The mausoleum stood beyond the western orchard, where the pear trees no longer bore fruit and the grass grew too tall to be ornamental. It had no guards. No flowers. No visitors.
Not even the birds sang there.
Thalric made the walk late, when the sun bowed behind slate clouds and the shadows stretched long like accusations. He wore no cloak, ignored the ache in his joints. The ache reminded him he was still trapped. Still lesser. Still here.
The gates groaned open like the throat of a forgotten god.
Inside: silence and cool stone, polished once—but now dulled by neglect. The smell was ancient. Not rot. Not decay. Something older. Earth and marble. Wax and memory.
He ran his fingers along the nearest tomb plate.
Alistair Worthing. First of Name. Buried with blade and book. "Let memory lift the bloodline forward."
A fine quote. Likely scripted by some court poet who didn't know the man at all.
He moved past Alistair. Past three queens, their plaques smaller. Past a line of knights, arranged by deeds and lineage. Some names he recognized from old books. Others... vanished between one century and the next.
Then he found it.
A shallow alcove. No plaque. No inscription. Just a bare stone platform, long since swept of offerings. A discarded wreath browned in the corner.
He didn't need a name to know what this was.
"They didn't even bury you under your own," he whispered.
Percival's place in death had mirrored his place in life—quiet, unintended, adjacent.
Thalric sat slowly, lowering himself onto the cool edge of a forgotten queen's tomb. His breathing was uneven. His body wanted warmth, rest, denial.
But his eyes stayed locked on the empty alcove.
There was no magic in these walls. No ghosts to speak. Yet still—he listened.
He listened to what wasn't said. To what had been left uncarved.
And for the first time since awakening in this world, Thalric said a name not with scorn… but with something closer to mourning.
"You deserved better, Percival. Not crowns. Not grandeur. Just... to be seen."
A draft stirred near the stairwell. Distant footfalls above. The day was ending.
He didn't rise for some time.
And when he did, he left a small stone on the edge of the alcove.
No offering.
Just presence.
Just witness.