Read The Heir Of Shadows :: The whispers begin: A funeral

It was late noon when Vion entered his father's study.

"You asked for me, father?" he asked.

Duke Varen, who was reviewing few documents, looked up. "You didn't knock."

"Uh, sorry, I didn't realize." Vion replied immediately.

"Don't do this again. Well, you reported that they both have met each other already. I didn't think they would meet so early," Varen continued while pouring himself lavender tea, "however, I summoned you because I want you to get Aurion's funeral announced now. It’s already June 17. He died 4 days ago. I hope you have prepared everything by now.”

“I understand your concerns, father. Yes, preparations for the funeral have been completed," Vion answered. No extra words, just the required answer.

“That’s just expected from you, my son. The funeral will be held in the temple, tomorrow. All the citizens are allowed to come.”

“Okay, father. I will keep that in mind.”

“You can go, now.”

Vion bowed and and immediately left the room.

Vion stood at the steps of the Temple of the Fourfold Flame, hands clasped behind his back, his cloak tugged gently by the night wind. He said nothing, simply watching as the workers moved in silence across the place like chess pieces in a game already won.

The temple grounds were already being swept clean as dusk fell. Dozens of servants moved like silent shadows across the pale stone, scrubbing away the dust, and hanging mourning banners. The air smelled faintly of incense—soft, sweet, and clinging like memory. The air smelled faintly of incense—soft, sweet, and clinging like memory.

The Temple of Fourfold Flame was a towering structure of white marble, with glass mosaics that shimmered with every ray of light. Statues of the celestial godesses flanked its entrance, their stone gazes solemn beneath garlands of twilight blooms.

Inside, preparations were nearing completion. The grand central hall, usually echoing with quiet chants and low prayers, was now filled with hushed movement. Black carpet was being laid down, leading to the altar, passing by the pews. Long black velvet drapes were being drawn over the walls, and the high altar had been cleared to hold the royal casket—still to arrive by dawn.

The scent of lavender incense clung to the air, faintly masking the oil and stone-dust stirred up by frantic cleaning. The high altar was being scrubbed again, though it was already spotless. Vion’s sharp gaze swept over the hall: flower arrangements too tall, and candles not yet lit.

“Adjust the lilies. They should not rise above the casket,” he said coldly.

A servant flinched, bowing, and rushed to correct it.

Priests walked barefoot, murmuring rites in the ancient tongue, their robes deep indigo trimmed in silver thread. Rows of pews were polished to a shine, and enchanted braziers flickered with soft blue fire, giving the space an ethereal glow.

For a moment, Vion let his eyes drift upward. The celestial mural showed all four goddesses in balance—sunfire, moonlight, starlace, and deep-rooted stone. Aurion would have been buried beneath their gaze… like royalty always had.

Vion’s jaw tightened.

The crown prince was gone. And this—this carefully choreographed display—was all that remained. No justice. No mourning. Just formality.

“Is the enchantment prepared?” he asked the High Priest Darvak Astrashard, without turning.

“Yes, Lord Vion,” came Darvak's hushed reply. “The Memory Veil will activate as the casket is lowered. All citizens present will see a curated vision of the prince’s greatest achievements.”

“Make sure the vision is brief. He doesn’t need a legacy. Just closure.”

“Yes, my lord.”

At the temple’s heart, beneath a spire-ridged ceiling shaped like an open flame, painted with a map of the stars, a young acolyte placed the final wreath. He stepped back, whispered a prayer for the prince who would never sit the throne, and bowed low.

Outside, a quiet wind stirred the mourning flags.

Vion turned and walked toward the temple’s side entrance, his steps steady, measured, final.

Tomorrow, the empire would bury its crown prince at dawn. Tomorrow, the empire would grieve.