Eryndor stood alone before Mercy’s grave.

  The rain had slowed to a drizzle — faint, whispering, as though even the sky feared to disturb the dead.

  The courtyard was empty now. The mourners had gone. The banners of mourning clung to their poles in silence, slick with rain. Only the scent of wet earth and wilted flowers lingered.

  Eryndor said nothing at first. He simply stood there, motionless, his cloak heavy with water. Beneath his boots, the mud was cold — soft as if the world itself was grieving with him.

  He looked down at the coffin, its surface dark and polished, streaked with beads of rain. His reflection wavered upon it — faint, distorted.

  In his hands, he held a small bouquet of white lilies, their petals trembling in the wind.

  He stared at them for a long while, then knelt.

  His voice came quiet — low, steady, almost as if afraid to break the stillness.

  “You know…” he began, his voice calm but far away. “Aside from my own family, I’ve never really experienced love — at least not that kind.”

  A drop of rain slid down his cheek, indistinguishable from a tear.

  “Not until the moment I first saw you.”

  He smiled faintly — the kind of smile that hurts more than it heals.

  “I used to see love as something that got in the way — a feeling that clouded judgment.” He took a slow, shaky breath. “But you… you changed that.”

  He set the flowers gently on the coffin, arranging them with trembling fingers.

  “All my life,” he said quietly, “I’ve lived with no regrets. I rarely made mistakes, and I usually succeeded at whatever I tried. And the few mistakes I did make, I always believed they had a reason — that every choice and every path was leading me toward something meaningful.”

  He paused, fingers resting upon the coffin’s edge.

  “…But now,” he whispered, his voice faltering, “I have two”

  He swallowed hard, eyes lowering.

  “First, that I never told you how I truly felt — I kept those words inside while you were still alive to hear them. And second, that I couldn’t save you. I hate myself for being so powerless.”

  The wind stirred, rustling the lilies. Eryndor bowed his head, his hair falling over his face.

  “I thought I had more time,” he whispered. “There’s always time… until suddenly there isn’t.”

  He let out a slow, painful breath. “Looks like Valerius was right… and I didn’t listen. I guess that makes a third regret.”

  He placed his hand over the coffin, fingers pressing gently against the wood as though he could still feel her warmth through it.

  “Pungence said the old me had died. Here I am speaking like the people I call peasants... contemplating on whether to resurrect the old me. But was that truly me? I am broken, I don't know who I am anymore. You deserved more than this. You deserved peace. You deserved to grow old and smile again.”

  He closed his eyes, his voice trembling into the silence.

  “But wherever you are now, Mercy… I hope God, in His endless kindness, gives you peace. Because you were mine.”

  A breath of wind passed, carrying the scent of rain and lilies through the courtyard.

  Eryndor straightened slowly, his composure serene though sorrow etched every line of his face.

  He whispered one last time, barely audible against the storm:

  “Goodbye… Fiona Mercy Marclair.”

  Then he turned, his silhouette fading into the mist and the quiet echo of falling rain.

  ---

  Eryndor pushed the door open quietly.

  The house was dim, lit only by the pale blue glow of rain seeping through the shattered windows. The air smelled faintly of dust and wet stone.

  Ziraiah sat curled on the couch — arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knees. Her hair was messy, her eyes red. She was crying softly, her breath trembling with every hiccup.

  Eryndor stood there for a moment, just watching her. Then, without a word, the moisture clinging to his clothes began to steam away — evaporating in thin wisps of heat until he was dry.

  He walked over and sat beside her. Slowly, he placed an arm around her shoulders.

  She leaned into him, burying her face in his chest, sobbing harder now. Her tears and runny nose soaked through his shirt, but he didn’t move. He just rubbed her head gently, his expression calm — like a mountain weathering the storm.

  Between sobs, her voice cracked.

  “They’re… they’re all dead, Eryndor. All my friends. They weren’t even at the ball—why did they have to die?”

  She choked back another sob. “Victoria’s house fell on her.”

  She sniffled, wiping her nose against his shirt.

  Eryndor exhaled softly. “It seems I shall have to see these garments washed before nightfall.”

  Ziraiah blinked at him through tears — and let out a small, shaky laugh. “You sound like Val… but more elegant. Thats the Eryndor I know.”

  Eryndor allowed a faint smile. “Valerius appears entirely without a filter. But the Eryndor you know might never return.”

  Ziraiah laughed again, laying her head on his lap. “Val would’ve said, ‘You’re so disgusting, I’m burning my clothes.’ And you don't need to speak like Shakespeare to be the Eryndor I know.”

  They both laughed quietly — the kind of laughter that comes not from joy, but from exhaustion.

  Then silence settled again, heavy and fragile.

  After a long moment, Ziraiah whispered, “Eryndor?”

  “Yes?”

  Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. “It looks like Val is really gone. I can’t find him anywhere.”

  “He has surely been taken,” Eryndor admitted quietly, “but I intend to find out where. Were you not angry with him?”

  Ziraiah stared at the floor. “I was angry with…” she said softly. “But not anymore. It’s Val — I can’t stay mad at him for long. He’s always the one who comforts me when I’m sad.” Her voice broke. “I miss him.”

  Eryndor didn’t answer. He just brushed his hand gently against hers — the only reassurance he could give.

  After a moment, she looked up again. “Eryndor?”

  “Yes.”

  “How are you holding up?” she asked. “I know how much she meant to you.”

  He stared forward, eyes distant. “Iike Valerius says... I feel like shit.”

  Ziraiah gave a faint, wet laugh. “ Eryndor cursing. That's new, but you sure don’t look it.”

  Eryndor looked down at her, his tone calm but weary. “If we both gave in to sorrow, then who would be left to comfort you?”

  Ziraiah didn’t answer. She just rested her head back on his lap, her breathing steadying.

  Then, quietly, she whispered, “I wish Aunty Ann was here… I miss her.”

  Eryndor’s hand paused on her hair. “I miss her too,” he said softly.

  The house was silent again — just the rain tapping gently on the windows.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Then a voice broke through the quiet.

  “Well now,” drawled the familiar voice, “unnu really go through some serious fuckery, eh?”

  Ziraiah’s head shot up. “You—!” she gasped. “Where have you been? And why did you come back?”

  Mr. Baby leaped lazily onto the opposite couch, landing with a small thump. He pointed at the metal collar around his neck and said, “Well, I can’t exactly go nowhere wid dis ting pon me, can I?”

  Ziraiah blinked, wiping her eyes. “So many people died… how are you still alive?”

  “Cah mi did have har wid mi.” he said, jerking his thumb toward the door.

  A chill drifted through the air as Maloi stepped inside. Her eyes were tired, her hair damp with rain.

  “She protect we,” Mr Baby said, half-yawning. “Use har ice magic. Das di only reason di house still stand. Weren’t easy, mi tell yuh. Mi almost feel bad fi di poor lady.”

  Maloi gave him a sharp look, but he ignored it, stretching out comfortably and pulling a small baby bottle from his belt.

  “An fi answer yuh first question,” he continued, sucking slowly one on the bottle nipple, “we deh search fi di Elv princess di last three day now. Still nuh trace. So either she vanish… or somebody tek har.”

  He leaned back, closing his eyes.

  “Honestly, mi would bet pon di last one.”

  Eryndor’s gaze darkened. “Taken… by who?”

  Mr. Baby didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded newspaper. “Mi tink yuh might waan see dis.” he said, tossing it toward Ziraiah.

  She caught it, unfolded it — and froze.

  Her eyes widened as the bold headline caught the light:

  THE FALL OF HEFUL — A KINGDOM ERASED IN TEN MINUTES

  Below it, a picture of Valerius and Richard locked in battle.

  Ziraiah’s hands trembled as she flipped through the pages of the newspaper.

  Each image hit harder than the last.

  She saw Omfry severing King Juval’s head.

  She saw Eryndor—her own brother—fighting an army alone, his body drenched in blood.

  She saw Eliana clashing with Dreados, and even herself—her own body—locked in battle with Omfry.

  “I… I don’t understand…” she whispered, voice breaking.

  Eryndor extended a hand silently.

  She refused to pass him the paper, her eyes lingered—drawn to the column she wished she hadn’t read.

  > King of Zitry, Juval — Beheaded by Omfry.

  Former World Ranker, Andrea — Brutally Murdered.

  Each line carved deeper.

  Her breath caught. She read how most of the people had died after the protective bubbles failed—how the survivors watched the city vanish into light.

  Then her eyes fell on the photograph—

  Valerius.

  Captured mid-transformation. His arms elongated, body completely purple with that strange, half-spirit form.

  Her blood boiled. She glared at the printed face of Omfry.

  Her voice dropped to a whisper—raw and trembling.

  “Omfry…”

  She clenched her fists and handed the newspaper to Eryndor.

  He looked at the picture for a long time, then said quietly—

  “I swear upon my mother’s name… I will end you.”

  He turned the pages slowly, reading every report—each detail too perfect, too exact.

  How could they possess such knowledge? Even the most minute moments… as though an unseen witness had been there, chronicling it all.

  He saw Pungence’s entrapment described in chilling precision.

  Even Valerius’s transformation was detailed—his hybrid form, his barrier round Heful’s people, his final collapse.

  Eryndor frowned.

  “This is so precise it’s almost ridiculous,” he muttered.

  His gaze lingered again on the image of Valerius’s spirit form.

  “Another function of his ability…?” he murmured.

  He folded the paper carefully and stood.

  “I be heading out for a while.”

  Before anyone could answer, he was gone—a streak of black and green vanishing into the rain.

  Maloi frowned. “Um, is he okay? I know he's not, but... is he really? Because the way he's talking...”

  Ziraiah snorted. “Like us peasants? Yeah, he's not okay.”

  ---

  The ruined palace loomed like a broken skeleton against the storm.

  Eryndor landed on the shattered steps, his shoes cracking through wet debris.

  The wind carried the faint smell of ash and stone.

  He stood in silence for a moment, surveying what had once been a hall of light and laughter.

  “It looks like this spell only works if I speak it out loud,” he murmured beneath his breath. “Very well, then.”

  He brought his hands together before his face—palms pressed tight, elbows bent. His knees lowered slightly.

  Then his voice rose—deep, resonant, commanding:

  “Upe, raigar, reni-uun selentrin… VAGROS NATIN!”

  The air vibrated. His palms remained touching as he turned his right hand over the left—then, with a sharp motion, slid it across and thrust it into the air.

  The words echoed through the ruins.

  The air around him warped—then snapped.

  A vast golden field erupted outward, twenty meters wide, distorting everything inside.

  The ruined hall vanished.

  In its place stood the palace as it was three nights ago—whole, glowing, alive.

  Candles floated. Music played. The chandeliers shimmered in silence.

  But nothing moved.

  Time itself was frozen.

  Eryndor stood among ghosts.

  He turned slowly, eyes scanning the frozen faces—his own from that night, Valerius, Ziraiah, Mercy.

  He stepped toward the illusion of Mercy and stopped just in front of her.

  Her face—smiling, mid-laughter—looked so alive it hurt.

  He reached out to touch her.

  His fingers passed through.

  She wasn’t real.

  He exhaled. “Just an echo.”

  Then he waved his hand.

  The field came alive.

  People moved—laughing, talking, dancing—the night replaying exactly as it had been. But there was no sound.

  He saw himself brush shoulders with a stranger.

  He saw Pungence laughing with Andrea near the pillars.

  Then the tremor came.

  The moment Pungence touched the pillar—

  Crack.

  Stone splintered.

  Andrea rushed to him. Their lips moved, but the spell carried no sound.

  And then—

  BOOM!

  The explosion. The palace erupted in light.

  Eryndor snapped his fingers.

  The field froze.

  He narrowed his eyes and rewound the scene with a slow wave.

  The images rewound like water flowing in reverse. The pillar reformed. Andrea stepped backward. Pungence’s hand lifted from the stone.

  He slowed it to a crawl.

  There—right before the explosion—he saw something.

  A shimmer.

  Two blurs.

  ---

  To Be Continued...