Three hours passed.
The wind had not eased — it had only grown stronger. Rain continued to fall in steady sheets, soaking through every layer, but no one moved.
The cemetery gates stood open. But no one was allowed through. Not by man, not by command, but by rejection itself.
Old King Kaivan hadn't moved in hours. His hand clutched the folds of his robe tightly, his gaze fixed on the open path ahead. But the path was no longer open. Not walled. Not chained. Denied by something unseen but unmistakable.
Beside him, Queen Seriya stood still. Her silence did not mask her fury. Anger radiated from her as the rain clung to her face, her hair soaked and tangled like the storm within her. Kaivan gently held her arm, a silent plea—not here, not now. He knew what she was capable of if provoked in grief.
The carriers remained in place, unmoving, unwavering. Their arms trembled, but one among them anchored the rest — Vanya, at the back left. Her spine was straight, her footing firm, her eyes locked on the gate.
They once whispered about her: "Daughter of a disgraced woman."
But today, the same people stared at her with awe.
The wind bent knees and bowed heads — but not hers.
Varyan stood nearby, helpless. His fists clenched, eyes fixed on the four carriers. Each step they took forward made the wind howl fiercer. They had only managed five. And now they stood frozen, held back by a force stronger than any mortal will.
Another three hours passed.
Kaivan turned his eyes to the carriers. Kaivan turned his head to face Raviel Thalore, King of Velmira, among the gathered nobles. The man shook his head slowly — regret and sadness in his eyes.
Kaivan looked to Seriya. She didn't meet his eyes. She stared instead at the cemetery with a look of cold, bitter disgust — and then, she nodded.
Kaivan's voice was hoarse. Barely a whisper. "We go to the family cemetery."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Some looked down.
But no one objected.
They all understood what it meant.
The King of Sagnik would not rest among Sagnik's former kings.
Varyan stepped forward and raised his hand to signal the shift. The drummers remained behind. There were no rhythmic beats now. Only Varyan led.
He turned toward the eastern path. The carriers turned too — slowly, burdened not just by the coffin but by the weight of what it meant.
No drums. Only footsteps. And the relentless hiss of the rain.
The wind did not follow. It watched.
As the procession moved away from the cemetery gates, the storm eased slightly, as though the wind itself understood: This was no longer its concern.
But in every heart left behind, one question remained: What did Aariv do?
The walk to the family cemetery was short — only a few hundred steps. Past the far edge of the Royal Garden, through a grove of old neem trees. There stood a simple iron gate. A stone path led inward.
The gate creaked open without resistance.
This was where the blood of Vayansar — those without crowns — had been buried for centuries.
It was not a place of dishonour. But it was for a King.
Even those who had contributed greatly to the kingdom, without the blood of Vayansar, lay here. All were remembered. All had served.
Inside, the cemetery was humble. Hundreds of graves, marked with stones. Some inscriptions had worn by time. Others newer, the letters still fresh. On certain groves, rusted swords were stabbed into the soil — names and words etched onto their blades, faded and weathered.
Varyan stepped aside. The carriers moved in first. Then came Kaivan and Seriya. Then Varyan.
They moved deeper into the cemetery, to a central patch with no nearby graves.
The sky remained overcast. The rain hadn't stopped. But here, the wind did not interfere.
A guard came rushing with a shovel. But Varyan took it from his hands and began to dig. The soil, softened by rain, came away easily.
Then Seriya, without a word, knelt. Her fingers dug into the earth, bare hands working with slow, deliberate motions. No one stopped her.
And then — one by one — others joined her. Commoners. Servants. Nobles. Even a few royals.
They used whatever they had — hands, stones, bits of wood — until the guards brought more shovels.
The grave grew deeper with each moment. Soil and rain mixed into a thick, dark mud. The storm above remained, but in that cemetery, only rain fell.
By the time the grave was ready, dusk had begun to set in. No one lit a lantern.
The darkness spread.
The carriers stepped forward. Lowered the coffin gently. The soft thud of wood touching earth rang louder than a drumbeat.
Seriya's hand clutched her robe. She sank to her knees beside the grave.
Kaivan stood behind her. He reached for her shoulder, but hesitated. Then bent down and took a handful of earth — wet, heavy — and scattered it over the coffin.
He looked at Seriya again. She didn't move. He placed his hand on her shoulder.
She looked up — eyes flooded with tears, and shook her head.
Kaivan held her gaze and turned away when his own eyes nearly spilt. Then knelt beside her. She reached forward, gathered a handful of soil, and dropped it into the grave, not once looking at the coffin.
And then — Kaivan embraced her.
That was when she broke. A scream tore from her lips. A scream that had been buried for four days. She wept in his arms. And he said nothing. He only held her tighter.