The bells tolled like mourning giants, their echoes drifting over the rooftops of Struttsburg and into the pale winter sky. Nine great towers rang in perfect sync, casting waves of solemn chime through the imperial city—each toll a reverberation of loss. By tradition, only the deaths of emperors, popes, and archmagi warranted the Ninefold Toll.

  Today, the city honored a man who had been all three in spirit.

  Archmage Stewart Spendal, the Bright Flame of the Tower, lay dead beneath a canopy of starlight-colored glass, his corpse preserved in a crystalline coffin crafted by Draumbean himself. The coffin shimmered as if still filled with magic, rimmed in gold, engraved with runes no one had dared etch since the Age of Shattered Thrones.

  Tens of thousands filled the streets in a silence so complete the wind itself seemed to whisper rather than wail. Soldiers stood in rows of steel—Imperial Swordsmen, Crimson Dragoons, the Black Guard, even the White Cloaks of Everwatch, their presence a mark of how far Spendal’s influence had reached. Knights of at least six different orders stood at solemn attention. The Templars alone made up a full square of armored piety, Lord Chronos Chessire at their head like a statue carved in wrath and granite.

  The casket moved slowly along the Avenue of Saints, borne not by horses or magic, but by twelve acolytes of the Tower—lesser mages who had studied under the archmage and now trembled under the burden of honoring him. Every step was deliberate. Every step sacred.

  Behind them walked the funeral party.

  Emperor Gregor Willinghelm wore black trimmed with crimson, a high-collared cloak of mourning velvet flaring behind him. His face was pale and drawn, dark stubble lining his jaw. At his side was Empress Cristina, veiled in midnight lace, her features unreadable but her hand never once letting go of his. They walked side by side at the front of the procession, followed by Lord Protector Ernesto Montclef, General Bhraime, General Evangeline, High General Baraten—his cloak draped over the empty space where his left arm had once been—and the entirety of the Imperial Wizard Council.

  Draumbean walked last of the council members, eyes hollow, his once-thunderous gait now silent. He had not spoken in public since Spendal’s death. He wore no sigil, no medal. Only the ring of his station glowed faintly at his side.

  Behind them came the elves.

  They had arrived in the night, unannounced save by the scent of pine and the whisper of song. Queen Arendiel of the Silver Vale had sent three high-mages, resplendent in emerald and silver, while King Aranweir of the High Towers had sent five: all draped in sky-blue robes and veiled faces, their golden staves glinting like captured Sunfire.

  Even the dwarves had come.

  A delegation from the Ozarks—what was left of it—stood beneath the arch of the Grand Crossway, iron-helmed and unmoving. They did not weep. They did not bow. But they were here. That meant something.

  Atop a nearby balcony overlooking the main square, where the emperor had decided to watch the remainder of the procession, so as to not take away from the morning of the archmage ,took a private moment as the procession slowed to allow for a blessing from the archbishop.

  Cristina turned to him softly, watching the silent crowd below.

  “He would have liked this,” she whispered. “The pageantry. The weight of it all.”

  Gregor nodded absently. “He would have hated it,” he muttered. “He’d say ‘The dead need no theatre. Let them sleep.’”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Cristina gave a small, bitter smile. “And yet he wept like a child at your father’s funeral.”

  “That was different.” Gregor looked at her. “My father never lied to him.”

  Cristina’s hand moved to rest lightly on his shoulder. “You think he knew?”

  “I know he knew.”

  Their eyes met in silence.

  Below them, the Archbishop Luc de Presti raised both hands and began to speak in the ancient tongue. His voice rang clear through the enchanted crystal amplifier hovering over the square. The words were scripture, old as the Empire, older than the gods themselves.

  Ash to ash. Flame to flame. Let the light guide him home.

  Luc’s gold-threaded robes shimmered like sunlight on water. His holy knights flanked him—fifty paladins in mirrored armor, faces hidden behind masks of saints. Behind them stood the Sword of the Faith, the dreaded Justiciars, their blades notched with the blood of heretics.

  Somewhere near the side altar, Lord Chronos Chessire stood still as death, his helmet tucked beneath one arm. Sir Manfred and Sir Marduke flanked him. He did not kneel. He did not bow. But his eyes burned.

  Xavert stood near the towering statue of Saint Yvalen, watching the ceremony with poorly disguised impatience. Helena Stormbringer stood beside him, her face unreadable, silver-blue robes rippling in the wind.

  “Pious nonsense,” Xavert muttered. “The Church weeps for coin, not conscience.”

  Helena said nothing.

  He tilted his head. “You’ve not spoken to me since the council.”

  “I’ve had nothing worth saying,” she replied coolly.

  “Surely not,” he smiled thinly. “We’re both grieving. There should be… unity, no?”

  “You wanted the council convened before Stewart was even cold,” she snapped. “You sent ravens while he was dying.”

  “And you think I was wrong to do so?”

  She turned sharply. “Draumbean would not have. That’s the difference.”

  Xavert’s voice was soft. “He’s not the only one who lost a mentor. He wasn’t the only one who loved him.”

  Helena looked away. “Then act like it.”

  By the Church’s grand doors, Draumbean stood flanked by Ernesto and Bhraime.

  “Is this what he would have wanted?” Ernesto asked, arms crossed, voice quiet.

  “No,” Draumbean said. “He wanted to be burned. No casket. No pageant. No gods.”

  Bhraime grunted. “Then why allow it?”

  “Because the Empire needs the illusion of unity,” Draumbean murmured. “And Gregor needs to prove the gods still walk among us.”

  Ernesto glanced sidelong at him. “Do they?”

  Draumbean’s eyes were distant. “They watch. That is enough.”

  Baraten approached them slowly, the half-cape at his side fluttering in the wind, hiding the place where once he had held a war standard.

  Bhraime stepped forward. “You shouldn’t be here yet.”

  “I shouldn’t be breathing,” Baraten replied. “And yet.”

  Ernesto gripped his forearm. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”

  Baraten gave a crooked smile. “Half of me, anyway.”

  Draumbean looked at him. “I heard you killed three assassins one-handed.”

  Baraten raised an eyebrow. “Only two. The third tripped.”

  Inside the High Cathedral of Saint Thalor, the air was thick with incense and magic. The pillars rose like ancient trees, and golden chandeliers floated of their own accord. Hundreds of guests packed the pews—nobles, generals, ambassadors, merchant lords, sorcerers, spies.

  The coffin was set upon a dais of polished obsidian, beneath a stained-glass window depicting the sealing of the demon Xul Zorak by Archmage Elgan the Elder. Spendal’s body was dressed in simple mage robes, his face peaceful, though the light inside the casket shimmered faintly, as if something still stirred.

  Luc de Presti spoke at length.

  Of legacy.

  Of sacrifice.

  Of the bridge between magic and faith.

  He did not once say Stewart’s name.

  After the sermon, the whispers returned like a tide.

  Nylla the Green murmured in the elven tongue to Quenara, who replied with furrowed brows. Tiberius the Large cried openly, great sobs shaking the bench beneath him. Alistair lit a floating candle and said nothing.

  Outside, the people of the city laid down flowers. Thousands of white iris blooms lined the cobbled path to the Cathedral steps.

  Gregor took one, a single bloom, and laid it on the casket.

  He whispered something, inaudible.

  Cristina wept quietly beside him.

  Draumbean stepped forward last. He touched the glass with one pale hand, then placed his staff upon the obsidian.

  “I will not say goodbye,” he whispered. “Because I will not be rid of you. Not yet.”

  The stained glass above them flickered.

  Some swore the casket glowed brighter for a moment.

  Some swore it whispered.

  The city rang with quiet that night. No tavern sang. No brothel called. No trumpet played.

  Only the bells.

  Only the wind.

  And the slow burning of candles in windows across the Empire.

  A light for the Bright Flame.

  Gone, but never extinguished.