Even as Serenya's dreams took root in Aelestara's glow, another story awakened far from her gaze: a memory buried in the deepest past of Eryndor. For despite his bearing and enigmatic words, the Wanderer carried a secret origin. His birth was not tied to crowns or citadels, but to fire-lit halls where loss dwells. Long before wandering the known world, before his name was spoken with caution, a child stood silent before a funeral pyre. It was there that destiny placed in his hands the fragment that would mark his path forever.
Dawn broke pale and cold, spilling mournful light over the gathered crowd. Eryndor, with barely nine winters, stood amid a sea of solemn faces, his gaze fixed on Lord Vaelric's coffin. The citadel's bells tolled slowly, their resonance spreading through the valleys like an ancient song lamenting the end of an era. Each clapper struck with a deep echo, vibrating in the boy's chest like a foreign pulse, reminding him of all that seemed eternal yet fragile. The Citadel's people wore black cloaks, heavy with morning dew; their breath dispersing in the cold mist as they paid their final homage, whispering prayers lost to the icy wind.
At the courtyard's heart, the coffin rose on a pedestal held by twelve knights of Lord Vaelric's house. Carved from Velocanto tree wood, it gleamed with its own life, its pale surface softly reflecting the nascent day's light, as if sap still coursed through its veins. The knights' arms trembled not from fatigue, but reverence: the fallen lord's presence infused a respect transcending the earthly realm, an invisible weight creaking their armor. The sweet scent of freshly cut Velocanto filled their senses, mingled with nearby torches' incipient smoke, a perfume evoking ancient forests and broken promises. An intense feeling of loss and devotion hung over the crowd like palpable fog, oppressing chests and moistening eyes.
Lord Vaelric's death marked an era's end, and young Eryndor could not help wondering what the future would bring, his small fingers clenching his tunic's rough fabric. The final procession advanced slowly through the citadel's streets, a solemn line of mourners following the coffin, paying their last tribute with measured steps echoing on frosted cobblestones. From high balconies, starflower petals fell like silver rain, settling softly on the funeral urn, each capturing the dim light and returning it in fleeting sparkles. Children's round eyes watched in silence, while parents hushed them with a gentle finger to the lips, stifling sobs to not disturb the rite.
The only sounds were the gloomy rumble of slow drums and the mourners' plaintive voices rising like spectral whispers amid the towers' lengthening shadows. The drums' steady beat marked each measured step, a hypnotic rhythm syncing with Eryndor's racing heartbeat. The funeral march echoed against the citadel's stone walls, amplifying into a collective lament that rattled frosted windows. As the procession advanced, the choir masters' voices seemed to weave a spell of veneration, their harmonies gliding through silence like a dirge melody prickling the boy's skin. Petals continued falling like a gentle drizzle, blessing the coffin and its occupant, clinging to damp cloaks and leaving a silver trail on the ground.
The air grew thick with sorrow and devotion; the farewell was a sacred rite uniting all in solemnity's veil. Eryndor's small hand clung tightly to his cousin's, knuckles white from pressure, his immobile gaze following the coffin with burning intensity in his pupils. Never had he seen death presented with such grandeur: Lord Vaelric's body's stillness contrasted with the vitality he still recalled, tales of his resonant laughter in halls now forever silenced. The linen wrapping his form, anointed with sacred oils emitting a musky aroma, seemed to stir with the knights' steps, as if an invisible breeze agitated it.
To the child, Lord Vaelric did not seem truly absent; rather, he slept, chest poised to rise with the next breath, and Eryndor held his own, awaiting that impossible miracle. The boy's mind struggled to reconcile that stillness with memories of the lord's stern kindness, lessons delivered in grave voice by the fire. As he gazed at the coffin, Eryndor felt awe, sadness, and a spark of expectation quickening his pulse. Silence was profound, barely broken by fabric's faint rustle and distant bells and drums beating in unison, a sonic tapestry enshrouding the scene in mystery.
The procession finally reached the Flame of Eternity, burning beneath Ouralis, a vast abyss carved into the citadel's very foundations, where the fortress's true breath roared ceaselessly, a guttural roar rising like a primordial beast's exhalation. A hundred torches lined the precipice, their flames dancing in darkness with orange and blue tongues; yet their light paled against the perpetual fire erupting from the sanctum sanctorum's depths, a core of infernal heat distorting air with visible waves. Hell's roar was a constant, vibrant heartbeat, trembling the ground beneath the crowd's feet, instilling reverential dread.
As the knights lifted the coffin, their voices united in a solemn vow: "We leave you here… yet we shall live for you in days to come." With reverent slowness, they lowered the urn into the fire abyss, muscles taut under armor, sweat beading foreheads despite the cold. For an instant, the flame erupted in blinding white fury, as if awakening from slumber to devour its offering, a blast forcing the crowd to squint and shield faces. In one swift, merciless motion, fire consumed wood and flesh, leaving only memory, black smoke spirals rising, smelling of burned sap and sacred essences.
The witnesses stood immobile, faces lit by an orange glow, shadows dancing on features like spectres. The fire's roar was deafening, a reminder of mortal life's ephemerality, reverberating in Eryndor's ears like eternal thunder. As the bier fully dissipated, knights bowed heads, armour flashing in ruddy light, a collective submission. The forces sustaining the citadel bound Lord Vaelric's essence to the eternal flame, merging his spirit with Ouralis's heart. The ground shook beneath feet as a thunderous blast rent the air, an echo of the lord's absence, raising fine dust clouds.