Chapter 63: the Living and the Lost

News spread like wildfire.

The House of Matteo, once marred by scandal, now reborn in strength, had struck a decisive blow against the Church. Their latest raid not only liberated brutalized prisoners but unearthed long-lost magical artifacts and forbidden weapons, relics hidden away for decades in secret chapels and underground vaults.

The people cheered.

The Church fumed.

But none of it could eclipse the city's growing obsession with the romantic whispers surrounding their Viscountess.

Elena, sharp-tongued and iron-willed, had become something of a legend herself. That she now walked hand-in-hand with the exiled healer and former prodigy of Puerto Cuidad-

Niegal Matteo, the Lion returned, was the perfect distraction.

Newspapers spun tales of "secret rendezvous," "moonlit council meetings," and "soft, wholesome laughter behind closed doors." Artists painted stolen kisses by lamplight. Merchants sold charms etched with dual lion and lightning sigils.

Love, it seemed, made excellent propaganda.

But time did not stop for admiration.

The day crept in, quiet and bitter: the death anniversary of Viscount Seamus Matteo.

Puerto Cuidad turned solemn. Ofrendas lined the cobbled streets, bathed in candlelight and layered with marigolds, talismans, and the sigil of Muerte Juju. Even the children hushed their voices that day. The city held its breath.

In the heart of the Matteo estate, silence reigned.

Elena sat at her vanity, the candlelight reflecting off the black silk of her gown; the same one she had worn the night she first arrived at the manor. Navy-blue organza billowed from her shoulders like fog. She hadn't worn it since.

He had loved this dress on her.

A hand settled on her shoulder. Warm. Steady.

She looked up in the mirror and saw Niegal standing behind her, his smile soft but knowing. She leaned her cheek against his hand, finding strength in his presence.

"It's time," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

She rose, slow and composed, fingers wiping a stray tear from her cheek before it could fall.

Niegal saw anyway.

He gently tilted her face to his, his eyes filled with quiet understanding.

And then, surprising her, he kissed the damp trace of her tear.

"Don't hide your tears, corazón. You don't have to hide from me."

"I know," she whispered, ashamed at her own restraint. "I just… today is hard on all of us."

Niegal pulled her close, one hand at her waist, the other pressing her head gently to his shoulder. She exhaled against him, eyes closing.

"I miss him, too," he breathed. "Don't hide it."

They held each other in silence. Grief shared between warriors.

And then, softly, wordlessly, they kissed.

Not a kiss of fire or hunger.

But one of memory.

Of mourning.

Of belonging.

Hand in hand, they stepped out into the candlelit halls.

The estate chapel flickered with hundreds of flames. A grand ofrenda sat at the center, adorned with holy symbols, dried herbs, weapons, sketches, and old letters. An oil painting of Seamus rested in the middle—he stood in noble regalia, eyes fierce but kind.

Elena sat before it, her posture regal, but her gaze distant.

Beside her, Aurora watched the candles with silent reverence. Their grief needed no words. They simply were; two women changed by war and love, surrounded by the scent of marigold and frankincense.

Phineus sat off to the side, forlorn, his face pale and drawn. The loss of his older brother haunted him still.

Niegal stood behind Elena, his hand loosely entwined with hers. He was her pillar. She, his anchor.

The Behike tended the altar carefully, relighting incense and rearranging candles that burned too low. The space was solemn. Sacred. Still.

Until it wasn't.

A soldier burst through the chapel doors, the Matteo crest gleaming on his chest.

Elena's shoulders tensed. Something was wrong.

She didn't recognize him. Not from the battlefield. Not from the manor.

And then she saw it—his path, his posture.

He wasn't walking.

He was charging.

Straight for Aurora.

The older woman sat, unaware, her hand turning the page of an old children's book she used to read to Seamus. Tears had blurred the ink.

"Aurora!"

Elena didn't hesitate.

She stood and hurled a glowing magic dagger across the chapel. It struck true—slamming into the man's neck before he could draw the blade from his cloak.

He collapsed to his knees, blood pouring, his own knife clattering to the marble floor.

Elena strode forward and grabbed him by the armor collar, her voice low and deadly.

"Aye, pendejo. Who sent you to your death? Tell us, and I may let you leave with your life."

The man spat in her face.

His lips curled with a sneer.

"Lee Rosaria sends her regards."

Before Elena could even react, Niegal stepped in.

His dagger was swift.

Final.

He slit the man's throat in one fluid motion. The soldier's body crumpled to the floor, blood soaking into the marigolds at the foot of the altar. Some of it splattered the frame of Seamus' painting.

Silence gripped the chapel. No one moved.

Niegal bent down, offered Elena a handkerchief.

She took it without a word, wiping her face slowly with a shaking hand, face blank.

Then, composed but shaking, she turned toward the altar. Her eyes met Seamus' painted gaze. She curtsied deeply, voice caught in her throat.

Then she ran.

Out the chapel, through the garden, her curly hair becoming lose from the wind.

She fled through the halls, the heels of her shoes echoing on polished stone. Her gown trailed behind her like smoke.

She slammed her bedchamber door shut, locked it, and slid down its surface until she was curled into herself. The sobs came unbidden. She couldn't stop them.

Am I a terrible person?

The dress.

The flowers.

The altar.

The blood.

He was supposed to be here.

A knock.

Soft. Measured.

"Elena?" Niegal's voice came gently through the door, "are you alright? You left so suddenly."

She opened the door.

Tears still falling, lips trembling.

He stepped in and closed it behind him.

She pulled him close, desperate for warmth.

Their kiss was slow.

Mourning.

Longing.

Niegal's hand tangled in her hair. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, laying her gently across the bed—ballgown and all.

Her arms stretched beside her, her breath ragged.

He bent down to kiss her again.

"You're so lovely in the candlelight…" he murmured, brushing his lips along her jaw.

She pulled him into a kiss, fierce and unyielding.

Niegal pinned her hands above her head, gently but with certainty. She moaned softly, melting under his mouth.

The kiss deepened. No longer mourning—now something else.

Craving. Comfort. Spark.

Clothes slipped to the floor—her gown, his jacket, their layers shedding like skin.

They made love with reverence and hunger, not to forget, no, but to remember they were alive. That they were still here. That they still could love, even through grief.

Their movements slow at first, then urgent.

His name whispered like a prayer.

Her name like an anchor.

Their bodies met again and again, the candlelight flickering with each breath, shadows dancing across the walls.

What began in grief did not end there.

It ended in fire.

In healing.

In them.