Page 13 of A Dagger in the Ivy

As the other funeral attendees and I gather near the windswept cliffs overlooking the shimmering sea, a gentle breeze carries the salty tang of the ocean air, wrapping around us like a comforting embrace. The sea stretches out before us, a vast expanse of cerulean blue that sparkles in the golden light of the setting sun. Waves crash against the rugged cliffs with rhythmic precision, their soothing melody a balm to my weary soul.

The salty spray mingles with the sweet scent of wildflowers that bloom along the coastline, their vibrant hues adding a splash of color to the rugged terrain. Seagulls wheel and cry overhead, their graceful arcs cutting through the azure sky as if tracing patterns in the heavens left behind by the dragons of the past.

At my side, my uncle stands in silence. Near to us, looking pristine in their uniforms, are Mylo, Aila, Isaac, and Giorgi. Isaac keeps mumbling something I cannot hear, to which Aila continuously elbows him in the gut to get him to stop. To my other side, my faithful friend Nadya remains my pillar of support.

The other courtiers are present as well, but I don’t pay them muchmind. My focus is on the ceremony, the farewell to my brother. My breath hitches as the emotions wash over me once more.

Behind us, in the distance, the imposing silhouette of the Garrison stands sentinel against the horizon, its weathered walls bearing witness to the passage of time. Beyond its ancient ramparts lies the castle overlooking the heart of Delasurvia, a land rich in history and tradition, where the echoes of the past linger in every stone and shadow.

I feel a profound sense of connection to this land that has been my home for so long. Its beauty is a testament to the resilience of its people, who have weathered countless storms, withstood the plague of poison hemlock, learned to live in a world without dragons, and emerged stronger for it.

We lay my brother to rest by merging two funeral rite traditions. The pyre burns, the flames consuming his mortal remains, in the tradition of the fae. And we will release his ashes to the embrace of the sea, as is tradition with royalty. I take solace in the knowledge that his spirit is forever bound to the land and sea he loved so dearly. As the flames take his body, I offer a silent prayer to the gods, asking for their blessing on his journey to the netherworld.

My hand clutches a small, wooden carving of a dragon. When Bennett was a boy, it was his favorite toy. He used to listen to stories about the Age of Dragons, when the magnificent beasts would travel the skies of Terre Ferique. It was a time long before our own, before the flying beasts became extinct, and so the only dragons Bennett and I ever saw were carvings, paintings, statues, and drawings in books. He told me on more than one occasion how jealous he was of our ancestors who’d been able to witness them—even ride them. Perhaps in the netherworld, Bennett could finally get his wish and fly with the dragons.

I bring the carving to my lips and place a farewell kiss to it, as if it is a final kiss to my brother, and toss the dragon onto the pyre.

The air is flooded with grief, and the weight of loss settles upon my shoulders like a leaden cloak. My brother, once so full of life and vitality, has left our plane, his flame extinguished far too soon.

I listen as the cleric offers his prayers, his words a somber dirge thatresonates in the echoes of the waves. The melancholy wail of the wind seems to mourn alongside us, carrying our sorrow to the heavens above.

A lump in my throat forms, and my tears spill forth. My uncle’s hand rests upon my shoulder. When I turn to him, the overwhelming grief is apparent in his red eyes, stooped posture, and slack expression.

Our moment of mourning is interrupted by commotion coming from inland. I turn to see a crowd of people, shouting and calling out to us, their faces a mixture of sorrow and discontent. The soldiers of the Royal Regiment are keeping them at bay, but it still chills me to the bone to witness the ruckus. My uncle warned me that protestors might arrive, but I didn’t want to believe that anyone would be so disrespectful as to come bellowing at the king’s funeral. Their presence is like a dark cloud looming on the horizon, casting a pall of tension over the solemnity of the ceremony.

“So dies the sympathizer!”

“Down with the monarchy!”

“We demand justice for our suffering!”

“Feed the families of Delasurvia, not intruders from another land!”

The protestors, a ragtag group of disheveled individuals, bear the marks of hardship upon their weary faces. Their clothing is threadbare and worn, a stark contrast to the opulence of the funeral attendees. Anger simmers in their eyes, fueling their fervent cries for justice and change.

Their accusations strike a nerve, stirring a tumult of emotions within me. Guilt and anguish intertwine with righteous indignation, each emotion vying for dominance within my troubled heart. Delasurvia’s supplies are dwindling. The land of Mersos does not want to provide goods to a kingdom that takes in refugees from Dulcamar. And because of that, our people are suffering.

My squad scowls in disapproval of the protestors, and a hum of whispers erupts from the courtiers. Beside me, my uncle stands resolute, his expression a mask of stoic determination. But I can see the flicker of concern in his eyes, an unspoken acknowledgment of the growing unrest that threatens to engulf our kingdom.

Uncle Kormak turns to me. “Perhaps we should return to the Garrison.”

I swallow down the lump in my throat. “But the funeral. It’s not—”

“Celeste, the fire will burn for hours still. We have said our goodbyes. There’s nothing more for us to do.” He casts a glance at the protestors. “You are heir to the kingdom, and it is not safe to expose you to the dangers of this disturbance.”

I gaze upon the dancing flames of the pyre. I’m not ready to let go, but there’s nothing more I can do here. Though my heart aches for me to stay until my brother’s ashes are spread out to sea, I know I cannot remain at the shore for hours when an angry mob closes in on us.

Reluctantly, I nod. My uncle gestures to the guard, and in moments, we are escorted through the crowd of attendees to the carriage. The protestors attempt to draw nearer, their voices swelling into a cacophony of angry shouts and jeers. But they do not breach the wall of guards protecting us. Safe in our carriage, I let out a shuddering breath.

The horses begin their trot, and I reach for my uncle’s hand. As the protestors rail against us, their cries a ringing reminder of our kingdom’s woes, I know that I cannot falter in my resolve. For though their grievances may be valid, the path to peace and prosperity is fraught with peril, and it falls to me to navigate our kingdom through the storm.

I do not want our people to starve. But I cannot turn away those seeking sanctuary from their oppressors.

At long last, we are free from the angry crowd. The journey back to the Garrison is ensnarled with uncertainty, casting gloom over the landscape that stretches before us. I am to be ruler of this land, but I’m not sure what to do. Unable to contain my doubts any longer, I turn to my uncle, seeking solace in his steady presence.

“Uncle, what am I, as heir, to do about the protestors? Their grievances are valid, yet I fear the consequences of turning a blind eye to the suffering. What would a good queen do?”

My uncle’s gaze is somber as he meets my eyes, reflecting both his grief as well as the gravity of our situation. “Celeste, your title comes with great responsibility. A good queen should weigh the needs of the realm’speople against the stability of our kingdom and choose the path that will lead us to a brighter future.”

---