Morning came in shades of gray. Auren woke to the dull rhythm of rain against the window and the faint hum of traffic below his apartment.
The city hadn't slept since the shooting; the air carried a tension that clung to everything like soot.
He hadn't gone to school. He hadn't even tried. His teachers had sent a letter offering condolences and a week's absence, but the words on the paper meant nothing to him. The only thing that mattered was the silence that filled his home.
He moved through the apartment slowly, each step echoing. His mother was in the kitchen, seated at the table, her eyes fixed on the small radio perched beside the sink.
The announcer's voice drifted through the static — "...second day of national mourning continues, with dignitaries expected to speak at the Assembly Hall this afternoon…"
She didn't turn when he entered. The dark circles beneath her eyes looked almost bruised.
"You should eat something," she said softly, her voice thin.
"I'm going out," Auren replied.
She didn't ask where. She didn't need to.
He took his coat from the rack and stepped into the drizzle. The city was quieter than usual, but not peaceful — the kind of quiet that felt like it was holding its breath.
Posters of his father's face had been plastered across the walls: ELIAS MERRICK — SERVANT OF THE PEOPLE. Candles burned at the base of some, their flames flickering in the wind.
Auren walked east through the damp streets until he reached the old residential quarter. The building he stopped at was smaller than he remembered — a two-story house with peeling paint and a rusting gate. Inside, it smelled faintly of disinfectant and old paper.
His brother, Theo, was sitting by the window in a plain room with white walls. A nurse adjusted a blanket over his legs before leaving them alone.
Theo's gaze was distant, fixed somewhere beyond the rain-streaked glass. He looked older than his seventeen years, the light in his eyes dimmed to a dull gray.
"Hey," Auren said quietly.
Theo blinked, slow, then turned his head. "Auren?"
Auren nodded, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. It's me."
For a moment, Theo's face softened with recognition — but only for a moment. Then the confusion settled back in. "You've grown," he murmured.
"It's only been a week," Auren said, half-laughing, half-aching.
Theo tilted his head slightly, frowning. "A week?" He looked down at his hands. "I keep dreaming of something loud. Something bright. But when I wake up, it's gone. Just the sound."
Auren's throat tightened. "Don't think about it. You'll remember when you're ready."
Theo nodded faintly but didn't respond. The silence between them was heavy — the kind that no words could lift.
When Auren finally left, the nurse thanked him for visiting. Outside, he stood in the rain for a long time, staring at the gray horizon.
He didn't go home. Instead, he turned toward the Assembly Hall, where the second day of mourning had already begun.
---
Inside, the hall was darker than before. Candles flickered in long glass cylinders, their reflections stretching across the polished floor.
The coffin stood where it had yesterday, surrounded by wreaths and photographs.
The crowd had thinned — mostly officials and journalists now. Among them, Augustus Vale sat near the front, his face a careful mask of grief.
Beside him stood Cain Deyne, the day's appointed speaker.
Cain was younger than Augustus by a decade, his hair neatly parted, his expression calm but passionate.
He carried himself like a teacher — someone used to explaining difficult truths to people who didn't want to hear them.
When he took the stage, the hall quieted.
"My countrymen," Cain began, his voice even but clear. "Yesterday we mourned a leader. Today, we must remember the man."
He paused, letting the rain's soft drumming fill the silence.
"Elias Merrick was not born into privilege. He built his beliefs from the ground up — from the factories, the farms, and the faces of those who had nothing.
He believed that leadership was not about fear, but about duty. That progress required compassion, not conquest."
A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd.
Cain's eyes flicked briefly to Augustus before he continued. "But even now, as we gather to honor him, we must be cautious. There are those who will use his death for gain.
Those who will turn mourning into ambition. The Republic deserves better than that."
Auren's heart caught. Even at fifteen, he could sense the tension in the room — the invisible line Cain had just drawn.
Augustus didn't move, but his eyes hardened slightly, the faintest shadow crossing his composed face.
Cain pressed on. "Let us not lose ourselves in division. Elias's dream must live in all of us, not as a tool for power, but as a promise of justice."
When he finished, the applause was polite but subdued. The weight of politics had crept into the air, thick and unspoken.
Augustus rose after him, clapping slowly. "Well said, Mr. Deyne," he murmured when Cain stepped down. "A fitting tribute."
Cain nodded, though his eyes betrayed caution. "Let's hope the words are remembered, not twisted."
"Words are only as strong as the men who speak them," Augustus replied softly, his tone unreadable.
Auren watched from the aisle as the two men shook hands — a gesture meant for the crowd, but it looked more like the meeting of two opposing blades.
The rest of the ceremony passed without incident. By evening, the crowd began to thin again.
Auren stayed until the hall was nearly empty, standing near the edge of the platform, staring at his father's coffin.
The guards began to dim the lights. He turned to leave but caught sight of Augustus near the exit, speaking quietly with a group of officials.
The man's posture was relaxed, his expression composed, but something in his manner — the way he leaned in, the faint smirk that played across his lips — told Auren that the speeches were over, and the game had begun.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The city glowed under a pale orange sky, steam rising from the soaked pavement. Auren walked home in silence, his thoughts tangled between grief and unease.
Tomorrow would be the third day of mourning. Another speaker, another promise. But somewhere beneath all the speeches and ceremonies, Auren felt something shifting — like the world was quietly choosing sides.