Dark clouds rolled in over the Evergarden Kingdom, thick and unbroken, casting the land into an early twilight. The wind carried a wet chill, and soon the rain began to fall, slow at first, then steady, as though the heavens themselves had come to mourn.
From every corner of the realm they came, travelers from the far eastern valleys, merchants from the western ports, farmers from the northern highlands, and riders from the sunburned southern plains. The roads into the capital were choked with people, all moving toward the same destination: the great gates of the palace.
There, in the shadow of the towering walls, they gathered in a swelling crowd. The sound of their grief rose like a storm. Men and women pressed against the iron bars, their faces wet with rain and tears alike.
"Open the gates!" voices cried, raw and desperate.
"Let us see him! Just once more!"
The knights stationed before the gate stood in silent formation, their polished armor streaked with water. They were soldiers, trained to be unyielding, but even they could not hide the sorrow in their eyes. Some looked down at the ground, unwilling to meet the crowd's gaze; others blinked away tears that refused to be held back.
The cries swelled, voices merging into a single, aching chorus. The sound rose beyond the courtyard, climbing the walls of the palace until it echoed through the marble corridors, where those within could not help but hear the grief of their people.
The King's Hall was filled with people from distant lands, each envoy standing in place for the ruler they served. Their robes and armor bore the colors of their own kingdoms, yet all were united in the same heavy silence.
At the center of the hall lay King Everett Liam, resting within a finely crafted coffin. The polished wood glowed faintly under the dim light, its gold edges a quiet reminder of his reign.
Around the coffin, the gathered crowd stood still, heads bowed, their grief unspoken yet heavy in the air. No one moved. No one spoke. Only the quiet presence of the fallen king filled the vast hall.
One by one, they came, envoys from distant lands, each representing their kingdom and their king. In silence, they approached the coffin of King Everett Liam, offered their respects, and stepped back into the crowd.
Then the pillars of Evergarden entered, the elders who had safeguarded the kingdom's peace for decades. Their steps were slow, their faces set in solemn grief. They stood before the coffin, heads bowed, and gave their final words of condolence before withdrawing.
At last, the prince approached. Esmond Gladwyne, the one and only son of King Everett Liam, and the rightful heir to the throne. His gaze lingered on his father's still form, and the hall seemed to grow quieter, as if even the air waited for his next step.
Tears streamed down his face, leaving faint trails along his cheeks, marks carved by grief after hours of weeping. His eyes, shadowed and heavy, bore the weight of sleepless nights.
Slowly, he reached out and took the king's pale hand. It was cold to the touch, yet soft, like the last echo of life still lingering.
His voice was low, almost a whisper, trembling against the silence.
"It's time."
From the crowd, several men stepped forward, their faces pale with grief. With slow, careful movements, they lifted the coffin of King Everett Liam onto their shoulders. The prince walked behind them, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, while the rest of the hall fell in step, following in solemn silence.
Along the palace corridor, noblemen and high-ranking officials had gathered. They stepped aside as the procession passed, bowing their heads in respect to the fallen king. The knights stood on either side of the path, their armor glinting faintly in the dim light, their expressions heavy with sorrow.
The rain had slowed to a mist, clinging to the air as the procession made its way beyond the palace gates. Prince Esmond walked behind the coffin, his steps heavy, following the path that led to the River Elandria, the sacred waters where Evergarden kings were given to the current.
At the riverbank, the air hung heavy with the scent of wet earth and rain-soaked grass. Mist clung low over the water, curling in ghostly tendrils that drifted between the gathered mourners. There, moored against the worn stone pier, waited a long, narrow funeral boat, its blackened hull carved with the ancient sigils of Evergarden's royal bloodline. Each engraving glistened faintly with rain, as though the symbols themselves were weeping.
The coffin was lifted from the bearers' shoulders with the utmost care, their hands steady despite the tremor of grief that gripped them. Step by step, they carried the weight of a king to the vessel, lowering it gently until it rested at the center of the boat. The polished wood of the coffin seemed to drink in the dim grey light, while its gold trim caught the occasional glint of fire from the torches lining the bank.
Around them, the crowd stood in absolute silence. No one moved, no one whispered. Faces were pale, their outlines blurred by the lingering fog. Even the rain, though steady, seemed subdued as if it feared to disturb the moment. Along the shoreline, the knights of Evergarden stood at rigid attention, their armor streaked with water, swords lowered and points resting against the mud in a solemn salute. Some stared straight ahead, their faces carved in discipline, while others could not keep their eyes from the coffin, as though afraid it might vanish if they looked away.
Esmond stepped forward. The crowd seemed to shift with him, as if the weight of every gaze followed his steps. The ceremonial torch was handed to him by the keeper, a gnarled old man whose own eyes brimmed with tears. The flame trembled in the damp air, fighting against the cold wind that rolled off the river, yet it burned stubbornly, carrying with it the weight of centuries of royal farewell.
The prince's eyes fixed on his father's still form, and for a long heartbeat, he did not move. His lips parted, but the words seemed to catch in his throat before he finally whispered,
"The climate… it's just as you loved."
His voice was barely more than breath, yet in the unnatural stillness, it seemed to reach the ears of every soul present.
Esmond bent to one knee beside the boat. The torch's glow lit the rain-speckled surface of the coffin, and when the flame touched the oil-soaked cloth draping it, the fire leapt to life. Golden light flared against the mist, its reflection dancing over the rippling water. For a moment, the king seemed to lie bathed in sunlight, though the sky above remained a dull, weeping grey.
With both hands, Esmond pushed the vessel from the shore. The wood creaked softly as the current claimed it, pulling it away from the bank. The crowd remained unmoving, eyes locked on the burning boat as it drifted into the slow embrace of the River Elandria.
The flames swayed with the water's pull, their bright tongues licking at the air. They shrank gradually, swallowed by distance and the thickening mist, until the boat became nothing more than a small, flickering ember upon the horizon. Then, without ceremony, the fire faded into the grey swallowed whole by the river and sky alike.
No one spoke. No one breathed louder than the quiet lap of water against the stones. Even the rain seemed to lessen, as though the world itself had paused to honor the passing of the king.
Esmond remained at the edge of the bank long after the vessel had vanished, his hands still wet from the push, his gaze fixed on the empty river. Behind him, the crowd stood as one, bound not by words, but by the shared weight of loss.