Page 2 of The Last Guardian

The king rose from his chair, gesturing for his children to walk to the altar. This wasn’t a mourning ceremony for his queen. No. It felt more like a celebration of his freedom after her death. The beloved queen of his kingdom—our mother. Deep down, he had always hated her; everyone knew it.

A white pain coursed through my left arm, pulsing through my veins and stopping at my wrist. I winced, trying not to let the emotion overwhelm me. Dorian’s hand found my back as a support. With deep, steady breaths, I let the pain pass through me. The soft skin of my wrist burned. Even my body couldn’t bear this charade.

Dorian held out his arm to me as I wheezed, trying my best to ignore the pain, the events of that day when I had lost her. When⁠—

I suppressed the threatening sob in my throat and walked side by side with my younger brother, my hand resting lightly on his. In his other arm, Romy’s delicate hand hung. Our youngest sister.

Before us, the king’s elder children led the way.

Arthur’s shoulders tensed as he approached Father; Aurora’s hand rested on his. Her black dress perfectly complemented the knot in her golden hair, falling in cascading curls down her back.

Father wore his long red-and-blue cape. On his blond hair, his golden crown formed lilies at each spike, each flower set with red gemstones. He always struck me in the gut when I looked at him. Ice cold. It was like looking into the depths of a frozen wall. No emotion. No love for anyone but himself. Just power. Gold.

The aisle stretched on forever. The violinists coaxed their instruments’ strings with gentle strokes.

No tulips.

No piano.

Not a single thing Mother loved deeply to commemorate her, and Father dared to perform a ceremony that bore no likeness to her. In her name.

I hated him.

Nausea rose in my throat, and I took a deep, slow breath as Dorian watched me. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, fearing I’d see the same emotion in his brown gaze. The same emotion that haunted me after five years.

Instead, I focused on one candle at the far end of the hall, avoiding the pitying gazes of the people present, crying for us, praying for her soul. After what felt like an eternity, we finally reached our seats, all five of us in the front row, facing her coffin. They had removed it from its crypt for the occasion; it rested on the sacred stone in the middle of the altar for everyone to see. A tradition that didn’t sit well with me. It felt like disturbing the dead’s peace—even after five years, she couldn’t rest.

My throat tightened at the sight of her coffin. I tried, tried so hard to fight the tears. My hands trembled at the thought of her lying inside.

It wasn’t right.

When would we stop this? In ten years? Twenty years? Forty years? Didn’t the dead deserve a rest from the moment the heavens claimed their souls?

A tear beaded on my cheek. No, I needed to control myself. With shaking breaths, I tried to ease my thundering heart, to calm the burning sensation in my wrist.

Five years was hardly enough to grieve her; an eternity wouldn’t be enough. I tried to erase the memories of her lifeless body in my arms, when I’d screamed, shaking her to wake her. I closed my eyes, trying to banish that painful memory, not to let any more tears flow.

This was not how I wanted to honor her today.

I wanted to think of her while gazing at the stars, when I could still feel her presence, to keep her alive in her favorite places in the city. It shouldn’t be like this… Not here. Not with all these strangers around. Not with Father.

The High Priest’s voice rose in prayer, the priestesses sang the song of the lost, and I opened my eyes, facing the hard truth of her absence. For a moment, I tried to remember the young woman I had been five years ago—the eighteen-year-old girl who had loved life.

It felt like she belonged in another life, where the light burned brighter. She was gone, that girl I used to be, that light, that careless laughter. She had died the day she found her mother’s body, and today, my heart mourned the loss all over again.

I let the tears fall.

Five years later, the hollow in my heart—in my soul—had only grown.

Deeper.

Colder.

Darker.

It no longer ached, it devoured. I wondered if it would ever fade, or if, in the end, it would be me who would.

IT WAS A relief to step out of the sacred domes after five hours of rituals, prayers, and songs.