Chapter 334 - The Ash Flower

The funeral procession wound through Ashborne's streets like a river of black silk, thousands upon thousands of mourners lining the route from the palace to the royal gardens. Dante walked at the front, the marble urn cradled against his chest, each step measured and deliberate despite the exhaustion that had settled into his bones. He had not slept in three days—not since Seraphina had passed, not since the world had tilted on its axis and left him stumbling through a reality that felt fundamentally wrong.