"They buried him before he died."
That was the whisper. A bitter joke passed behind trembling hands in the dim-lit halls of the Clan Citadel—not in scorn, but in disbelief.
For years, the old Patriarch had lingered in half-life—his sharp mind dulled by illness, his voice reduced to silence. But even in his stillness, his presence ruled the Crescent. Now that presence was gone. And in its place… uncertainty had taken over.
There were prayers—solemn and slow. Rites led by the fallen Patriarch's brother and his heir—now the new Patriarch and the officiant of the dead. Their words were cracked by loss and sorrow.
Men of the Eastern Crescent, proud and battle-worn, stood in quiet mourning. Even those who had once vied for the throne lowered their heads. They may have hated the man in life, but they respected him in death.
He had held the Crescent together by wisdom and by fear. And now, that thread was cut.
At the back of the hall, the Regime's emissaries stood—cold-faced and overdressed. They watched with the gaze of butchers examining cattle. Their presence was an insult wrapped in protocol. But it could not be avoided.
The Institutional Regime—the iron-fisted power that claimed dominion over most of the Central and Western regions of the Continent, had long tried to tame the Crescent. They failed, but not without leaving scars. A treaty—forced, bitter, and uncelebrated—kept the Crescent in the alliance.
So when the Patriarch died, the Regime sent its men. To pay respects, yes. But also to watch. To measure the cracks. To listen for names soon to rise—or fall.
Larsen sat far from the funeral—not cast out, not barred—just forgotten. It was not his place. He was young, frail, weak, and not noble enough for his absence or presence to make any difference. But he was naive and too unaware to think about that. His robes were simple, his shoulders slightly hunched, his fists resting on his lap in silence.
He was not the heir. That honor had passed through a different branch of the bloodline—stronger, more acceptable. His own father, though still somewhat respected among the clan, had long vanished from the political eye. All that remained for the young Larsen was the stain of relation. He bore the same blood—but not the same worth.
Around the funeral pyre, the elders and the young cream of the clan gathered—tall, polished, confident. Their lineage was untainted. They stood in place for the ritual.
Larsen watched the final rites unfold as the pillars of the clan lowered their heads and gave their last farewells. Their grief was real. Even those with ambition in their eyes knew something sacred was ending.
Only the young—bold and beautiful—looked unaffected. History, to them, was not a burden. It was a throne. The chamber dimmed as the funeral flame lowered.
The boy, however, was sad.
The Patriarch hadn't been like the rest of the Citadel. He was something else—stern, yes, but never cruel. There was a dignity to him that Larsen always noticed, even when others spoke with fear. And now that he was gone, that feeling of safety felt distant too.
From the outside, familiar voices drifted in.
That's when Stephen, his closest companion in the halls, called in casually,
"Let the elders do their thing—we'll welcome the guests outside!"
Larsen looked up. The other boys were already slipping out of the hall—Stephen among them—shoulders squared, faces composed. He stood and followed quietly.
Outside the clan hall, the younger nobles stood near the entrance, greeting the arriving guests with bows and soft welcomes. They tried to look proper, and their voices stayed low.
Larsen joined them, though no one seemed to notice. He stood a step behind, hands folded, doing as he had been told over the years.
Then the mood shifted slightly.
A tall, rugged man in travel-worn robes approached from across the courtyard. His stride was long, and his presence was hard to miss. Dust clung to his boots and shoulders. It was Hendrix—Larsen's uncle, his father's cousin. One of the few from the western edges of the Crescent, rarely seen this deep in the Citadel.
The man smiled broadly as he neared, his voice full and easy.
"Oh, Stephen! Look at you. You've all grown up."
He greeted the boys one by one—warmly patting their heads. Larsen stepped forward. He knew the rule—to greet the elders first. At least, that's what had been taught to him.
"Uncle," he said softly.
The man paused and turned. His expression changed for just a moment—recognition, but not familiarity. He offered a polite nod, a faint smile, and then walked past toward the main hall.
Larsen stayed where he was, staring after him as he disappeared into the crowded hall.