The air in the ancestral hall was thick with the scent of incense and unshed tears.
Twelve urns, carved from dark jade, sat in a solemn row upon the high altar.
Each bore a name, a reminder of what it once was.
Fang Yuan stood before the assembled mourners, his figure a pillar of stark black against the grey stone.
His voice, when it came, was not loud, but it carried through the cavernous hall with the weight of finality, echoing off the tablets of countless ancestors who bore witness.
"Fang Guo," he intoned, the name hanging in the air. "Fang Shen. Fang Lo. Fang Rin." He did not rush.
He gave each name its due, a somber bell tolling for the departed. "Fang Wu. Fang Shi. Fang Kyu."
He continued, until all twelve names had been called.
"These elders… they met a tragic end, not at the hands of outsiders, but at the hand of my very own brother. To stand here and hold a funeral for them, some may see it as hypocrisy. Perhaps they are right.
