The pyre burned low.

  Not because the fire was weak—

  but because there was so little left to give it.

  Mira Dark lay at its center, wrapped in black cloth stitched with fading sigils of protection that no longer worked. Her shadow was gone.

  Not dispersed.

  Not lingering.

  Gone.

  That absence hurt more than the blood ever could.

  Lucien Noctyrr stood at the edge of the clearing, hands clenched so tightly his nails had carved half-moons into his palms. He hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t cared.

  Around them, the Fallen gathered in silence.

  No cheers.

  No chants.

  No prayers.

  Only bowed heads and shadows pressed flat against the earth, as if even they knew better than to rise today.

  Serena Noctyrr stood closest to the pyre.

  She did not cry.

  Her face was pale—sharper than Lucien had ever seen it. Shadows wrapped around her shoulders like a mourning veil, trembling faintly, as though they wanted to scream and were being forced into obedience.

  Mercer Dark knelt before the fire.

  What remained of him was almost entirely shadow now.

  Not just his face.

  His arms were swallowed. His torso blurred at the edges. Even the outline of his legs wavered, as if the curse were slowly erasing the idea of him rather than the body itself.

  And yet—

  He knelt perfectly still.

  A knight, even now.

  Lucien watched as Mercer reached into the fire with one shadowed hand and placed something into the flames.

  A small wooden charm.

  Carved clumsily. A child’s work.

  Lucien recognized it.

  Mira had worn it once, years ago—until the curse crept too far up her arm and she’d stopped wearing anything that reminded her of what she was losing.

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  The charm burned instantly.

  Mercer did not flinch.

  “I failed you,” he said.

  His voice was steady.

  That broke Lucien.

  He stepped forward before he could stop himself. “You didn’t.”

  Mercer didn’t turn.

  “She was brave,” Lucien continued, words spilling faster now. “She was careful. She taught me things no one else ever did. She—”

  His voice cracked.

  Serena moved then.

  She placed a hand on Lucien’s shoulder—cool, grounding. He felt her hesitate—just for a breath—before tightening her grip.

  “She died protecting someone she loved,” Serena said quietly. “There is no higher oath than that.”

  Mercer finally looked up.

  His eyes—still human—met Lucien’s.

  “She chose,” Mercer said. “That matters.”

  The fire collapsed inward, embers folding into ash.

  It was over.

  They returned to the castle in silence.

  Lucien didn’t remember the walk. Only the weight in his chest—heavy and unyielding, like something had lodged there and refused to move.

  That night, he stood on the balcony outside Serena’s chambers.

  He hadn’t planned to ask.

  But the words had been clawing at him since the funeral.

  “Mother,” he said.

  Serena turned.

  “Yes?”

  He swallowed. “Who was my father?”

  The shadows stilled.

  Not frozen—stilled.

  As if listening.

  Serena did not answer immediately.

  When she did, her voice was measured.

  “He was a knight,” she said. “One of my most trusted. Loyal. Brave.”

  Lucien frowned slightly. “Like Mercer?”

  A pause.

  “Yes,” Serena said. “Like Mercer.”

  Lucien nodded slowly. “Did he die in the war?”

  Her breath hitched.

  Just once.

  “Yes,” she said. “He died protecting what he believed in. To the very end.”

  Lucien felt something loosen in his chest.

  A shape.

  A place to put the absence.

  “A hero,” he murmured.

  Serena looked away.

  Lucien hesitated, then asked the question he had never dared before.

  “Why did my uncle do it?”

  The air shifted.

  Serena’s hand tightened on the railing.

  “He didn’t—” she began.

  Then she gasped.

  A sharp, sudden sound. Her shoulders hunched as a violent cough tore from her chest. She turned away, pressing a fist to her mouth as shadows surged wildly around her—unrestrained for the first time in years.

  Lucien stepped forward. “Mother—”

  “I can’t,” Serena said hoarsely. “I can’t speak of it.”

  Another cough.

  Darker this time.

  Lucien froze.

  He had seen that before.

  On Mira.

  Serena straightened slowly, wiping her mouth. When she turned back, her eyes were steady—but something inside them had been locked away.

  “Some truths,” she said quietly, “are sealed for a reason.”

  Lucien nodded.

  He didn’t understand.

  But he believed her.

  Mercer began training him the next morning.

  Harder than ever before.

  No mercy. No pauses.

  Sword until his arms burned.

  Shadow until his vision blurred.

  Footwork until he collapsed.

  When Lucien fell, Mercer waited.

  When Lucien rose, Mercer struck again.

  “You will not hesitate,” Mercer said. “Not again.”

  Lucien didn’t argue.

  He didn’t cry.

  He trained.

  Because in two years, the Trial would come.

  And when it did—

  Lucien Noctyrr would not be entertainment.

  He would not be a puppet.

  He would not be a sacrifice.

  He would be the one they remembered.