The day opened to a strange brightness; too bright for Luminberg in the middle of autumn. Luminbergers and volunteers alike; anyone who went out without a hat had to squint at the abnormal flow of light. The city was reclaiming its life; the air no longer smelled solely of engine exhaust from idling armored cars. Scents of new bread, mildly spiced soup, and the occasional roast traveled outside the Academy’s perimeter. Though most of these establishments’ customers were soldiers and volunteers from beyond the ailing city, the flow of Marks from their pockets was good business. For some, this was better money made than when Luminberg was at the peak of its health.

  Talk among people was much louder than before, when most of the noise came from passing motor vehicles and the occasional crash of debris from an opposite city block. Imperial uniforms still outnumbered plainly dressed locals, while the droning, sometimes chattering, of truck engines carried volunteers from one block to the next.

  Beyond Luminberg’s southeast gate was a gathering; decorated old men sat under the shade of a small stage, overlooking the crowd. Mourners were split into small groups, each watching over the remains of loved ones who served and took part in the recent fighting. Fumes smelling of steam and metal were carried by the wind. The rumbling engine of a large armored gun carrier parked next to the stage; its main armament aimed at the sky. The famed Alter Waldo came to mourn with the dead—a flourish of horns, accompanied by drums.

  A man in Imperial officer attire climbed the stage. He was half a head shorter than the regular infantryman, but he carried an air large enough for most of the crowd to look his way. A rough face, though smoothened at the cheeks and forehead, that gave it a false sheen, an illusion of polish. He removed his cap, revealing glossy, swept black hair. The intrepid commander who led the charge in rescuing Luminberg, in person, was about to give his remarks.

  Ernst Ebner, medals and insignia gleaming on his chest and shoulders, stood before the lines of flag-draped caskets. Beside them were dug graves, each with a tombstone with a sword driven through it. He took the stage; the towering profile of the Alter Waldo cast a shadow over the front of the grieving crowd.

  With some changes to the microphone’s position, and a sweeping glance at those who stood on the grass, he started strong, saying:

  “Our forebears made great sacrifices to stop the tide of indescribable evil before the very gates of this city. Sword in hand, and with the help of miracles from the Creator, or maybe from gods unseen, they have pushed back the threats that made this empire possible today.

  “Now, I begin to understand what the first soldiers of this city went through. Besieged by enemies from outside and within, not knowing who was behind this attack, why this place was chosen, and what they planned to achieve. Many lessons were learned. They may have caught us by surprise, yet we pressed on, and through our courage and resolve, Luminberg has been freed.

  “What have we gained, we all ask. The hands of brave men lost to enemies… whose pursuits continue to evade us. It was clarity… clarity in doing our part in protecting our land, our people, our future. Our Empire… gave us the strength to carry on.

  “It wasn’t only our fighting sons, brothers, and husbands who paid for this peace. Even now, we are still reeling from the evil they have unleashed on us.

  “We will not rest until we bring those responsible to justice. This is not for revenge, not for the desire to spill blood, nor for the wish to answer the call of pointless violence. We will stand again, stronger than before, and show the enemy that true defeat is the destiny of anyone who challenges the Emperor’s will—and the people of Kriemreich.”

  There was a short screech from the microphone feedback, and a soft whistle of the wind passing between the stage and the crowd. Ernst Ebner put on his hat, extended a salute, and faced the left stage exit.

  · · ─ ·?· ─ · ·

  “...and the voice from the Throne of Light says, ‘Behold, for your new dwelling is with me’. The Creator dwells with them, and they shall be His new people…

  “Let the light wipe the tears from their eyes, for death shall be no more, neither will be crying, nor mourning, nor pain. For all these shall pass away...”

  Euphemia knelt; a flower was placed on top of freshly dug earth. She recalled the chaplain’s request to read the rites at the graves with no mourners. This tombstone told the story of a man who, though not a new soldier, had years of service and was a regular at the battalion parade. An unfortunate soul whose first taste of combat was also his last. There were other graves to tend to. She looked behind her; sisters of other orders, and even the rare lay servant, were made to read the rites. Some in broken syllables, while others made up for it by staying with mourning families. The wreaths slung on her were enough to cover the row of unattended dead. At least the sun gave warm brightness, and the wind blew an icy breath from the mountains of the northern border.

  She heard footsteps approaching one of the unmourned. It was that officer on the stage; the speech-giver who talked of clarity and serving justice to the ones behind the disaster. There was no exchange of pleasantries, perhaps he was too deep in thought, and only sent a few nods in affirmation. Euphemia proceeded with the rite. She heard the officer mutter:

  “Of course we have won.” His eyes looked beyond the grave closest to him. “Would these men agree with me?”

  “Victory is often measured by the living, Captain.” Euphemia separated one of the wreaths in preparation. “The fallen hardly get a say.”

  “So you can identify ranks. You speak like you were there that night.” The canoness got his attention. “Tell me. Did we win this peace?”

  “We endured that night.” There was a silent pause before she handed him the funerary token. “Holding on is a victory in itself. Sometimes, it matters more than winning.”

  She watched the officer pay his respects and leave the rounded garland by the gravestone. It was time to move on and let him have the moment to himself.

  The last prayer was recited, and with it the last wreath was placed on the last gravestone. Hollow whistling of a passing gust tugged her skirt, sleeve, and veil before it resumed its journey. Euphemia sat beneath an old, sprawling tree. She looked up, where the sun's rays were lost in a maze of yellow, purple, and brown leaves.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  There were two gravesites: the military graves, largely composed of House Melvich’s troops, were identified with individual markers in keeping with military tradition. The civilian site also served as a memorial: an obelisk four times a man's height stood at the center, surrounded by graves arranged to resemble the sun's rays. Most of the clergy were there, though none of them belonged to Luminberg’s local church.

  She imagined going through the notions again: find an unattended or unnamed grave, say her prayers, leave respects, and move on. There was one problem: she had no wreaths to give. The Army accounted for every item, and the canoness had enough for the military read. She imagined letting go of some of her quartz beads as an alternative, something older Luminberger clergy had done long ago. That also meant she needed a way to embed the stones without resorting to her ability. Or perhaps she didn’t need to, for much of the young clergy and lay servants were ahead of her in attending to the graves. Every grave had at least a flower left behind, and Euphemia doubted if she could spend the entire day looking for something they had missed.

  She turned around to see a familiar face at the site: that boy from the restaurant appeared, but he was not alone. He called his parents’ attention, saying:

  “Ma! Pa! She’s here. The nice lady.”

  “We’ve finally met you.” The mother approached the cleric and held Euphemia’s hand. “Our son never stopped talking about you.”

  “We’re grateful for all that you did for us.” The father nodded and bowed. “We never got the chance to thank you properly before, but this simple prayer of ours is answered.”

  “I am glad to see that you’re all doing well.” Euphemia made a slight smile, clasping both her hands before making a bow. “This is truly a grace from above.”

  “Yes, and may we continue receiving His grace.” The mother added, “When all this is over, you’re welcome to visit us.”

  “Thank you for your offer. I shall keep that in mind.”

  Euphemia waved the family goodbye. The boy pulled out the crystal trinket, shaking it before the cleric, before putting it back in his pocket and turning away. That was when Kirk and Rook arrived at the place.

  “You look hungry.” Rook brought a sausage sandwich to Euphemia’s view. “You should eat.”

  “Why, thank you, Rook.” The canoness took the wrapped bread.

  “Don’t thank me, thank Kirk over there.” Rook pointed to their staff-wielding warrior. “He said you’ll faint if we let you do your thing on your own for too long.”

  “Oh?” Euphemia took a bite, looked at Kirk, and ignored Rook’s mild laughter. “I appreciate your… concern for me, but do I let it go that far?”

  “Uh… well, that was meant as… good humor.” Kirk shot a sharp glance at Rook. “But I think prayer ladies, or any church servant, know when they’re hungry, or if they need to take a break.”

  “I... see…” Euphemia, much to the surprise of her two companions, took the last bite of the sandwich. “If you don’t mind, you must tell me where you bought this. I feel I can take at least two more of these.”

  “Just in time.” Kirk was pointing at Rook’s bag. “You see, our friend Rook here bought more of those just for you…”

  “Someone’s quickly learning…” Rook, opening the flap, handed the canoness another sandwich. “You better help me buy these back, Ghos-… er, Kirk.”

  They stopped by the shade of a tree, waiting for Euphemia to have her fill. By the time the canoness downed the fourth sausage-on-bread, three other figures appeared before the group. It was the captain called Rinvar, but he was with two non-uniformed people; one of them sat in a wheeled armchair.

  “I expected the three of you to be here, and I’m right.”

  “You’re that captain…” Rook, with a drawn face of disappointment, closed the bag flap.

  “We’re not getting into more trouble, are we?” Kirk rested his chin on his staff.

  “I’m here to hand you these.” Rinvar gave an envelope to Euphemia’s companions. “We can’t guarantee always to have your back, but at least these will get rid of ‘undocumented foreigner troubles’.”

  “What do we have here…” Kirk slid out the contents of the envelope. “Traveling permit, hunting license, fishing license.”

  “Got the same things too,” Rook nodded. “Nothing for Euphemia?”

  “Let’s just say she has hers figured out.” Rinvar smiled, almost snorted out a laugh. “Besides, some establishments won’t need anything other than her name.”

  “What about my guns? Will I get them back?” Rook slid the envelope into his bag.

  “Just show the papers to the desk at our headquarters.” Rinvar said, “They’ll be quick to figure it out.”

  Euphemia stood up and checked on the chair-bound man. It was Demian Silbern, still half-conscious after the incident. Like what she did with her mentor, she checked his arm for a pulse. A quick glow of the hand, and the administrator of Luminberg’s eyes rounded after a jolt.

  “Like what Professor Carolus said.” The woman in charge of the wheeled chair said, “Sorry. I got a little too curious there. I'm Elena.”

  “My wife. Also, the Magister's daughter is a scholar of magical arts. At least, what she says,” Rinvar, seconded. Elena nudged him with her elbow while shaking her head.

  Rook stared closer than he usually did: a woman darker than the usually pale Kriemreicher. While the boy's curiosity did not escape Elena's attention, the latter decided to let it slide. This inquisitive-looking individual did not bear the appearance of an Imperial citizen. Meanwhile, Euphemia took a step back and bowed, saying:

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, though I wish it weren’t in a time like this.”

  “What you did there…” Demian, finally with the energy to speak, interrupted. “I wonder if raw magical energy was this harsh to the body...”

  “I hope the discomfort wasn’t too much.” Euphemia shook her head.

  “This woke up Professor Carolus’ spark of curiosity—and I clearly see why,” Elena said, “Perhaps we can learn more from you, once the city is back to what it was.”

  Euphemia nodded, unable to find words for a proper reply. Rinvar took the chance to ask:

  “So, Sister Mia, where do you plan to go next?”

  “Doctor G?hler’s works lead me eastward, to Vaughnstadt, and likely to the places in that domain.” Euphemia said, “Perhaps the Faubourg holds some answers. Should my memory be right, there is a route there that can help me reach the heart of the Old Wood.”

  “Aren’t you concerned that there may be more monsters there?” Rinvar stared at a smiling, though determined canoness.

  “I… to be honest, I am expecting more of them there. There may be even more powerful, more frightening horrors that await.” Euphemia shifted her eyes to the colossal grave marker. “The Old Church dealt with them before. There must be a… a wound, the creatures used to come into our world.”

  “I expect you'll part with what you know to us. I highly doubt those foul creatures are going to be as easy to deal with as before.” The Imperial officer went beside Elena.

  “I believe it will help the Empire just as it did for me.” Euphemia said, “But I have no intention of giving you second-guesses.”

  “Then we would see you again, sooner or later.” Rinvar placed his hand on one of the wheeled armchair’s handlebars.

  “Yes.” The cleric stood before the three and bowed slightly. “I feel I am in the right direction, and I shall bring him back to the family again.”

  “We thank you with all our hearts,” Demian cleared his throat and continued, “it is sad this is something the Empire does not wish to speak freely, but know that those who remember the truth have no reason to forget you.”

  “This is the best we can do for now.” Euphemia said, “But I want to believe that we can freely talk about this someday and put away the hurt this has caused us.”

  Her companions, Kirk and Rook, chose to be less formal with their goodbyes: a simple smile and wave. They turned around to follow the canoness as they drew farther from Rinvar and company. All they needed was for Rook to reclaim his weapons, Euphemia to replenish some of the supplies, and Kirk to look after the two.