze fully. 

This was not the Edric he had known. 

The Edric he had known had been ruthless, ambitious, cunning. He had been a warrior with fire in his veins who never showed all his cards. He was calculating, fair but not free. He would toss gold coins to the poor but he never did anything so personal. 

This man… was calm. Mellowed out. And beneath the weight of his authority, there was something else—something Caelan could not yet name. 

It unsettled him. 

It terrified him. 

The Edric he knew would never make an offer like this. 

So why? 

His mouth felt dry. He had to ask. 

"Why?" 

Edric opened his mouth.