The soft crackling of burning wood filled the air, an odd companion to the silence of mourning.
Faces stood frozen around the flame. Young and old, their grief unspoken, their sorrow enough to douse the scorch of the fire.
A gentle breeze slipped through the crowd, brushing past tear-streaked cheeks and clenched jaws.
"As to the earth he's come in flesh, to the earth he'd return in ashes."
The words, spoken by an elder, rang out clear and solemn.
Just a few paces away, Jules stood. On the surface, his expression was calm, but inside, his emotions threatened to riot.
Then, a hand reached gently around his waist.
"Jules, it'll be fine," Glinta said.
But, Jules said nothing as his gaze remained fixed on the flames devouring a corpse in the distance.
The cold bit through his clothes, sharper than usual, but he didn't flinch. He remained still, as if daring the wind to move him.
Slowly, he dragged his feet towards the crackling fire.
The elder, on sighting him, began to walk his way.
Gripping Jules' shoulder slightly, he spoke with strong emotion, "You're doing a good job, lad."
Still keeping a still face, Jules gave the elder a soft nod before turning his eyes back to the burning wood.
He stood for a long time, silently watching the cremation. Then, at last, he spoke:
"Old Blade of Van, Father of I—you promised me the third style of the Heron Dipping The Sea when I turned eighteen. Just weeks from the promise… and now the cold embrace of death has claimed you to the world beyond."
With an instant thud, his knees hit the floor as a gesture of self-reproach.
"I can only put the blame on my uselessness as an unfilial son. If only I had been a little bit powerful, if only I had the grace you had... I could have..." He choked.
Just then, an elderly woman crouched beside him as he struggled to contain his warring emotions.
She gently placed a hand on Jules' shoulder, her voice soft and soothing.
"Child, your father's passing is not a result of your inadequacy. It's the natural course of life, and we all must face it."
She paused, allowing Jules a moment to process.
"Your father was proud of you—a feeling he surely still carries—even as his resilient bones burn under the fire. I'm sure he's watching over you from wherever he is. Don't blame yourself for not being powerful enough. Instead, focus on honoring his memory and fulfilling your own potential."
Jules looked up, his eyes red-rimmed from tears.
"But I promised him I'd learn the third style of the Heron Dipping The Sea. Now it's too late."
The elderly woman smiled wistfully.
"Perhaps it's not too late. Maybe your father kept the knowledge somewhere else. Or maybe... it's hidden within you. Perhaps it's a test for you."
As the elderly woman's words hung in the air, Jules' gaze drifted back to the flames consuming his father's body. The crackling wood seemed to grow louder, echoing the turmoil within him.
Slowly, Jules rose to his feet, his eyes still locked on the fire. The elderly woman stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder offered a steady, comforting presence.
"Thank you, Nana. I will find a way to learn the third style," Jules said, offering a full bow.
With that, he turned away, his steps carrying him toward a desolate part of the village.
***
Jules sat atop an oak tree, calm wind streaking across his face as he sank into thought.
Watching his father die, with his blood spilled across his face.
The fast, sudden, yet incisive strike of the strange group, the gash from which blood wouldn't stop pouring.
Everything replayed in his head as he poured the contents of a small gourd into his mouth.
"I'm sorry about your father. I heard of his passing." A soft voice called out suddenly.
However, despite the intrusion of the sudden guest, Jules didn't turn back.
"Well well, Lady Beena of House Balsalt, who would have thought!" he said with a sarcastic remark.
Hearing the tone from Jules' voice seemed to incense the figure, yet she kept her displeasure under wraps as she said, "Jules, I understand your grief, I really do."
"Oh really?" he countered, this time looking in her direction.
"Of course I do," she replied calmly.
"Haha," a short, dry laugh escaped his lips.
"You see this?" he said, pointing to the hem of his dirty clothes, "clothes that look more like rags worn by beggars than a proper attire."
"How'd you understand having to wear such clothes, over the jewelry lined up on your neck?"
"Stop."
"I see the guard positioned at the far corner, ready to stake a spear against my defenceless heart once I come any closer to you. A powerful weaponsman at your beck and call.
How would you understand the struggles with security, the monster tides, the bandit attacks?
How could you?
Oh well, sitting on your high horses, turning your eyes from these scenes with indifference, yet you feign compassion before me."
"Stop!"
"Look around— tombs and epitaphs everywhere. There's always someone to bury before the next turnip grows in your garden.
So many that we ran out of land, and my father had to be cremated. His ashes… scattered to the dust.
You smell that? That's the smell of his remains, subjected to the scorch of fire."
Suddenly, as though she had heard too much of his incisive words, she yelled, "I SAID STOP!"
Her voice boomed, carrying a shockwave that sent Jules crashing down from atop the tree.
He hit the ground with a loud thud. Luckily, he didn't sustain any injury, aside from a bloodied lower lip.
"Haha, not a surprise though. She's awakened. A prodigy nonetheless—blessings to House Balsalt once again. The beautiful young mistress of House Balsalt came to flaunt her awesomeness, right?"
At this point, a disappointed frown painted Beena's face.
"Jules, I don't know why you're doing all of this. It's true that I might not be able to relate to some of the grief you harbor. But the truth remains that I lost my mother, too.
A truth not hidden from anyone beyond these mountains, and even to the distant lands.
Pain has never and will never be comparable, and how people deal with grief will never be equal, yet I had hoped my childhood bosom friend would show me some grace."
Jules, now standing, glared at Beena with pain in his eyes.
"We begged the Cerceran Throne for help, you know? We sent messenger birds, wrote in our best ink and incense-soaked parchments, yet no help came. The Cerceran throne wouldn't budge if not—"
Suddenly, out of nowhere an invisible wave of power struck Jules, knocking him out instantly.
"No!"
Beena yelled as she rushed to where Jules had fallen.
"Hmph!"
A cold snort came from behind her.
"Young Mistress, we need to leave—lest the mayor notices your disappearance," another voice rang out urgently.
Beena crouched beside Jules, cradling his head softly against her knees.
"I'm so sorry, Jules. I know nothing of these happenings, and even at that... I'm powerless against them. They are beyond me." She said, as tears rolled down her face.
"Come on, Young Mistress. Let's go!"
Gently, Beena dipped her hand into her waist robe, drawing out a simple necklace. With care, she placed it around his neck, then delicately rested his head against the ground.
Giving one last look at his handsome face, she smiled.
"Goodbye, Jules."