Page 205 of Fallen Nocturne

Deirdre does not move. Her expression crumples, and she lowers her gaze.

“There is something you must know,” she says. “Siofra and her husband, Darstan. They... they didn’t make it.”

“I know,” Rhianelle breathes, her eyes glistening again. “I saw them earlier on the battlefield.”

“Lenna too,” Tallula adds quietly. “She was helping carry the wounded from the field when a siege tower collapsed. We couldn’t save her either.”

Rhianelle sways. I catch her, hold her up.

“I want to see them,” Rhianelle interrupts. “Siofra. Darstan. Lenna. I want to see them. Now.”

I was going to tell her about Darstan and Siofra. I’d considered waiting and letting her focus on the fight. I had hoped to let her rest without that weight, but she already knew.

“I’ll take you,” Deirdre says, stepping aside to hold the tent flap open.

We follow the healers through the camp, past the living and the wounded to a section where the dead lie in neat rows.

Siofra and Darstan lie side by side. Someone had enough grace to leave their hands clasped. Even in death, they’re together.

Rhianelle kneels between them and pulls back the cloth covering Siofra’s face. The arrows have been removed and her wounds cleaned. The beautiful elven lady looks peaceful, as though she’s only sleeping.

“I’m sorry,” Rhianelle whispers. “I’m so sorry, Siofra. I couldn’t protect you.”

She moves to Darstan and uncovers his face too. The knight looks exactly as he did in life, stern and serious. But there’s something soft around his mouth as if his last thought was peaceful.

“Your son,” Rhianelle says, and her voice breaks. “Darstan, your son. He’s just a baby and now he’ll grow up without you. Without either of you.”

That’s when I realize. The child, Aldric. Darstan and Siofra left behind a child.

An orphan now.

Rhianelle covers her face with her hands and sobs. Great, heaving sobs that shake her entire body.

“They died protecting your kingdom so their son could have a future,” I say, kneeling beside her and placing a hand against her back. “That’s what they chose.”

“I didn’t want them to die!” Rhianelle screams. “I didn’t want any of this!”

She collapses forward and I catch her. I pull her away from the bodies, holding her while she cries.

Rhianelle is breaking and falling apart.

Gods. How is she going to fight in a few hours?

A bell rings across the camp. Its low, mournful toll silences the voices around us.

Rhianelle lifts her head from my chest. Her face is wet with tears, but she wipes them away and slowly rises. I stand with her, ready to catch her if her legs fail again.

The survivors gather around the rows of bodies. Soldiers lean against one another while healers emerge from the tents, their hands still stained from tending the wounded. Those strong enough to stand bow their heads. Others watch from their bedrolls.

Deirdre offers Rhianelle a small bowl of burning herbs. Smoke curls from it, carrying the scent of cedar and winter flowers through the camp.

Rhianelle takes it in both hands and walks to the head of the first row. Her fingers tremble around the bowl, but when she speaks, her voice carries through the silence.

“May the earth remember your footsteps. May the wind carry your names beyond the borders of this world. May the stars guide you through the darkness, and may those who loved you find you again when their own journeys end.”

She kneels and places the bowl before the dead.

“You gave your lives so others might live. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Your names will be written into the history of Aelfheim, and as long as I draw breath, your families will never stand alone.”