The rain began just before noon, a slow drizzle that turned the streets into rivers of black water and carried the smell of oil and smoke through the city.
Rows of soldiers lined the boulevard leading to the State Assembly Hall, their boots sinking into the slick cobblestones.
Black banners hung from the high facades of government buildings, their edges snapping with each gust of wind.
Inside the Assembly Hall, where the Republic gathered to mourn its slain president, the air was thick and stifling.
A crowd pressed together under the weight of silence — men in grey coats and brass buttons, women dressed in black veils, reporters holding notebooks that would soon carry a hundred different versions of the same story.
At the centre of the hall rested a coffin draped in the Republic's flag.
The colours seemed too bright for the room, too alive for the stillness it contained. Soldiers stood at each corner, rifles held upright, bayonets gleaming like frozen lightning.
Auren Merrick stood among them, lost in the crowd yet feeling as though every eye bore down on him.
He was only fifteen, a boy drowning in a man's grief. His father's face — once so vivid — now came to him in fragments: the crease of his smile, the sharpness of his voice when he spoke to the nation, the warmth of his hand on Auren's shoulder.
But here, in this hall, his father was a box on a stand, a symbol for others to wave like a banner.
He didn't cry. He wanted to, but the tears wouldn't come.
They had been burned out of him the moment the gunshot echoed across the square.
The hall stirred. A man was stepping onto the stage.
Augustus Vale.
He wore a long black coat, buttoned tight to his chest, his hair combed neatly back. His face carried the solemn weight of a mourner, but his eyes — sharp, watchful — darted across the crowd like a hawk measuring the field.
When he reached the lectern, he paused, placing his hand over the coffin as though in blessing.
"My fellow citizens," Augustus began, his voice low but steady, carrying through the chamber with practised control.
"We stand today in shadow.
The heart of our Republic has been struck down, and yet it still beats within us.
Elias Merrick was not only a leader; he was a father to our nation."
Heads bowed.
Auren felt a tremor pass through him.
The words were polished and smooth as marble, but they cut into him like glass.
Augustus had never once stood in their home, but he never once shared a meal with Elias.
Yet here he was, speaking as though he had lost a brother.
Auren clenched his jaw, forcing himself still.
Augustus continued, weaving his speech into something more than mourning.
"Elias believed in strength through unity. He believed in order, in discipline, in the courage to carry the Republic forward against chaos and betrayal.
His enemies feared him because he was a man of vision. And I tell you today — his vision will not die with him."
The hall erupted in applause, scattered at first, then swelling like a storm.
Some rose to their feet, and fists raised in salute. The sound rolled over Auren like thunder.
But not everyone was there to clap.
Somewhere beyond the crowd, in a small chamber down the corridor, Gordon Hale sat in silence.
He had arrived in the capital the night before, his train delayed, only to find the funeral already begun.
The date had been shifted — a "clerical error," officials said. But Gordon knew better. Augustus's hand was in this, as sure as the bullet had been.
He should have been on that stage, Gordon thought bitterly, his jaw tight. Elias had trusted him, confided in him.
He had seen the letter with his own eyes — the one naming him as successor. And yet the letter had vanished, and with it, his chance to speak to the people.
Back in the Assembly Hall, Augustus raised his arms slightly, his voice cutting through the applause.
"We cannot falter. To falter is to betray Elias himself. The Republic needs strength, now more than ever. And we — together — shall provide it."
Another wave of clapping. Some cheered his name outright.
Auren looked at him, confusion gnawing at his insides.
He wanted to believe the words. He wanted to believe someone cared as much as Augustus claimed to.
Yet something in the man's eyes unsettled him — a gleam that wasn't grief, but hunger.
The speeches dragged on. Politicians filed past the coffin, each taking their turn to bow their heads or lay a wreath of flowers. Auren stood near the back, alone. His mother had refused to come, too broken to face the coffin.
His brother was absent, confined at home under a doctor's watch, his memory fractured by the shock of Elias's death.
So it was just Auren, watching strangers mourn his father as though they had known him better than he had.
When the procession ended, the soldiers lifted the coffin and carried it from the hall into the rain. The crowd followed, umbrellas opening like black wings.
The burial was swift — the ground already prepared. The coffin was lowered into the earth as drums beat slow, steady notes.
Auren stood at the edge of the grave, mud clinging to his boots, and for a moment, the noise of the world fell away. All he could hear was the rain on the coffin lid, tapping out the last measure of his father's life.
He whispered, so softly no one else could hear: "I'll find who did this. I promise."
Behind him, Augustus watched from under his umbrella, a faint smile hidden in the shadow of his collar.