The Dragon's Kiss

In the span of a few days, the trees had shed enough of their orange coat to be unrecognizable.

Like ghastly skeletal fingers with bits of copper flesh clinging to them, they reached toward the endless abyss of gray above them.

Buried behind the thick expanse of dreary clouds, even the sun seemed to mourn. The quiet mourning of one who has no tears left to shed.

That must be why the gorged clouds stubbornly refused to let the rain fall.

Disgusted by the scenery around her, Kel swallowed the acrid saliva pooled in her mouth.

It should have been difficult to swallow due to an emotional knot in her throat, but the bitter taste went down surprisingly easily.

Unlike the anguish that had been gripping her heart every waking moment since Barclay's death, it was a frigid emptiness that filled her whole chest.

Perhaps her emotions were too strong, and her body had gone numb to protect her from the pain.

A tearless mourning. Just like the cowardly sun.

She hadn't wanted to come here in the first place. She'd already seen that thing--the shell of her former comrade--and she didn't need to see it again.

Funerals are so ironic, she thought to herself.

Supposedly, they're held to commemorate the deceased, but how could that be possible? Especially when the 'guest of honor' wasn't even in attendance.

That's exactly how she felt watching the men lowering the linen-wrapped body onto an altar of stacked wood.

Barclay wasn't there.

He wasn't lying lifelessly on that pile of sticks.

She didn't know where he was, or IF he was, but she knew this funeral couldn't possibly reach him.

Who was this ridiculous ceremony for then? Her?

Ha, she scoffed to herself, what an extravagant way to throw all my fatal mistakes back in my face.

Her downcast eyes soon caught sight of a warm glimmer emerging from within the wood pile as fire took hold.

Beginning very slowly, the flames ate away at everything in their path, spreading to the next stick without hesitation.

Fire was always like that. Even if someone tried their best to burn only a single piece of wood, it would be impossible without removing the other pieces far away.

Despite Kel's intentions to protect those around her, the fire had already eaten Barclay.

Who would the burning consume next?

"War hostages aren't usually cremated this way," Roland said quietly, stepping up next to Kel.

"Mm," Kel grunted in response.

The knight fell into an uncertain silence for several moments before opening his mouth again.

"... Usually their heads are removed and sent back to their home country," the knight tactlessly explained, neither realizing nor caring about the horrific timing of his words.

Kel's heart thumped with a short burst of unpleasant emotion. Sadness? Anger?

"I see," she replied simply.

Was the man insinuating that she should be grateful? That Barclay's body was receiving some sort of special treatment because it was not subject to such nauseating irreverence?

"I'm sure his family will still be sad to receive the news," Roland continued, "but at least they will get to keep all of his remains."

Another thump of agitation echoed through Kel's chest.

"How lucky…" she murmured.

-Two Weeks Later, Mevani-

"Leif!"

The red-haired boy looked up from where he was fiddling with a knife and piece of wood.

A man, clad in full uniform, was charging toward him waving one arm. Leif recognized him as one of the officers in charge of guarding the king's throne room.

"What's up?" he asked, clutching the rough wooden tube he'd been working on.

"The king just received news about the hostages in the Empire!" the man answered loudly. "He wants you to be the first to hear."

"Me?" Leif jumped to his feet, quickly shoving his knife back into its sheath.

After so long without any update on his uncle and his friend sent as bait for the Serin Empire, his heart was pounding with excitement.

Shortly after the cruel mission that resulted in both of the two getting taken, Leif had made the mistake of asking some of the other soldiers what happened to Serin war hostages.

'It takes a couple weeks, but typically their heads show up pretty soon,' one man had offered.

'Th-their heads?!' Leif had exclaimed in horror.

'You youngsters all have a crush on the princess, don't you?' the man had teased. 'But I'm sure she'll be just fine. They have a reason to keep her alive, after all.'

No, Leif had thought to himself.

The girl they took wasn't the princess. They didn't have a reason to keep her alive.

And that meant there was no reason to keep his uncle alive either.

After discovering such unsettling knowledge, Leif was terrified. He hardly slept at night and couldn't bring himself to focus during training.

But 'pretty soon' turned into 'soon' which became 'curiously long', and still no gruesome deliveries came from Serin. As time passed, hope began to sprout within Leif that the two were safe after all.

As soon as he entered the throne room on that day, however, he realized what a foolish hope it had been.

With shaking hands, Leif took the small mahogany box the king extended toward him.

"You're.. sure?" he choked, nearly dropping the precious chest.

The king nodded solemnly in response. Since Leif had entered the room, the cowardly old man hadn't met his eyes a single time.

"This could just be a trick, right?" Leif cried. "They're just trying to fool us, right?"

He already knew how ridiculous his words sounded, but he couldn't bring himself to believe the collection of white dust in his hands was really his burly uncle.

"... here," the king said softly, holding out another item to the anguished boy.

"This..!" Leif's eyes widened as he reached for the small wooden whistle in the man's hands.

It was much smoother and more evenly carved than the one he'd been working on previously, but the semblance was undeniable.

Without a doubt, that whistle was carved by Uncle Barclay.

It was probably the same one, in fact, the man had been idly chipping at the last time Leif had seen him.

"Urgh," Leif faltered as the weight of his own words hit him.

The last time.

The last time he would ever see his uncle.

With a gulp, he turned his gaze back to the king.

He'd never forget the shock that had jolted him when he was first briefed on the mission to sacrifice the princess's body double. He was sickened at the idea of sending a good friend to a bitter fate like that, but for some absurd reason, he went along with it anyway.

When he'd returned to the palace later, eyes still red from crying over his captured uncle, the king and other soldiers had wasted no time setting the blame on Barclay himself.

'He should have followed orders,' they all said, shaking their heads pitifully.

Leif didn't agree with them but was too afraid at the time to speak up.

But now, as he clutched his uncle's whistle in one hand and the ash box in the other, Leif didn't feel afraid any longer.

It wasn't Barclay's fault. He behaved with honor until the very end. It was Leif and the other members of the troop who were at fault for agreeing to leave a comrade behind in the first place.

But the one most at fault, the one who caused all of it…

Was the king.

"You don't deserve that throne," he murmured bitterly, casting one last fiery glare toward the gloomy old man as the large throne room doors slammed shut behind him.