After some resistance, Maria finally accepted. They continued through the shops, buying potatoes, rice, vegetables, and a few fruits. Then something curious began to happen: merchants who once would have regarded them with indifference—or even disdain—now offered forced smiles, polite words… and in some cases, even goods for free.
News spreads quickly, Elian thought.
For Maria, it felt like a burden, almost a humiliation. For Elian, it was confirmation that the weight of the Dark Throne had already begun to reshape his family's fate.
Yet through it all, one thought gnawed at him, refusing to fade—the conversation with Roque. His father's name, spoken so naturally, had reopened a wound he still could not close. As his mother haggled for vegetables with another merchant, the thought grew within him like a restless flame: I need to visit Father's grave.
The last time Maria and the siblings had gone, he had not been with them. That absence corroded him, and now, walking between sacks of grain and the cries of vendors, his longing hardened into decision.
"Mother," he called, his voice quiet but firm.
Maria turned, her tired eyes meeting his. For an instant, Elian almost faltered—but he pressed on.
"Can we visit Father's grave?"
The word grave fell on her chest like a stone. Her throat burned as if the very sound rekindled every sorrow she had fought to bury. Yet mingled with the pain rose something else: Elian had never asked this before.
She drew a long, trembling breath.
"Of course," she answered, her voice steadier than she felt. Then, turning to Iolanda: "Can you secure a carriage to take us there?"
Iolanda nodded without hesitation.
"Yes. I can," she said, already measuring the distance in her mind.
For her as well, it would be the first time on the family's old land, and there was practical reason to agree. Not only would she see the grave, but she could also inspect the site where the new Dark Throne branch was rising. In the two months since the order had purchased the property, both the new house and the branch's structure had begun to take form—but Iolanda had yet to step foot there.
Back at Elise's house, they unloaded the provisions. The scent of fresh bread still clung to the sacks, mingling with the herbal aromas from her shelves. Maria, seizing the moment, called to Anthony:
"Son, let's go together to visit your father's grave."
But the boy shook his head quickly, eyes hard on the floor.
"No, Mother. I'd rather stay."
A chill ran through Maria at those words. Anthony had always been reserved, but to refuse to visit his own father… it seemed a silence too heavy, laden with something she could not name.
Less than an hour later, a carriage halted before Elise's home. The sun had passed its zenith, casting a hard, shadowless light. Not wanting to leave on empty stomachs, Maria had prepared a simple meal—bread, cheese, dried fruit—which they ate in silence as the carriage rocked to the rhythm of the horses.
The trip to the old farm would take an hour and a half. On horseback, it would have been faster, but with four passengers, the carriage was their only choice. It was no luxury, but it served. Wooden wheels creaked against the dirt, raising small clouds of dust scattered by the wind.
Midway, Iolanda called for a halt before a wide stretch of land.
"This is where the Dark Throne branch will stand," she said, stepping down to survey it.
The construction was already advanced: walls of dark stone rising halfway to their height, austere and imposing against the green of surrounding fields. The land spanned little more than a thousand square meters, with the structure taking half of it. Modest compared to Askov's branch, yet still commanding respect.
Elian stared in silence, reminded of the small manors he had seen in his past life. But here, each stone carried a staggering cost, unimaginable in villages like Brumaria, where even timber was treated as wealth.
"It's coming along well," Iolanda remarked, arms crossed before the growing structure. "It will house the five mages assigned here."
Her words were more than observation. To Maria, they sounded like a reminder that their lives would never again be simple; the order's presence was now inseparable from the family itself.
Without lingering, they continued. Minutes later, the farm emerged through the trees. The silence within the carriage deepened, as though they all knew they were nearing a place where memory still bled.
They disembarked. Where once had been only ashes and a ruined wooden house, now stood a new structure of stone—cold, unyielding, built in the same style as the branch's rising walls.
Maria walked slowly, her eyes glistening as they traced each detail. Perhaps she should have felt joy at the prospect of such a strong new home, grander than any in the region—almost like the house of her childhood, raised in sacrifice and comfort. Yet joy crumbled before it could take shape. Each stone seemed to weigh with memory; past and present entwined, crushing her chest with tides of iron.
Elian too could not look upon the new house without recalling Arthur. Every wall was a reminder of his absence, a symbol of what could never be replaced. It only deepened his need to stand before his father's grave and speak what burdened his soul.
Iolanda remained silent; there were no words fit for grief that was not hers. Emanuelle, with her innocent heart, tugged her mother's hand and called her toward the grave. Maria could only nod.
They walked. Maria's chest constricted with every step, anxiety and sorrow knotting into fire.
Within minutes, they arrived.
Elian fixed his gaze on the plain stone marker. His mind spun, torn by a thousand thoughts, none finding resolution. He had said farewell in the ethereal field—why then did he need to stand here again? No answer came, only the silence that consumed him.
He stood long before the grave, lost in formless tides: sadness, love, longing, memory. All burned within him, yet no words rose to his lips.
Then a small shadow neared. Emanuelle clasped his hand, her fingers entwining with his, as though to bear part of his weight. He turned, saw her tear-filled eyes—his own grief mirrored. Only eight years old, standing level with him, yet in that moment she seemed greater—the reason he still endured.
His heart steadied. That simple gesture gave him direction. He squeezed her hand in silent thanks she could never fully understand.
He knelt before the grave, pressing his palms against the earth still marked by wilted flowers. His voice came strained, yet firm:
"Father… I know we did not have long together, and I have not come often since that day." He paused, remembering their meeting in the ethereal field. "Thank you for being my father these five years."
Tears slid unchecked as he went on:
"But I came to tell you what has happened." A short silence, until breath steadied. "Forgive me for failing to see justice done against the one who wronged you… but I swear, one day, I will."
Elian drew a deep breath, pulling from his pocket the Dark Throne's metal seal. Pale sunlight caught on its engraved iron, and he raised it before the grave like an offering.
"Also… I've become disciple to one of the Ancients of the great orders," his voice wavered but held. "I am almost a member of the Dark Throne. I still have years before initiation, but I've already been recognized as one of them."
He pressed the seal back to his chest, feeling its weight through the black tunic.
"My master even funded the building of our new house," Elian added, drawing it out again, running his thumb over the cold metal. "Of course, it won't be free—it will be repaid in time." He forced a small laugh, brittle and fleeting. "I just hope he doesn't want my soul as payment."
Iolanda, watching from a short distance, saw the humor for what it was—merely a child's mask over pain—and did not take it seriously. Yet in silence, she stored her quiet respect for the boy who could stand so before his father's stone.
"In less than a year…" Elian's voice broke, "…I'll have to go to the order's stronghold. I'll have to leave Mother, Manu, and Anthony." He drew another breath. "But in return, I secured protection for them. My master will send five mages to keep them safe."
Maria had approached unnoticed, tears falling as she heard. Her heart ached to hear such words from a boy of only five. She silently cursed herself: Why must he bear such weight? Why must his childhood be sacrifice?
Elian brushed his eyes dry, straightened, and spoke again, his voice no longer that of a child but of one already hardened.
"I think I've said what I needed… but before I go, Father, I want to make you a promise, and a request." His hand gripped Emanuelle's tighter, as her sobs trembled beside him. "I swear I will protect our family. I swear I will bring justice to our blood."
A short pause, then with solemn plea:
"But until then, I ask… watch over Mother. Protect them for me. I love you, Father."
And there, before the cold stone, the vow was sealed. A boy who was no boy, and a father who was no longer, bound not by life nor death, but by a promise that outlived them both.