Poll sat in the corner of his dimly lit room, staring blankly at the glowing stone on the table before him. Its faint pulsating light reflected on his face, casting fleeting shadows that mirrored the turmoil within. His fingers trembled slightly as they traced the edges of the armrest.
What should I feel? he thought, his mind spinning in loops. Anger? Grief? Confusion? A normal son would probably be consumed with rage right now. But for me... I'm not even sure I deserve to call myself normal. My emotions feel fractured, scattered across the winds of a life I can barely control.
"Poll?"
He looked up to see Elowen standing in the doorway. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of responsibility she had taken upon herself, but her face remained calm, a pillar of strength. She had been the one to arrange everything after his mother's death, ensuring the funeral followed the traditions of this world—traditions Poll still struggled to comprehend.
The Funeral
This world treated death with reverence, a reflection of one's life and deeds. Civilians were returned to the earth, their bodies encased in wooden coffins and buried beneath headstones inscribed with blessings. But for warriors, the rites were far more elaborate. Their lives, defined by blood and valor, required a cleansing flame to purify their souls.
Elowen had ensured every step of the ceremony was perfect. She arranged for the priests, gathered the sacred oils, and even negotiated with Eric's Purifier group to provide the materials for the pyre. Poll had watched her move with purpose, speaking with precision, her voice unwavering even when her own pain must have clawed at her heart.
"Poll," she had said earlier that day, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, "I know you're hurting, but we must honor her properly. She deserved that much."
He had nodded, unable to find the words. But now, sitting alone, he felt like a fraud. The weight of the past hours clung to him like a suffocating shroud.
Elowen returned with a small mirror in her hand. "You need to look at yourself," she said softly, setting it on the table. "Face it, Poll."
He hesitated, his chest tightening. When he finally looked into the mirror, the reflection staring back at him felt foreign. His eyes, dull and tired, betrayed every ounce of the chaos inside.
"I'm not ready for this," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I don't even know who I am..!!"
Elowen knelt beside him, her hands warm as they cupped his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. "You're Poll," she said firmly. "You're stronger than you think. And even if you're not ready, life doesn't wait. Neither can we."
Her words, like a fragile thread, tethered him to the moment. He nodded, feeling a spark of resolve igniting within, though it still flickered faintly.
Not everyone handled the loss with the same grace. Eryndor, Poll's father, had changed overnight. Once a man whose eyes carried the warmth of a protector, he now seemed consumed by an abyss. His gaze was dark, hollow, filled with an unrelenting desire for vengeance.
During the funeral, he had barely spoken, his silence more unnerving than any outburst. Poll remembered catching glimpses of him staring at the pyre as the flames devoured what remained of his wife. His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white.
"Father," Poll had ventured cautiously after the ceremony, "are you okay?"
Eryndor's voice was a low growl, his words heavy with resolve. "She deserved better than this. They'll pay. All of them."
There was no mistaking the conviction in his tone. His mind was no longer focused on mourning—it was consumed by thoughts of retribution. Poll wanted to say something, anything, to pull him back, but the darkness in his father's eyes left him speechless.
Later that evening, Luna, the Mage, approached Poll with a revelation that left him shaken.
"It wasn't physical injuries that killed your mother," she said, her voice low and cautious. "Her mana core exploded within her body."
Poll froze. The mana core was the heart of life itself, refining and generating the energy that fueled existence in this world. For it to rupture was unheard of—an act of destruction so profound it bordered on unnatural.
"Why?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Luna hesitated. "I'll explain what I know, but not now. There are… other things you need to understand first. About your mother. Your father. Even Elowen."
Poll frowned, confusion knitting his brows. "What are you talking about?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. Just know this: nothing is as it seems."
Her cryptic words hung in the air, filling Poll with an unease he couldn't shake. He realized then how little he truly knew about the people closest to him. His mind swirled with questions, but Luna offered no more answers.
As the night deepened, Poll found himself alone again, staring out the window at the stars. Elowen's earlier words replayed in his mind, grounding him as he struggled to make sense of everything.
A fragment of poetry his mother once recited came to him, unbidden:
"The stars watch in silence, ancient and wise, Bearing witness to the tears we hide. In their light, we find no lies, Only the truth we've yet to decide."
The weight of those words pressed against his heart. The truth felt just out of reach, obscured by shadows he wasn't ready to confront. But he knew he couldn't run forever. The answers would come—whether he was prepared for them or not.
The house was quiet as Poll finally rose from his chair. He glanced at the glowing stone on the table one last time before turning away. The funeral rites were over, but the storm they had unleashed within him was just beginning.
Tonight, he would face Luna again, demand answers, and try to unravel the web of secrets that surrounded his family. But tonight, he allowed himself a moment of silence—a fleeting reprieve before the chaos resumed.
Somewhere in the darkness, he heard Eryndor's voice, a grim reminder of what lay ahead. "They'll pay," it echoed. And Poll knew—whether he wanted to or not—he was being pulled into a battle far greater than himself.