A cry of astonishment broke the silence, and within seconds, cheers erupted all around them.

“Water! There’s water!”

People fell to their knees, tears streaming down their faces, as they felt the spring’s droplets splashing against their skin. Hands clasped together, they whispered prayers of gratitude to the gods and the heavens, and to anyone else who might be listening.

The scene was too solemn for mere celebration.

For years, the capital had withered beneath the drought, its people watching their wells run dry and their hope fade with every passing day. They had only heard rumors of Numebo’s lush green fields and the prosperity that had flourished there under Egon’s rule. Though these stories offered some comfort, they also deepened the ache in their hearts, like cracks spreading through parched earth.

“The goddess herself guides us!”

The crowd surged forward, voices rising as one.

“Long live His Majesty the King! Long live Her Majesty the Queen!”

“Long live! Long live!”

Water — the source of life — was flowing again. For those who had survived on murky, foul-tasting water that had been rationed and shared out of desperation, this moment was a salvation.

Amid the clamor, Laerte stood still, her eyes bright and wet. She was not overwhelmed by pride, but by the simple miracle of life returning. For the first time in years, she could feel the city breathing again.

Egon reached for her hand and held it tightly.

“Thank you, Laerte.”

He said in a low, emotional voice. As their joined hands caught the spray of the new spring, sunlight reflected off the silver ring on Laerte’s finger, its faint light shimmering like a promise.

Under different circumstances, Laerte’s power might not have mattered so much.

But in the face of drought, it had become the land’s one true salvation.

“Egon, isn’t it amazing?”

She asked, glancing up at him.

“What is?”

“That my power can actually help you.”

She said softly. The realization filled her with quiet awe—that she could stand beside him, not only as his wife but as someone who could heal his kingdom with her own hands.

“You’re a miracle to me.”

“A miracle?”

“You make the impossible real—things I could never have wished for or even dared to hope.”

Upon hearing his words, Laerte laughed radiantly and he couldn’t help but join in. The cheers rose again around them, vast and echoing.

It seemed as if the sky itself was trembling with the sound of the people’s voices that day.

Laerte dug three wells in the capital, and for the first time in years, the city was filled with hope. News of this miracle spread swiftly, reaching even the most distant provinces. The nation that had endured years of thirst and despair now began to believe in life again.

Malbon approached through the crowd, his expression solemn but steady.

“Your Majesty, the preparations for the late king’s funeral are complete.”

∘₊✧───────────────✧₊∘

The honor of the dead was meant to be safeguarded by the living.

Throughout history, one of the most brutal and early acts of domination when one kingdom conquered another was the desecration of royal tombs. Disturbing the resting places of former rulers was a cruel act, but it sent a clear message that a new power now ruled the land.

Even usurpers who rose to the throne through rebellion understood the importance of honoring their predecessors. Holding a proper funeral for the deceased monarch was not just a tradition; it was a declaration of legitimacy and a promise to restore order after chaos. It was also a gesture intended to appease both the nobility and the people.

In times of upheaval, showing mercy to those who still held influence could be highly effective. This was not a sign of weakness, but of wisdom — the kind that secured the foundations of a fragile new reign.

“I wonder what Harriet was thinking, sitting on that throne.”

The grave of King Baclos lay in ruins—overgrown, forgotten, and left to decay.

When Baclos had died, Egon had been consumed by the task of building Numebo. At the time of the treaty’s signing, the old king had appeared strong enough to make the week-long journey from the capital. Yet scarcely half a year later, he was gone—suddenly, without warning.

In those days, Egon could not afford to leave Numebo, not even for a day. He was personally overseeing the construction of the new trade city—writing to foreign merchants and envoys, negotiating routes and contracts himself. And besides, Baclos had never acknowledged him as a true son. There were no tender memories between them, no affection to mourn.

So Egon had not attended the funeral.

Soon after came Harriet’s coronation, and Egon—once his rival for the throne—had no reason to appear in pretense of brotherly affection he did not feel.

Now, years later, the grave stood lonely on the hill, choked by weeds. And beside it, the body of the only son Baclos had ever publicly claimed was to be laid to rest.

Egon ordered Malbon to have the area cleaned and restored. Within days, the site was transformed—the grass trimmed, the path cleared, the soil newly turned.

When he stood before the tomb, Egon’s expression was grave. He moved forward in silence, with Laerte, Elvit, and a solemn line of nobles following behind.

The nobles were not motivated by loyalty to the deceased king or respect for Harriet. Instead, it was a calculated display — a quiet show of support for Egon, whose influence now loomed large over them all.

Harriet, who was unmarried and had no heirs, was captured during the uprising, imprisoned and executed. Her body, sealed in a plain wooden coffin, was buried on this quiet hillside.

Today’s ceremony aimed to restore her dignity and honor as a royal, at least in appearance.

Elvit tugged softly at his mother’s sleeve, his small voice breaking the silence. He looked uneasy and confused; he was too young to understand the significance of the mourning around him.

Laerte bent down and comforted him, her voice warm with tenderness as she brushed her hand through his hair while the wind whispered through the newly cleared grass.

“Why are we here?”

Elvit asked, his small voice cutting through the hush of the ceremony.

“Shh, Elvit, you have to be quiet during a funeral.”

“Fun…ral? What’s that?”

“It’s when we lay someone to rest in the ground, so they can sleep peacefully.”

“Don’t people become trees when they die?”

The child’s innocent voice sounded clear and bright in the solemn stillness. Laerte broke into a nervous sweat. For a child of the Henant tribe, it was only natural to know that their people returned to the forest after death. But explaining that the customs of this kingdom were different was harder.

“Some people can’t become trees.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re not one of us. People of the kingdom don’t turn into trees, so we hold funerals like this for them instead.”

Egon, who had been watching quietly, spoke up with mild curiosity.

“Then… they have to stay here alone?”

“Yes.”

“That’s so sad,” Elvit murmured, his little brows knitting together. “If you become a tree, you can stay in the forest with everyone else.”

His words silenced the assembled nobles.

According to Henant custom, when someone died, their body was returned to the soil, becoming part of the forest and waiting deeply rooted in the earth for the day when their children, grandchildren or friends would join them. This ensured that they would never be alone.

“To become a tree…”

One of the nobles repeated the thought quietly, lingering on it.

For many of them, it was the first time they had truly realized how different the people of Henant were — not in terms of skin or hair color, but in terms of their way of life and their understanding of the world.

When Egon had lived under the Croesus Marquisate, he had always appeared before them with his hair and skin altered, concealing his natural colors beneath dyes. Only now was he showing himself as he truly was.

Back then, they hadn’t seen him as a child of Henant. To them, he had been something else entirely: a birth defect; a flawed human who had simply been born within the borders of the Ganon Kingdom.

Yet now, as the nobles stood in the quiet graveyard listening to Egon’s child speak, many found themselves viewing Egon and his people with new eyes.

“You’ll do it better than anyone.”

Laerte said gently, her voice steady with faith.

“Let’s do it together.”

And just like that, her words shaped the path ahead of them, as they always did.

To Egon, Laerte was so much more than just his companion or queen. She had become his anchor, his creed, and his silent deity. When she spoke, it felt like prophecy itself.

Her simple assurance that he could and would succeed filled his chest with warmth and strength, steadying the part of him that wavered between guilt and resolve.

Just then, the sound of hooves echoed sharply against the still air. A rider galloped towards the cemetery, his cloak billowing and dust rising behind him.

The messenger dismounted swiftly and bowed low.

“Your Majesty, an envoy from Iras has arrived.”