A week passed, though to Adrian it felt less like time moving forward and more like a wound that refused to close, bleeding beneath the surface where no one else could see.
The days had blurred into one another—training resumed with mechanical precision, lectures continued as if the world hadn't just proven itself far more dangerous than classroom theory suggested, patrols went out nightly to watch for threats that had already proven they could slip through undetected. But beneath the routine, the heaviness lingered. The loss of squires whose names were still being learned. The death of veteran knights who should have been unkillable. The shadow of demons crawling closer to the heart of Arathor with methods more insidious than simple invasion.
Now, at last, the kingdom paid its respects.
The funeral pyres had been raised at the edge of the capital, where green fields gave way to stone terraces overlooking the river that had carried Arathor's history for a thousand years. The banners of the six academies fluttered solemnly in the wind—Dawnspire's golden sunburst, Ironfang's black wolf, Stormwatch's silver hawk, Ashbourne's crimson raven, Silverkeep's jeweled crown, Stonewall's iron shield—all raised high in mourning, their edges draped with black cloth that snapped and rippled like captured sorrow.
The surviving squires stood in formation, armor polished to mirror brightness despite the somber occasion, blades sheathed in respect for the fallen. Adrian stood with Finn and Edric in the front rows, their faces grim masks that hid the turmoil beneath. Marcus and Sara from Alice's patrol stood nearby, still hollow-eyed from trauma that hadn't fully processed yet.
Before them lay the caskets of the fallen. Not just Brann's, though Adrian's eyes were drawn there like iron to lodestone. But also the eight other squires from the patrol—boys and girls who'd barely begun their training, whose potential would never be realized. And the two knights who'd given their lives trying to shield their charges: Knight-Captain Thorne, whose blue flame had blazed so brilliantly, and Sir Gregor, whose green had held the line until the very end.
White lilies had been laid upon each casket—for purity, for innocence lost too soon. Iron thorns woven between the flowers—for courage, for the warrior's path chosen and followed to its bitter conclusion.
But Adrian's eyes remained fixed on one casket above all others. Brann's.
He hadn't spoken much of his family during their months as roommates. Only mentioned in passing that they were simple folk from a farming village near the western ridges. That he'd been the first in three generations to even consider military service, let alone attempt knight training. That his family had scraped together what little they could to send him here with proper equipment and the hope that he'd return as something more than a farmer's son.
They'd sent him armor and hope.
Arathor was returning a body.
Adrian saw them now, standing apart from the crowd of nobility and academy officials who'd come to pay respects they'd never paid while the dead were living. Brann's father—broad-shouldered like his son had been, but bent beneath grief that made him look decades older. His mother, pale as parchment, clutching a worn handkerchief as though it were the only thing keeping her upright in a world that had just stolen her firstborn. Two younger sisters, perhaps ten and twelve, their wide eyes brimming with tears they could barely understand, knowing only that their brother who'd promised to come home with stories would never tell another tale.
When the time came for the squires who'd fought beside the fallen to step forward, Adrian felt Finn's hand on his shoulder—gentle, grounding. Together, the three of them approached Brann's family.
Brann's father looked at them with eyes that held more than grief. There was searching there. A desperate need to understand. To make sense of senseless death.
He clasped Finn's shoulder first, his farmer's hands strong despite their trembling. "He spoke of you in his letters," the man said, his voice hoarse from days of weeping. "Said you were the smart one. The one who always had an answer."
Finn's composure cracked. "He was braver than any of us. Braver than he ever gave himself credit for. When the demon came, he didn't hesitate. He just... moved."
The father nodded, swallowing hard.
Edric spoke next, his own voice breaking despite his best effort. "He saved us. More than once. His courage gave us time to—" He couldn't finish, tears streaming down his face. "He should have been here with us still. It's not fair. It's not right."
Brann's mother reached out with trembling hands to squeeze Edric's arm, offering comfort despite drowning in her own sorrow. As if a mother's instinct to ease pain couldn't be stopped even by her own breaking heart.
Then the father's eyes turned to Adrian. The man's gaze was steady, searching, carrying a weight of questions unasked. "And you? Were you with him at the end?"
Adrian froze.
His throat tightened, words tangling before they could form. Deep inside, guilt surged—not the clean guilt of having failed to save someone, but the darker guilt of having chosen not to try as hard as he could have. He remembered the moment with crystalline clarity that would haunt him forever. The demon's claws extended. Brann charging forward with that stupid, brave, beautiful recklessness. And Adrian, still maintaining his facade, still fighting at human-squire level instead of unleashing the three centuries of demonic power that could have ended the threat instantly.
I could have saved him. If I'd revealed myself immediately. If I'd stopped calculating and just acted. If I'd valued his life over my mission.
The thought was a knife that turned in his chest.
"Yes," Adrian said finally, forcing his voice to remain steady though guilt threatened to choke him. "I was there. He stood tall. He stood without fear. He charged a demon noble to protect us, and his courage bought us the seconds we needed to regroup." The words were true, as far as they went. But they felt like lies of omission. "He died a warrior's death. That doesn't make it fair or right, but... it means something. It has to mean something."
The father's eyes glistened, and he gave a single, heavy nod. His hand reached out to clasp Adrian's shoulder, and the grip was tight enough to hurt. "That sounds like my boy. Always running toward trouble instead of away from it." His voice cracked. "Wish he'd run away just once."
"So do I," Adrian said quietly, and meant it with every fiber of a heart that shouldn't exist in his borrowed flesh.
The family embraced one another, grief carrying them back into the crowd. Adrian stepped back, his hands clenched behind him to hide their trembling, his chest burning with guilt he could not let show on his face. He bowed his head deeply—not just to the family, but to the memory of Brann himself. An apology that could never be voiced. A debt that could never be repaid.
The ceremony continued around him while he stood lost in that moment of silence.
Prayers were spoken by Dawnspire priests, their voices rising in chants that had sent warriors to rest for a thousand years. The words washed over Adrian like water off stone—beautiful, traditional, utterly meaningless when stacked against the weight of knowing he could have prevented this.
The caskets were set alight. Flames curled high, orange and gold and red against the gray sky. Smoke carried the dead toward heavens that Adrian wasn't sure existed, wasn't sure would accept them if they did.
Around him, squires wept openly. Knights who'd seen countless battles lowered their heads in silence, honoring brothers-in-arms who'd fallen too soon. Finn stood stiff as iron, his fists trembling at his sides, yellow flame he'd manifested too late flickering and dying in his eyes. Edric's tears ran freely, unchecked, unashamed—the kind of honest grief Adrian envied because his own was too complicated by guilt to be that clean.
Adrian remained still as stone, but inside he was unraveling.
The firelight reflected in his gray eyes, and he thought of Brann's laughter—too loud, too frequent, too genuine to ever truly be silenced even in memory. He thought of Brann's courage, the way he'd stood between death and his friends even when he had no hope of winning. He thought of Brann's trust, never questioning Adrian's abilities, never suspecting what Adrian truly was.
And he thought of the truth he could never speak aloud: that his choice to hide his strength, to maintain his facade, to prioritize mission over moment had carved this outcome into stone as surely as if he'd wielded the demon's claws himself.
When the flames consumed the last of the caskets, when the smoke began to thin and drift, Adrian whispered to himself, unheard by any other soul present:
"Forgive me."
But he knew, deep in whatever passed for his soul, that forgiveness wasn't something he deserved. Not from Brann. Not from the families. Not from himself.
The river carried the ashes downstream, scattering them into the endless lands of Arathor, mixing them with soil that would grow next season's crops, with water that would nourish next generation's children. The physical remains dispersed into nothing, becoming part of the kingdom they'd died defending.
But the weight on Adrian's chest did not scatter with them. It settled deeper, heavier, a burden he would carry with every swing of his blade from this day forward. A reminder that revealing the truth—choosing honesty over deception—had come one death too late.
He'd made his choice. Revealed his crimson flame. Vowed never to let secrets cost lives again.
But that vow couldn't bring Brann back. Couldn't undo the calculation that had let his friend die. Couldn't erase the guilt that would follow him for however many more years this borrowed life lasted.
All it could do was ensure the next time would be different.
That would have to be enough.
Even if it felt like nothing at all.