After Naira and Nivaan left, the city fell quiet again. Too quiet. On the surface, things moved smoothly. But only Kaivan, Seriya, and Varyan noticed the shift.
The weight of Nivaan's words still lingered — cutting deeper than the silence left behind.
They hadn't spoken about it. Not aloud. But their minds raced.
That boy… his words held something.
Not a threat.
Something worse.
Certainty.
From that moment, unease took root. It sat in their bones. Coiled in their chests like a cold breath.
The carriers — once proud, unwavering — stood as if possessed. Silent. Almost haunted.
And no one disturbed the funeral.
Everyone came to bid Aariv farewell, even if it meant swallowing fear.
When royals or nobles arrived, the crowd parted instinctively. Commoners gave way without a word. Some bent low to whisper condolences to the old King and Queen. Some stood with stiff backs and dropped heads, unable to speak, unwilling to meet the Queen's eyes. Others simply showed their presence and vanished — unwilling to risk Sagnik's wrath.
Because everyone knew the truth.
Attendance wasn't out of respect for Aariv.
It was the fear of Sagnik's silence.
Three days passed.
No one moved.
Old King Kaivan. Queen Seriya. Varyan. The four carriers.
Frozen beside the coffin like statues of grief.
Not even the crowd stirred. The entire city had fallen into mourning. Not even a drop of water was touched. No food passed the lips of anyone between fifteen and sixty. Food came from the palace kitchens, offered with solemn hands to the young and old
Tears had long dried. Red-rimmed eyes looked nowhere.
On the fourth morning, the sky offered no light.
Thick, black clouds choked the horizon, threatening to pour.
Varyan stepped forward and stood before the coffin. The silent signal.
Drummers gathered, lining up. Their hands hovered over the drums.
Servants moved silently through the crowd, offering flowers.
Royals and nobles — more than the first day — had arrived for the final journey. Their faces were unreadable. Some masked in respect, others in calculation.
The carriers stepped into position — each at a corner of the coffin. Their expressions showed nothing. Only breath. Only purpose.
King Kaivan gave a single nod.
The carriers bent, lifted the coffin onto their shoulders.
Drums began. A slow, heavy rhythm.
And the clouds broke.
Rain poured.
The crowd parted with solemn grace.
Drummers first.
Then Varyan.
Then the carriers, holding the weight of a crown.
Behind them, the King and Queen walked side by side. Then the other royals. Then nobles. And then the commoners, heads bowed, feet soaked.
Each drumbeat echoed through the city's stone bones. There were no cries. No wails. No music.
Only drums.
And the weeping sky.
As the procession moved, petals rained down from the crowd — white and red — thrown onto the coffin and at the feet of the carriers. A slow trail of colour bled into the wet earth behind them.
The funeral procession moved slowly through the heart of the city, its pace steady, but its spirit fractured.
From windows and rooftops, people watched in silence. Some clasped their hands. Some wept quietly. Others simply stared, unmoving — faces empty from days without food or sleep.
Each footstep on the wet stone sounded louder than the drums.
Rain fell harder now, soaking every robe, every face, but no one raised a hand to shield themselves.
Even the children walked along.
A few elders whispered blessings as the coffin passed. A girl placed a single marigold on the ground, its petals already crushed by rain. One mother knelt in silence, holding her infant close, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The closer they moved toward the city's edge, the thicker the silence grew. As though the city itself was holding its breath.
And then, rising ahead like a shadowed wound on the land — the cemetery gate. The entrance to the resting place of Sagnik's kings and queens.
As they neared the cemetery gate, the drums ceased — abrupt.
The carriers slowed. The drummers stepped aside. Varyan, drenched, moved out of the path.
Kaivan and Seriya stepped forward. Together.
The old king's hand gripped the lock, rust flaking beneath his fingers. He turned it slowly. A cold metallic snap echoed across the silence.
Then, with both hands, they pushed.
The gate creaked open, inch by inch — groaning like a beast resisting sleep.
And then it came.
The wind.
Not from behind.
But from within.
It didn't welcome them.
It rebelled.
A violent, invisible force rushed out of the cemetery's mouth like a scream, slamming against the carriers.
They staggered — feet sliding back.
The carriers tried to move forward.
But couldn't.
Their feet were rooted. Each step a struggle.
The coffin tilted but never fell.
Rain whipped against them sideways. The wind struck with the weight of judgment.
Robes snapped, hair whipped — and still, they stood. Even the flowers in the path were torn from the ground and flung into the air like paper.
And that wind said one thing, clear without words:
Not worthy.
The people watching didn't need a scholar to explain it.
The gate was open.
But the path was closed.
This wasn't the first time the cemetery refused to open its arms.
It was written in the stone scripts of the royal hall, in blood-inked pages locked inside the palace library.
1450 AS.
The day the cemetery rejected Aariv Vayansar — the 21st King of Sagnik.
They said his rule had been long, bloody and full of glory. That he was a man of charm and wisdom. But on the day of his death, when they brought his coffin to these same gates—
The wind howled.
The skies broke.
The storm that came with his funeral ripped roofs from palaces and uprooted trees. The carriers — four of the strongest in the world — stood before the gate and pushed forward, but the wind pressed back, stronger than any blade or spell.
For three months, they held the coffin.
Their bodies grew thin, their bones bruised from holding it day and night. But not once did the wind falter.
No fire could be lit near the gate. No chants stayed audible. The cemetery roared.
Because the tradition was older than Sagnik itself.
The greater the sin, the stronger the storm.
If the wind yields, the soul may enter and rest.
If it resists…
The dead are not welcome.
And so the question echoed through time: What sin could weigh heavier than an entire kingdom's worth of devotion?
The answer was never written.
And today, the storm was stronger than any ever written.
The skies churned above. The trees bent like grieving mothers. The wind howled like the souls of the forgotten.
People looked at one another.
Eyes wide.
Hearts clenched.
A prince loved by all. A man who gave hope. A soul believed to be pure. Was now being rejected.
And one thought — unspoken but present in every mind — rose like poison:
Was Aariv truly the man we believed?
Or…
Did one night crown a sin? even the gates of his ancestors would not open for him?