Heir of The Fallen 8

Chapter 8 The Grove of Silence

Chapter Eight: Grove of Silence

The grove was quiet, wind-cooled, and pale with the soft overcast of late afternoon. The elderstone stood like a sentinel in the earth, veined with faint gold, moss creeping along its base like memory refusing to let go. A single path had been cleared between the high grass and the tree line. The mourners came in pairs and silence.

Lucian stood ahead of the others, hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable. He had returned from his investigation only hours before, delivering Cassian’s journal into their father’s hands. He had not spoken since. The weight he carried was different now—solid, invisible, and unmoving.

Lucia stood beside him, her hand resting on his sleeve as though to steady them both. She did not cry, but her eyes never left the sword Myra carried. Elin stood just behind them, a silent shadow. She had always known when to speak and when to simply be. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, eyes fixed on the elderstone—not in sorrow, but in awe. It was her first glimpse into the rituals of the blood-born.

She had polished the sword the night before, her hands moving without thought, guided by the ritual rather than the purpose. She had never liked Cassian. He frightened her, even as a child. She didn’t fear the ritual, but she respected its weight—the unspoken language it carried, the gravity it placed on every hand that touched the blade. Now, seeing his burial unfold, she felt a strange kinship with the silence. But now, seeing his burial unfold, she felt a strange kinship with the silence. The gravity of it. Something inside her told her that no matter how still things seemed, this house would never be the same again.

Nestor and Astraia arrived last, flanked by Lucia and Dante. Myra walked behind them, her hands gently folded over a black cloth bundle—Cassian’s sword, wrapped and bound. She would lay it to rest with him. Caleb stood a respectful distance behind Nestor and Astraia, the lines of his posture stiff, alert. A team of his finest formed a silent perimeter around the grove, eyes on the trees beyond, as though grief itself were a threat to be managed.

No speeches were given. No names were called. Only the sound of wind through grass, of breath held and let go.

The staff stood at a respectful distance—some who had served Cassian since childhood, others who had feared him in silence, all bound by duty to witness.

As the wind shifted, a few loose petals drifted from a nearby flowering tree, scattering across the clearing. The birds had gone still. A quiet deeper than silence settled over the grove.

When the earth was opened, it was Lucian who stepped forward first. He held nothing in his hands but lowered his head as if placing something invisible into the grave—something heavy and sacred.

Then Myra. Her hands trembled, but she did not cry. She placed the wrapped sword down slowly, brushing her fingers over the cloth as though saying goodbye to more than just a blade.

Lucia moved next, stepping forward without prompting. Her fingers brushed the fabric as well, her touch barely there, as if she feared disturbing something delicate. She whispered something that only the earth could hear—a breath of forgiveness, or perhaps a last confession too fragile to share aloud, then turned away.

Nestor stepped forward next. He did not speak. His hand hovered briefly over the rim of the grave, and then returned to his side.

Astraia followed. Her gaze remained on the elderstone as she whispered something under her breath—a prayer, or perhaps a warning.

Dante remained behind them. He looked as though he might not approach at all. But eventually, he did. One step, then another, his expression unreadable. He said nothing. Did nothing. He simply stood, watching the grave as though trying to understand it. He felt nothing. Or too much. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

The moment the grave was closed, the earth gave a hollow thump. The sound was final in a way words couldn’t be. One of the guards shifted slightly, boots sinking into the grass. The wind picked up as if in answer, rattling the flowering tree, dislodging more petals that fluttered down like falling memories.

They left as they came—without procession, without words. The long grass swayed behind them, hiding the earth once more.

This grove had been the only place Cassian ever seemed truly content. As a boy, he would vanish into its tall grass and whisper his battles to the wind. It was the one place he had never needed to pretend.

The elderstone stood unmoved, veined with gold and memory—a sentinel etched by the weight of time and silence, bearing witness as it always had—to boys pretending at war, and to the men they became.

Lucia stepped to her older brother's final resting place. Her eyes never left the grave. Somewhere between her chest and throat, a knot had formed, one that neither breath nor tears could loosen. She had seen death before—too many times—but this one felt like a crack in the foundation of their house. Not because she mourned the loss of the man Cassian became, but because of the child he once was. The boy who once handed her wildflowers, unsure of how to smile without showing teeth.

She knelt beside the elderstone, not caring if the hem of her gown soaked through with earth. With careful fingers, she reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small item wrapped in black cloth. Unwrapping it revealed a broken chess piece—the white king Cassian shattered during a fight with Lucian when they were thirteen. She had kept it all these years. For no reason at all. Or maybe for this reason exactly.

She placed it gently on the grave, then stood.

"No more games, brother," she whispered.

Myra remained until she had her moment to speak to the dead. She stood facing the elderstone, hands buried in her apron, as if willing the silence to speak to her. It didn’t.

"I raised you better," she murmured at last. "But you weren’t listening, were you?"

Behind her, the sound of measured footsteps approached—light and even, but unmistakable.

"He was never going to listen," Astraia said, her voice low, her eyes on the grave.

Myra didn’t turn. "No. But I hoped... maybe... you would."

Astraia moved to stand beside her. For a long moment, neither woman said anything. They had once been girls together—one destined for power, the other for service. And still, here they were.

"You remember when he ran from the garden with that scraped knee?" Myra asked. "Swore he’d fought a shadow. You told him not to lie. I told you he believed it."

"I remember," Astraia said softly. "He always saw monsters in places where there were none."

"And missed the real ones standing beside him," Myra muttered. Her voice cracked. "But Dante’s not him. Don’t let the house make him into Cassian."

Astraia looked at the grave. Then at the horizon. "I won’t."

Myra nodded and turned to leave, her gait slow, steady.

The elderstone remained, and the wind rose again, whispering between branches.

Lucian was the last of the family to remain, standing long after the others had stepped away. A flicker of movement in the breeze stirred his coat, but he didn’t flinch. The grave at his feet felt deeper than soil could account for. As he stared into the soft mound of earth, his thoughts returned to the letter and journal he had handed their father.

Cassian hadn’t been mad—at least not in the way people whispered. He had been meticulous. Groomed for legacy and broken by expectation. Lucian had seen the signs early—the subtle paranoia in Cassian’s questions, the restless pacing, the sleepless nights muttered away behind closed doors—but not the depth. And that was what haunted him now—the truth hidden in plain sight. Even in death, Cassian had the final word. But it wasn’t truth. It was a warning.

Far behind them, at the edge of the grove, Dante stood still. From Lucian’s vantage, his younger brother looked impossibly distant—small and faint, like a figure in a fading painting.

He had survived. But surviving wasn’t the same as healing. And the Seal wasn’t done with him yet.

Dante had expected to feel something. Anger. Relief. Guilt. But the wind offered no answers, and the grave gave no absolution. He stared at the patch of freshly turned soil until his vision blurred, unsure if it was tears or simply exhaustion.

Dante had hated this place ever since the day he secretly followed Cassian here. Cassian didn't know he was followed, but Dante saw him meet a robed figure. This scared him so much he ran home as fast as he could.

Then in his mind, he saw Cassian’s face—the moment of collapse, the sharp rattle of breath, the weight of his body pinning him down. The scent of blood. The ring of the alarm clock cracking bone. The silence after.

He swallowed hard. Everything since that moment had felt borrowed.

He didn’t know if it would ever feel like his life again.

As the family walked away from the grove, Astraia slowed her steps beside Nestor.

"We buried more than a son today," he murmured, as if sensing her thought.

"Yes," she replied softly. "We buried the idea of who he might have been. And the lie we told ourselves—that lessons alone could shape him."

Nestor nodded once. "It wasn’t enough."

Astraia didn’t disagree. She simply looked ahead, toward the trees.

"I had another dream," she said. "But it didn’t end in fire this time. Only a door. Closed. Waiting."

Nestor didn’t ask what lay beyond it.

Caleb lingered at the edge of the clearing, his eyes never resting in one place for long. His team had dispersed, blending into the perimeter like ghosts.

He hadn’t said a word all morning, but the data from the last three days still churned in the back of his mind. Cassian’s movements. The altered tags. The anomaly in the garden logs. And the Kalyon signals.

There had been more to it.

Not just betrayal.

Preparation.

Cassian hadn’t just planned a murder. He’d paved a path—breadcrumbs of manipulated logs, removed tags, encrypted transmissions. Now Caleb had to trace it back—one invisible step at a time, blindfolded.

And time, he feared, was already slipping.

In his mind, he kept returning to one detail he hadn’t told anyone yet. The logs from Cassian’s last visit to the archives. The restricted section. Something had been pulled—but never returned.

Caleb turned away from the grove, muttering to himself: “Whatever he opened, it’s still open."