Hades
The funeral was over.
But the mourning had not ended.
Outside the greenhouse, the soil was soft, freshly turned, rich with the scent of earth and rain from the night before. A silver-dusted clearing had been chosen—quiet, shielded by weeping willows and whispering vines. The air was cooler here, but not cold. It was the kind of place Danielle would have loved—wild, half-forgotten, and full of promise.
The capsule had been lowered with reverence beneath the roots of an ancient moonbark tree. Now, the earth had been returned, gently packed, and smoothed over until only the subtle mound remained.
A single marble stone sat at the head, unmarked for now.
Instead of a name, a row of moon lilies had been laid around it in a crescent—Danielle's favorite shape. The new soil seemed to breathe beneath them.
Montegue stepped forward first, his usually impassive face twisted with a quiet ache.
He knelt stiffly, pressed one hand into the dirt, then rose without a word.
