Eight nights after the death of the Lord Aurel of Blackmere, his funeral was held.
The obsequies took place under the cover of darkness, with all the pomp and solemnity afforded to nobility. The church was draped in black, and countless wax tapers glowed on the altar and around the coffin—but even their light couldn't lift the gloom that hung in the air.
At the head of the bier stood the young heir of Blackmere. Theseus's pale, delicate features—almost feminine in their beauty—were a striking contrast to the dark mourning garb he wore. His eyes were fixed on the yawning mouth of the family vault, where his father's body would soon be laid to rest.
Surrounding the coffin were Dr. Orion and other male companions of the deceased. As tradition and religious custom forbade women from attending, the female members of the family were absent.
It was nearly ten o'clock. Outside, a storm raged.
The wind howled through the cathedral's long aisles, stirring eerie echoes and making the heavy folds of black drapery shift like ghostly shadows stirred by invisible hands. A few silent spectators stood in the background, their faces half-lit by flickering candlelight, giving them the appearance of ghastly figures on a tapestry of death.
From time to time, a shriek-owl wailed in the distance, its wings brushing the stained-glass windows, heightening the eerie weight of the ceremony.
Then, suddenly, the priests' chant began—the final hymn for the dead.
Tears streamed down Theseus's face. Though his father had never shown him warmth or affection, Theseus's heart was too noble to dwell on coldness. He looked at the coffin and saw not a distant, unloving figure—but the parent he had lost.
Indeed, in the presence of death, all bitterness should fade. Life is full of conflict and jostling for position, but around the grave, let there be peace. For all our ambitions and rivalries, we share the same final destination. And in that shared truth, even enemies might see they were unknowingly working toward the same end all along.
As the priests continued their solemn chant, a stillness fell over the mourners. The wind whispered against the vaulted ceilings, filling the silence with its mournful voice.
Then—footsteps.
Light and hurried, they echoed on the marble floor. A woman, dazzling in garments fit for a celebration rather than mourning, suddenly appeared and rushed toward the bier.
She reached it—then collapsed to the ground with a piercing scream.
The chant stopped. Theseus darted forward and lifted her in his arms as Dr. Orion called for water.
A veil of rich white fabric was draped over her head, secured by a single, brilliant diamond. When drawn aside, her auburn hair tumbled over alabaster shoulders. Her face—beautiful but ghostly pale—was framed by a regal velvet gown that clung to her graceful form.
She looked no older than twenty—radiant, delicate, an image of poetry made flesh. As she lay in Francisco's arms, the flickering candlelight played across her features, casting her face in marble stillness, her hair glowing like strands of molten gold.
Despite the solemnity of the moment, all eyes were drawn to her breathtaking beauty. Yet no one approached. Respect for the dead—and fear of the unknown—held the onlookers at bay.
Her eyes fluttered open. Wide, hazel, haunted. A shiver ran through her as the reality of her surroundings struck her like a bolt of lightning.
She staggered to her feet and turned to Theseus, her voice trembling with anguish.
"Is it true? Tell me—tell me the Lord Aurel of Blackmere is truly gone!"
Theseus bowed his head. "It is, my lady. He is gone."
A strangled cry escaped her lips. She dropped to her knees and wrapped her bare arms around the coffin.
"Oh, my noble Andrea! My beloved!"
A murmur stirred the onlookers. One man stepped forward from the shadows, his voice sharp with recognition.
"That voice! It can't be—"
Tall and striking, dressed in fine attire, he rushed to the woman's side. Gazing upon her tear-streaked face, his own lit with stunned joy.
"It is! The lost Thalia!"
At the sound of her name, the woman recoiled. Shock flashed across her face. She tore herself away from the coffin and turned to him, confusion mixing with grief.
"Who are you?" she cried as he moved to embrace her. "What is this insolence? Someone—please—help me!"
Theseus stepped in, pulling her away from the stranger. "Enough. Both of you—this isn't the place. Whatever this is, take it elsewhere."
"I don't know this man," Thalia gasped. "I came only because I heard—just an hour ago—that Andrea had died. I had to see for myself. I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it."
"Lady," Theseus said softly, though with a hint of formality, "you speak of my father."
She turned her gaze on him. "Then you understand. You know what it means to lose him. He was everything to me... everything."
"No," the stranger interrupted, stepping forward again. His voice was low, firm. "You have not lost everything. Think, Thalia. You still have family—an old man, a shepherd, waiting for you in the Black Forest..."
"No!" she cried, wild with emotion. "He would cast me out. If he knew—if he ever knew—he'd hate me! That kind old man with silver hair, who loved me so dearly... and whom I betrayed."
Then her voice dropped to a whisper, choked by tears. "But tell me—does he still live?"
"He does. And he is here, in Lumea."
The news struck her like a blow. Her knees gave out beneath her, and she collapsed again—this time caught by the stranger, who gathered her into his arms.
"I'll take her," he said. "She's safe with me."
He turned to leave, but Theseus caught him by the sleeve and whispered urgently, "From what she's said—and how she clung to my father's coffin—it seems... he may have wronged her. If so, it is my duty to offer what reparation I can."
The stranger's eyes glinted, his tone cool. "Then I shall visit your palace tomorrow night."
With that, he carried the unconscious Thalia out of the church.
The entire scene—from the moment she entered to the moment she was taken away—lasted no more than ten minutes. But it left a chill that lingered long after.
The funeral resumed. The coffin was lowered into the Blackmere vault. The priests concluded their rites. The mourners filed out.
And at the front of them walked the young Lord Theseus, his thoughts dark and troubled as the storm raged on outside.