Houndsberry Hollow was quiet at sunrise, its usual birdsong dulled by the sense of something drawing closer.
Lucian stood on the porch, mug of tea in hand, watching fog braid itself between the tall trees. The Grimoire floated near his shoulder like a bird. He could almost hear it humming.
Maybe I could use this time to practice drawing glyphs.
Lucian raised one hand, and the Grimoire offered one of its pages to him, like it was a pad of paper rather than a bound book.
"Thank you."
Brother Cadrel was still asleep—and thanks to the crushed sage in his tea, was relatively calm. No sleep-talking. No writhing. Lucian took it as a good sign.
Instead, he was now face-to-face with a frowning Merry, her dark blue hair tied up in a half-ponytail. Lucian was a little shocked by how soft she looked, despite the sharpness in her eyes.
Her arms were folded beneath a peach-colored cardigan, and her gaze flashed from dark brown to red as she hissed,
"You drugged him?"
Lucian nearly recoiled. He hadn't expected this.
"I encouraged rest," he replied, not looking up from the half-formed glyph he was drawing.
"Brother Cadrel was hysterical when we found him. He wept after Alice told him he wasn't forgotten. I thought some sage could help."
Merry took a slow, deliberate breath—like she could snuff out the anger burning behind her ribs.
"Limit the herbs," she said tightly. "Cadrel needs to face what haunts him."
Lucian's hand paused over the glyph. He snapped back:
"When he's ready!"
A beat of silence. Then he bowed his head.
"I'm sorry, Merry. I won't do it again. Not unless he asks."
But the damage was done. She turned to stir the iron kettle and muttered,
"We all break different ways."
+
Hours later, Cadrel jolted awake—eyes wide, mouth pulled open in a silent scream.
It was Alice who moved first.
She didn't speak. She simply knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder—light, but steady.
"Breathe," she said gently. "You're not where the fire was. You're here now. It's only bark and tea."
Cadrel blinked, disoriented. His sword hand twitched toward a hilt that wasn't there.
"Did it… get in?"
"No," she murmured. "It's just memory. Trying to scare you."
He stared at her, hollow-eyed. Then slowly, he nodded.
Lucian watched from the far side of the room, stunned.
Morticians in Staesis used swords, not canes or sticks. The things I could have learned...oh. Focus, Lucian. Alice is...really good with grief counseling. Whenever I tried, I'd fumble...hard.
All at once, the feelings of fear and shame washed over him, and he bit the inside of his cheek.
"Give me twenty minutes and I could have dressed a body. Under three hours, I would have arranged a wake. But this?" he mumbled.
He gazed at Alice, whose soft demeanor and seemingly infinite patience was a comfort to the man they found in the tunnel.
Healing tears and trembling hands—I was never good at that.
While he worked in the funeral home, he'd always handed the families off to someone softer. Confronting these feelings of nostalgia and embarrassment made him extremely uncomfortable.
But deep inside, Lucian knew it was what he needed.
"Maybe fate led us here so you could teach me."
"What was that?" Alice asked, looking at Lucian.
"Nothing," Lucian said softly. "Just mumbling to myself."
+
After that, Alice stayed close to Cadrel as he calmed, her hand not leaving his arm even as he drifted back into a shallow doze.
When the kettle whistled, she didn't move. Lucian quietly poured tea into four cups.
Merry, busy inspecting one of her carved drawers, perked up immediately when she heard the sound.
"What kind?"
"Chamomile and lavender," Lucian answered. "With honey."
He pretended not to feel flustered as Merry gave him a warm smile of approval.
"Good boy."
Alice, completely oblivious to the situation, piped up:
"He wasn't always like this. Rosa remembers. Brother Cadrel used to visit Atraeum, and bring sugar cubes from Prince Alexander's kitchens. He tried to teach the younger knights how to dance, even though he had two left feet."
Lucian set the cup beside her.
"What changed?"
"Everyone got quiet when Staesis sealed the mourning halls. But Cadrel… I think he never stopped seeing what came before. That's a hard thing to live with."
Lucian didn't answer. He just sat beside her, the warmth of the tea beginning to fill the air.
Later that night, he penned a letter to Gethra.
He didn't expect a reply so soon.
+
The wax-sealed envelope arrived the next evening in Merry's crow-delivered satchel. Inside, her reply was brief but striking.
Lord Mortician,
Brother Cadrel was part of Prince Alexander's retinue. Before Staesis sealed its grief behind civic rites and loopwork, he was known for lighting remembrance candles by hand. He was there when the town chose order over sorrow. He wishes to apologize to the Prince, though his role in the past was likely forced, not chosen.
And yes—before the lockdown, we had more than one mortician. Atraeum believed such work was too heavy to carry alone. Morticians worked in pairs, sometimes more. They were assigned together, mentored each other, and reported progress side by side.
It is heavy work, Lord Bowcott. But hearts that carry weight together don't break so easily.
—Gethra
Lucian folded the letter carefully and tucked it into his journal.
No one had ever fought beside him in the trenches. Not really. He'd arrived late to the war of death and memory—alone, a mortician without a counterpart.
Merry was his first true mentor, but even she was more a force of nature than a peer.
And Gethra's letter confirmed what he'd never dared to say aloud:
He was never meant to do this alone.
He stared at Alice, who now sat beside Brother Cadrel, helping him untangle his shaking hands from the blanket he'd twisted in his sleep.
Lucian wondered, quietly, if perhaps he hadn't been chosen to work alone by fate—but by design.
The Queen had never assigned him a partner. The Grimoire had never offered one.
Until now.
Until her.
Alice glanced up, as if sensing his thoughts.
And when she smiled, something deeper than duty stirred in Lucian's chest.
A truth without a name.
A tether newly formed.