One hour later.
Varyan walked toward them, quiet and steady. He stopped just in front of the guards.
"Is everything ready?" he asked.
The guards snapped to attention. Everyone stood.
"Yes, sir!" said the one at the front, standing straight as a pole.
"Good," Varyan nodded. "Helmets on. Move. Gather."
The guards quickly strapped on their headgear. Twelve men in white ceremonial robes emerged from the adjoining hall, thick leather straps crossing their chests. Heavy drums hung from their shoulders. They looked young, nervous, too. But disciplined.
"Formation," Varyan commanded.
Their eyes were lowered. No one smiled anymore.
Without a word, the group split into two straight rows. The twelve drummers moved to the back, heavy drums resting at their waists, sticks in hand.
"You know the drill. I don't want any mistakes. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!" everyone said loudly
"I can't hear it."
"Yes, sir," louder.
"Good."
Varyan turned and began walking.
The soldiers followed.
Footsteps fell in perfect unison. Each one landing like a hammer.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The ground beneath their boots seemed to tremble, dust rising faintly with every synchronised step.
As they neared the moon chamber, the soldiers came to a halt at the wide archway.
None crossed it.
Guards turned around. The ones who were first were now last. Men with drums are now first.
Varyan alone entered the moon chamber.
Varyan strode forward, stopping just before the Aariv's coffin. He knelt one knee down, one hand pressed to his chest—and bowed his head for a full moment before rising again.
His eyes found Kaivan and Seriya. He gave a short nod. "Everything is ready, Your Majesty."
From the side, Raviel, King of Velmira, stepped forward.
Next came Varenya, King of the Northern Seas.
Then, Saran, the old head of the noble Varnadha family.
Another didn't come. Everyone bends their heads down.
And then, quietly, a woman in her early twenties stepped forward, moving people before her. Her head was bowed. She walked forward until she was directly in front of Kaivan and Seriya.
She kneeled, hands pressed flat to the cold floor.
"I am Vanya, daughter of Minali Kasuni," she said. "I come in my mother's place. She could not face Your Majesties herself—she said she could not show the face of a sinner to this chamber. Let me carry the majesty, and with each step to cleanse my mother's sin."
A wave of whispers broke out from the edges of the chamber.
"She is Minali's daughter?"
"That bitch sent her own child here?"
"She even dared to send her daughter after betraying."
"I thought she was a noble... I greeted her…"
"Who even is Minali?"
"She'll stain the whole ritual!"
But then, Raviel stepped forward, sharp and slow.
"Minali has given birth to a real woman."
He glanced across the faces of those whispering. Their eyes dropped.
Raviel extended a hand to Vanya and raised her from the ground. "Minali's daughter should never bow."
He looked at Kaivan and Seriya. A quiet blink from both—approval.
Vanya stepped back and took her place beside the other three chosen.
A servant in grey robes stepped forward, holding a slender tray lined with soft black velvet. Upon it lay four small ceramic vials—each capped with a single silver bead.
Varyan accepted the tray with quiet reverence. He did not speak.
One by one, he passed the vials to the four carriers—Raviel, Varenya, Saran, and finally, Vanya.
Each held their vial as if it were made of glass.
From the shadows, an old woman in layered silks moved forward, her face lined with age but not weakness. She carried no staff, no crown, no seal—but when she arrived before the coffin, even Varyan stepped aside.
No one said her name. But they knew her as the Dustbearer — a role passed in silence through the first Keepers.
She reached forward and drew a line of black ash across the top edge of the coffin lid with a single finger.
Then she bowed — not to the king, not to the royals behind her, but to the four who would carry him.
Still without words, she turned and vanished into the crowd again.
The four looked at their vials, then uncapped them carefully.
Each poured the contents—fine grey dust—into their own palms.
They pressed the dust lightly to their foreheads, just between the brows.
The silence in the chamber deepened, if such a thing was even possible.
Because the dust was not just symbolic. It came from the stones of the Moon Chamber itself—ground from the floor they had once walked upon as a boy. A belief said that when one walked their final steps on this same path, the dust would recognise them. That the soul would remember the scent of where it first rose.
Vanya's hand trembled for the briefest moment as she touched the dust to her brow—but she did not waver.
When all four had completed the act, Varyan took the tray and stepped away.
Then, without command, the four stepped toward the coffin.
They placed their hands on the edges.
And lifted.
The weight of the coffin bore down immediately. But none of them flinched.
And walked forward—one step at a time.
Not a single word was spoken.
Not among the four.
Not among the rest.
Because in their belief, these four were carriers of the soul, meant to guide it to the gates of heaven. To speak while bearing the dead was to interrupt that passage, to stain the purity of the send-off.
Few even dared to volunteer for the honour of carrying a royal coffin.
Once, centuries ago, a soldier had collapsed mid-way through a king's final journey. The coffin had dropped. The body has fallen. And the royal family had executed every living member of the man's bloodline.
Weeks later, that kingdom itself crumbled.
From that day, people whispered that carrying a king's coffin was either a curse or the greatest grace. Few were brave enough to risk it.
Some say the burden breaks the mind.
Some say it cleanses the soul.
Sagnik says it's just fear, dressed up as faith.
But under Seriya's gaze, no one dared to question it aloud.
Varyan stepped to the front once more, leading them.
And the moment the coffin crossed the boundary of the moon chamber.
The drums began.
Deep. Rhythmic. Reverberating.
DUM…
DUM…
DUM…
The drummers hit in slow, perfect unison, echoing through the palace halls.
Kaivan and Seriya followed directly behind the carriers, their robes trailing behind. The rest of the chamber emptied behind them in silence.
Each step taken by the carriers felt like thorns piercing the heart and soul.
Each beat of the drum, a heartbeat slowed by sorrow.
Raviel's legs trembled.
Varenya's fists were clenched.
Saran did not look up.
And Vanya — daughter of a disgraced woman — as whispers say, held her head steady. Her back did not bend. Her eyes did not falter.