The sky was an expanse of dull gray, heavy with snow that drifted down in quiet, mournful flakes. I stood at the edge of the crowd, clad in black as the funeral for Arno unfolded. The silence was only broken by the soft murmurs and occasional sobs that drifted through the air, each sound muffled by the gentle snowfall.
My gaze fell upon Athlea, who knelt by her brother's casket, her face streaked with tears as she clutched the side of the wooden box as if trying to hold on to him, even as he was laid to rest.
Her cries were faint, but they cut through the stillness with a haunting sharpness that lingered in my mind.
I closed my eyes, clenching my fists. Whoever did this—whoever took Arno from her—would pay dearly.
