I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
spatréon/emperordragon
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Chapter Thirty-Eight: Grief
Lucas's Perspective
The gravel crunched beneath the tires of Richard's car as I rolled slowly down the familiar path leading to the cabin—our cabin. Or rather, what used to be ours. This place had once been both a battlefield and a refuge. It had held our argunts, our laughter, our scars, and our silences. Now, as the car crept to a halt beneath the tall, swaying trees, it felt like sothing else entirely.
It felt empty.
No ghosts haunted it. Not exactly. But the air itself seed thinner—quieter in a way that had nothing to do with sound and everything to do with absence.
I turned off the engine, and the gentle ticking of the cooling tal filled the silence. I sat there for a mont, staring ahead through the windshield, hands still clenched around the steering wheel as if letting go would sohow let everything go. But eventually, I stepped out into the cool afternoon air. The breeze stirred the leaves above , soft and respectful, as though even nature had chosen to tread lightly today.
I approached the cabin slowly, my footsteps muffled by the moss and pine needles scattered across the ground. The wooden steps groaned beneath my weight as I climbed them, the sound startling in the stillness. I hesitated with my hand on the door, breathing in the scent of old wood and earth.
When I opened it, I wasn't surprised to find Emily already inside.
She stood in the kitchen, just as she had a thousand tis before, holding a steaming mug of tea in both hands. Her gaze lifted the mont I entered, and for a brief heartbeat, we simply looked at each other. No words passed between us.
She saw my face—and that was enough.
Her expression softened. Her lips parted like she might say sothing, but then she didn't. She didn't need to. Instead, she crossed the space between us in just a few quick steps and wrapped her arms around .
She hugged .
Tight.
And it shattered sothing in .
Until that mont, I hadn't realized how rigid I'd beco. How much effort I'd been putting into holding myself together. The mont she touched , my body seized—like a machine locking up—and then, piece by piece, it began to break open. I gripped the back of her sweater like it was the only thing tethering to the earth, and for the first ti since lighting Richard's pyre, I let the grief rise.
I didn't let go of the small cloth pouch hidden deep in my coat pocket. Or of the mories—sharp-edged and relentless—that had carved themselves into my chest. But I did let go of the pressure. The relentless, suffocating weight I'd been carrying in silence.
Grief hit like a wave—massive and rciless—and I didn't have the strength to resist it anymore.
Emily said nothing at first. She just held the way soone holds sothing fragile and broken—gently, but firmly enough to keep the pieces from falling apart. She rubbed my back in slow circles, the sa way she had when I was a boy and nightmares stole my sleep.
Eventually, she spoke. Her voice was low, nearly a whisper, but it wavered with emotion she didn't try to hide.
"I know it hurts right now," she said, her breath catching slightly. "More than you think you can bear. But I promise, Lucas… I promise—it will get easier."
I buried my face in her shoulder and nodded. Words were beyond .
She didn't ask for them.
"Co on," she murmured, her hand brushing my arm. "Let's go."
And I went.
We left the cabin behind, stepping out into the hush of the woods. The forest welcod us with a kind of sacred silence. Sunlight filtered down through the canopy, casting fractured beams of gold across the undergrowth, like light through the stained glass of so vast, ancient cathedral.
We walked in silence, our steps soft over pine needles and soil. The further we went, the more the world seed to fall away—no roads, no houses, no people. Just us, and the trees, and the mory of the man we had co to honor.
Eventually, we ca to a small clearing I'd never seen before. At its center stood a tree—tall, old, weather-beaten. Its trunk was wide and rough, bark curling like old parchnt. Thick roots burst through the ground, gnarled and sprawling like the fingers of sothing ancient and wise.
"There," Emily said, nodding toward the base of the tree. "That's where he wanted to be."
Her voice was steady, but reverent, as if speaking in a sacred place.
I dropped to my knees, and the cloth pouch—so small, so deceptively light—suddenly felt like the heaviest thing I'd ever held. With trembling hands, I dug into the soft earth, the sll of soil rising around . Then, carefully, I placed the ashes into the hollow I'd made—his, and hers. Together again.
I covered them slowly, pressing the dirt back over with the flat of my palm. When it was done, I sat back on my heels, staring at the mound I'd made. My chest ached in a way I couldn't put into words.
Emily knelt beside .
"I loved him," she said quietly. "He was like a younger brother to . Gods, he could be infuriating—stubborn, reckless, always had to have the last word." She gave a soft laugh, more breath than sound. Her hand ca up to wipe at her eyes. "But I loved him."
I didn't speak. She didn't need to.
After a mont, she reached into her coat and pulled sothing from the inner pocket. A small object rested in the center of her open palm, catching the filtered light.
The ring.
Richard's ring.
Silver. Unadorned, save for the single dark gemstone set in the center—a deep, opaque black that seed to absorb the sunlight rather than reflect it. I rembered the way he used to fidget with it when he was thinking. The way he told , once, that it had belonged to his father, and his grandfather before that.
"He wanted you to have this," Emily said softly.
I stared at it, my heart pounding. My fingers curled into my palms.
It didn't feel right. Not really. Taking it felt like accepting sothing I hadn't earned—a legacy, a lineage. It felt like stepping into shoes far too large.
But I reached out anyway.
I took the ring, my hand closing around the cool tal. And when I slid it onto my finger, it fit as though it had been waiting for .
Emily stood then, her eyes on the tree.
I remained where I was, sitting on the forest floor, hand clenched tight around the band of silver and stone.
"I'll make sure he's rembered," I said, my voice barely audible.
Above us, the leaves stirred gently in the breeze. Not loud. Not harsh. Just enough to let us know we'd been heard.
And all around us, the forest held its breath.
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