The convoy of cars moved through the silent town, their black sheen and tinted windows reflected the dim, overcast sky.
The few villagers who saw them pass by did so in hushed curiosity, peering from behind curtains or doorways. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, as if the entire town was holding its breath. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, cast by the torches that lined the path toward the castle. The moon was nearly just a sliver tonight.
The rest of the town had already gathered along the river, leaving the streets eerily empty. The riverbank, usually vibrant with the chatter of people, was utterly silent, save for the crackle of flames from the torches staked in the ground. White flowers hung in delicate garlands between them, trembling in the light breeze. It might have resembled a celebration, but no one smiled, and the oppressive weight of grief darkened every face.
Saoirse's body lay in the center of it all, dressed in a delicate white gown that shimmered faintly in the firelight. The choice of dress felt wrong—a fragile garment unsuited for the chill in the air.
The Alpha and Luna had organized a funeral that evening and flames were lit along the river. White flowers were strung between the torches. It would have looked like a festival was going on, but no one was happy.
Spruce branches surrounded her, their leaves chosen because they were softer than pine. She was placed as if she were laying in a bed of needles and branches, adorned with cinnamon sticks, holly berries, and white flowers. The casket was an intricately carved canoe designed to be floated away. It was heartbreakingly small.
A cruel reminder of just how young she had been—too young for an end like this. Her frail frame seemed alien to those who had known her as a vibrant, unstoppable force. Now, she was cold, pale, and unmoving. Her nails were clean, her hair braided and adorned with small white flowers with meticulous care.
This was the River of the Dragons, sacred to the werewolves. The flames that would consume her body symbolized not just the end of her life, but her journey to the afterlife. Without fire, her soul would be doomed to wander the earth, restless and lost, or worse, be reborn as a Vampire. Long ago, it was said that dragons had been the keepers of this river, their fiery breath guiding the dead to their next existence. Now, the tradition lived on, though no dragons remained—in their absence, the Alpha now held a torch in his hand.
Saoirse's father gave a speech about how his little girl was lost too soon. He spoke, addressing the crowd, but in reality, he was looking at her siblings and their mother. They were neatly dressed as well, in their rabbit fur coats, the perfect image of a noble family.
Looking at the ground as he spoke, Soairse's brother looked up occasionally at her body. His only thought was that this small frame wasn't his sister. Her eyes were closed as if she were sleeping but he had never seen her so frail. Her skin was too pale. This was only the empty vessel his sister had left behind.
After speaking the Alpha put the boat into the water. Her mother then stepped forward and spoke for a while about her daughter's life and how the family appreciated everyone's concerns for them at this time, but then she asked that they be given some time to mourn before announcing the new successor to the throne, since their daughter had been the eldest.
She was pretending to be strong, but eventually, she broke down and sat back down.
Then they left the stage and each of the villagers placed a white flower on top of her. Her father set the boat adrift. When it was far enough, he would throw the torch to ignite it.
Suddenly from behind them a man spoke into the microphone.
"Oh my, what a beautiful funeral for a little undead girl."
Saoirse's father turned around surprised. Then his eyes went wide. "Alastor."