"He died long before he was buried."
That was the whisper that passed through the dim-lit halls of the Clan Citadel.
There were prayers, solemn and slow. Rites led by the fallen Patriarch's brother and Elyrion, his heir, now the new Patriarch and the officiant of the dead. Their words were cracked by loss and sorrow.
Men of the Eastern Crescent, proud and battle-worn, stood in quiet mourning. Even those who had once contended for the throne lowered their heads. They may have hated the man in life, but they respected him in death.
Thin streams of smoke curled upward in slow spirals from the incense burners lining the hall. The women, especially the old patriarch's sister, were weeping, not loudly but in low, broken murmurs. She clung to the coffin, her frail stature unable to muster even the strength to weep properly.
At the back of the hall, the Regime's emissaries stood, cold-faced and overdressed. Their presence was an insult wrapped in protocol.
Larsen sat far from the funeral, not cast out, not barred, just forgotten. It was not his place. He was young, frail, weak, and not noble enough for his absence or presence to make any difference. His robes were simple, his shoulders slightly hunched, and his fists resting on his lap in silence.
Around the coffin, the elders and the finest of the clan gathered, tall, polished and confident. They stood in place for the ritual.
Larsen watched as the final rites unfolded, the clan elders lowering their heads to offer their last farewells. Their grief was real. Even those with ambition in their eyes knew something sacred was ending.
Only the young, bold and beautiful, looked unaffected. History, to them, was not a burden. It was a throne. The chamber dimmed as the funeral flame lowered.
From the outside, familiar voices drifted in.
That's when Stephen, his closest companion in the Crescent, called in casually,
"Let the elders do their thing, we'll welcome the guests outside!"
Larsen looked up. The other boys were already slipping out of the hall, Stephen among them, their shoulders squared and faces composed. He stood and followed them quietly.
Outside the clan hall, the younger nobles stood near the entrance, greeting the arriving guests with bows and soft welcomes. They tried to look proper, and their voices stayed low.
Larsen joined them, though no one seemed to notice. He stood a step behind, hands folded, doing as he had been told over the years.
Then the mood shifted slightly.
A tall, rugged man in travel-worn robes approached from across the courtyard. His stride was long, and his presence was hard to miss. Dust clung to his boots and shoulders. It was Hendrix. One of the few from the western edges of the Crescent, rarely seen this deep in the Citadel.
The man smiled broadly as he neared, his voice full and easy.
"Oh, Stephen! Look at you. You've all grown up."
He greeted the boys one by one, warmly patting their heads. Larsen stepped forward. He knew the rule, to greet the elders first. At least, that's what had been taught to him.
"Uncle," he said softly as he nodded his head, "Many Blessings upon your return".
The man paused and turned. His expression changed for just a moment, recognition, but not enough to pinpoint the exact identity. He offered a polite nod, a faint smile, and then walked past toward the main hall.
Larsen stayed where he was, staring after him as he disappeared into the crowded hall.