How can this be happening? Three days ago, he sat at our kitchen table, complaining about the mine foreman's new quotas. He wiped soup from his beard and promised to help me repair the loose shutter on the east wall. Now he lies silent in a box that will turn to ash before midnight.
"Edric was a good man." Korven's voice carries across the gathering. "He worked honest labor, raised his daughter with care, and treated his neighbors with respect. May his spirit find peace in whatever realm awaits beyond this one."
The flames climb higher, their heat warming my face and hands. I should step back—the fire will spread quickly now—but my feet remain planted in the packed earth. My eyes refuse to leave the coffin even as smoke begins to curl around its edges.
"Widow Dain." The voice slides through the evening air like silk over steel, unmistakably refined despite its quiet volume. "Please accept my deepest condolences for your loss."
I don't turn around. I can't. But I hear Vaelra's quick intake of breath, followed by the rustle of fabric as she adjusts her mourning shawl.
"Lord Hethryn." Her voice carries a tremor that could be grief or something else entirely. "Your presence honors my husband's memory."
"Edric was respected among the trade liaisons. His word carried weight in mining negotiations."
The flames reach the coffin's base now, licking at the pine boards with increasing intensity. The wood begins to blacken and crack, releasing the sharp scent of burning resin into the night air.
"In these difficult times," Bram continues, his tone carrying the careful modulation of someone accustomed to public speaking, "it's important that his family knows they retain the support of their allies."
"Your kindness means more than you know." Vaelra's response comes too quickly, too eagerly. "The future feels uncertain without Edric's guidance."
I want to turn around, to see the expression on her face, but the fire holds me captive. The flames have reached the coffin's lid now, and I can hear the wood beginning to splinter and pop. Inside that box lies the man who taught me to read, who showed me how to identify edible mushrooms in the forest, who sang off-key lullabies when nightmares woke me as a child.
How does a lifetime of memories fit inside such a small space? How does a heart that beat for fifty-three years simply stop, leaving nothing but silence and ash?
"The settlement will need strong leadership moving forward," Bram's voice continues, smooth as polished stone. "I'm prepared to offer whatever assistance proves necessary."
"Your generosity overwhelms me, Lord Hethryn." Vaelra's words carry across the crackling flames. "I hardly know how to express my gratitude."
"Well. I'm sure you'll find a way," the dark elf tradesman says.
The coffin lid splits down the middle with a sharp crack that makes several mourners flinch. Orange light spills through the gap, illuminating the gathering with hellish radiance. The heat intensifies, forcing the crowd to step back, but I remain frozen in place.
This morning he was still my father. Tonight he becomes smoke and memory.
The embersof Father's pyre still glow beyond our kitchen window when Vaelra sets down her tea cup with deliberate precision. The porcelain clinks against the wooden table—a sound that cuts through the evening's heavy silence like a blade.
"The marriage discussions will resume tomorrow." Her voice carries the flat certainty of someone announcing the weather. "Lord Hethryn expects a formal response within the week."
I stop stirring honey into my own cup, the spoon frozen halfway through its rotation. "Father's been dead for six hours."
"Which is precisely why we cannot afford sentiment." She smooths her black mourning dress, every gesture controlled. "Your father's idealism died with him, Ilyra. We live in the world as it is, not as we wish it were."
"He said no. His last coherent words were about protecting me from that arrangement."
"Your father had the luxury of principles because he believed his strength would shield us." Vaelra's fingers trace the rim of her cup. "That shield is ash now. We're three women alone ina settlement that exists only because dark elf trade agreements permit it."
I set down my spoon and meet her gaze directly. "Then we'll find another way."
"What other way?" Her laugh carries no humor. "Shall we pack our belongings and march into the wilderness? Set up camp in the forest and hope the wolves prove more merciful than poverty?"
"We could move to the eastern settlements. Mother Kellian mentioned?—"
"Mother Kellian mentioned charity." Vaelra's voice sharpens. "Sleeping in her barn, eating scraps, working her fields for bed and board. Is that the dignity your father died protecting?"
The honey in my tea has crystallized into golden threads that refuse to dissolve no matter how vigorously I stir. Outside, the wind carries the last wisps of smoke from the pyre, threading them through our shutters like ghostly fingers.
"Without Lord Hethryn's protection, we lose the house within a month." Vaelra continues, her tone growing more practical with each word. "The trade agreements specify that mining families require male heads of household or formal alliance connections. No exceptions."
"That's not?—"