The bells began before sunrise.
Rowan heard the first toll while the sky above Ardenfall was still dark.
The sound rolled slowly across the capital, deep and heavy, vibrating faintly through the stone walls of the castle. It lingered in the air long after it had been struck, echoing between towers and rooftops until it faded into silence.
Then another bell followed.
And another.
Each strike spaced far enough apart that the quiet between them felt almost heavier than the sound itself.
The bells of Ardenfall did not ring like that for ordinary deaths.
They rang like that only when a king had fallen.
Rowan stood for a long moment beside the window of his chamber, listening to them.
Below him the city was beginning to stir.
Thin threads of smoke rose from the chimneys of bakeries and taverns. Stable hands moved through the courtyard beneath the castle walls, leading horses out into the early morning chill. The first faint hints of light were beginning to push through the clouded sky over the eastern hills.
Somewhere beyond the castle walls, another bell sounded.
Slow.
Measured.
Final.
Rowan turned away from the window.
By the time he descended through the castle halls and reached the outer gates, the bells had already rung seven times.
The guards opened the great iron doors as he approached.
Cold morning air drifted into the passage.
The road leading down into the capital stretched before him, winding along the slope of the hill before disappearing into the dense stone streets of Ardenfall.
Two days ago this same road had been overflowing with people.
Victory had swept through the city like a storm.
The fall of the tyrant had meant freedom—freedom from the shadow that had hung over the continent for two decades. Soldiers had marched through the streets with raised banners while crowds cheered from windows and rooftops.
Rowan remembered the noise most clearly.
The laughter.
The shouting.
The music spilling from taverns long into the night.
Ardenfall had celebrated like a city reborn.
Now the same streets moved quietly.
Black ribbons had been tied across every banner during the night.
The blue flags of House Ardenfall still hung proudly from towers and balconies, but dark cloth now cut across the Crest of Ardenfall stitched into their centers. The ribbons shifted gently in the wind like silent reminders of the reason the bells had begun ringing at dawn.
Rowan stepped onto the road.
He walked alone.
His cloak hung loose around his shoulders, the crest of Ardenfall stitched across the collar in gold thread. He had briefly considered wearing something simpler, something that might allow him to move through the city without drawing attention.
But the thought had faded quickly.
A prince could not disappear into his own kingdom.
The soldiers at the lower gate noticed him immediately.
Two guards straightened when Rowan approached, their armor polished carefully for the funeral procession despite the dents that still marked their plates from the recent war.
"Your Highness."
Both raised fists to their chests in salute.
Rowan returned the gesture.
"At ease."
They relaxed slightly.
One of them was young, barely more than a boy. His helmet rested beneath one arm, and his hair was still damp from the morning wash.
"The royal guard has begun assembling near the cathedral road," the soldier said. "Captain Merrow asked that we inform you if you passed this way."
Rowan nodded once.
"Good."
He continued down the road toward the heart of the city.
The marketplace came into view soon after.
Normally it would already be alive with noise by this hour. Farmers arriving with carts full of vegetables. Merchants shouting prices over one another as they competed for customers.
Today the square moved more slowly.
The stalls were open.
Goods were laid out neatly across wooden tables.
But voices remained low.
A baker arranged fresh loaves across a long wooden counter near the edge of the square. Steam still rose from the crusts, and the smell of warm bread drifted through the cool morning air.
When the man noticed Rowan approaching, he removed his cap quickly and bowed his head.
"My condolences, Your Highness."
Rowan inclined his head in return.
Further along the square, a butcher wiped his hands on a stained cloth before bowing as well.
A group of women carrying baskets of herbs paused in their conversation.
One of them placed a hand lightly against her chest.
"We mourn with you," she said softly.
Rowan nodded again.
The words followed him through the market like echoes.
Condolences.
Respect.
Sympathy.
Each one added another small weight to his shoulders.
Near the center of the square stood the old fountain.
A group of children had gathered beside it.
They had arranged sticks and broken planks into makeshift swords and shields, circling one another in exaggerated imitation of battle.
"Charge!" one boy shouted.
Another collapsed dramatically onto the stones.
The others burst into laughter.
A nearby woman quickly hushed them when she noticed Rowan approaching.
"Not today," she said gently.
The children quieted immediately.
One small boy looked up at Rowan with wide eyes before raising a hesitant hand in greeting.
Rowan raised his own hand in return.
The boy grinned.
Life continued.
It always did.
Rowan walked slowly across the marketplace, observing the quiet rhythm of the city beneath the shadow of mourning.
Merchants spoke softly.
Customers moved carefully between stalls.
Even the horses tied near the well seemed calmer than usual.
At the far edge of the square, an old man sat on a wooden bench overlooking the road that climbed back toward the castle.
The armor he wore was faded with age.
Steel dulled.
Leather straps worn smooth.
A walking cane rested across his knees.
A veteran.
The old soldier noticed Rowan approaching and slowly pushed himself to his feet.
Despite the bend in his back, the salute he offered was sharp.
Rowan returned it.
"You served under my father."
The old soldier smiled faintly.
"Aye," he replied.
"Back when he was still Prince Edmund."
Rowan stopped beside the bench.
The veteran studied him quietly.
"You look like him," the man said.
Rowan raised an eyebrow.
"My father?"
"Not in the face," the soldier replied.
"But in the way you carry the weight of things."
Rowan didn't answer.
The old soldier chuckled softly.
"Your father used to walk these same streets," he said.
"Before he became king."
Rowan looked across the rooftops of Ardenfall stretching toward the distant hills.
"I doubt he did it on days like this."
"Oh, he did."
The veteran tapped his cane lightly against the ground.
"The day his father died, he walked the market road before the funeral."
Rowan turned toward him.
"Why?"
The old soldier shrugged.
"Trying to understand the kingdom he had to lead."
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then the soldier spoke again.
"Your father lost his first battle when he was younger than you."
Rowan blinked.
"He did?"
"Oh aye."
"Lost half his company."
Rowan had never heard that story.
"What happened after?"
The old soldier smiled slightly.
"He stood back up."
The bells rang again.
Slow.
Heavy.
"Kings aren't remembered for the days they fall," the veteran said quietly.
"They're remembered for the days they rise again."
Rowan stood there for a moment, considering the words.
Rowan inclined his head.
"Thank you."
The old soldier returned to his seat.
Rowan continued walking toward the castle.
The road climbed slowly along the hillside.
From there the entire capital stretched beneath him.
Black ribbons fluttered across rooftops.
The bells continued to toll.
By the time Rowan reached the castle gates, preparations were already underway.
The courtyard buzzed with activity.
Soldiers assembled in ceremonial ranks, their armor polished until it gleamed beneath the grey sky. Black sashes crossed their chests.
Servants carried tall candle stands toward the great hall.
Priests in white robes moved between them quietly, murmuring prayers beneath their breath.
The scent of incense drifted through the air.
Rowan crossed the courtyard toward the inner halls.
Inside the castle, the atmosphere grew heavier still.
Nobles had begun arriving from across the kingdom.
Dark coats.
Silver pins.
Quiet conversations echoing beneath vaulted ceilings.
They bowed respectfully as Rowan passed.
Some offered brief condolences.
Others simply lowered their heads.
The great hall doors stood open.
Inside, candles lined the stone floor.
Black cloth draped the tall pillars that once displayed the banners of Ardenfall's victories.
At the center of the hall stood the king's casket.
Polished black wood.
The royal banner spread across its surface.
Blue silk.
With the Crest of Ardenfall etched in the center.
Rowan slowed as he approached.
His father lay within that box.
The man who had once seemed unbreakable.
Now still.
Across the hall Lucien stood surrounded by ministers reviewing the order of the funeral procession.
Lucien looked up as Rowan entered.
Their eyes met.
Lucien dismissed the ministers with a quiet gesture.
Rowan approached the casket.
Lucien joined him.
"The city is ready," Rowan said quietly.
Lucien nodded.
"They always were."
Before Rowan could reply, the doors behind them opened.
A high-ranking minister hurried into the hall.
He bowed deeply.
"Your Highness."
Lucien turned.
"The foreign delegations have arrived."
A brief silence followed.
"They request an audience before the procession begins."
Rowan exhaled slowly.
The funeral had not yet begun.
And already the politics of the world had arrived.
Lucien's expression remained calm.
"Bring them in."
Outside the castle walls, the bells rang once more.
Slow.
Heavy.
The Day of Mourning had begun.