The Shattered Crowns

Caskets of silver scales and silk hung loosely on an open ledge. Daenys stood silently, her gaze heavy with longing for those woven caskets. Their beauty was a pale reflection of the mourning that gripped her heart. Her hand drifted over the smooth surface of her father's casket, fingertips trembling. Tears rolled down her cheeks, soft as raindrops.

Men, women, and children lay in those intricately crafted caskets. Another tear escaped as Daenys looked out at them. Her sister, Nalla, gripped her hand tightly, seeking comfort she wasn't sure Daenys could give. Many of the dead were unrecognizable, their faces lost to the violence of battle. Yet every one of them had fought to protect the village and the people they loved. Tonight, they would all be remembered. Tonight, they would be cherished.

Large wooden bowls were carried reverently to the entwined caskets, offerings for the afterlife placed alongside them. Furs, food, and tools—each a small, final gift to help their souls on their journey. Beside her father's casket rested a familiar pipe, its stem worn from years of use. Daenys stared at it, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. His belongings, like his soul, would now go to the Great Shifter for judgment.

The Great Shifter would decide their fates. Those deemed honest and kind would return as shifters, guardians of the village. But the cruel would come back as mikar—soulless beasts of burden, their existence a warning to the living. Daenys had heard the stories countless times, but today, the ritual felt heavier, its finality crushing.

Nalla whimpered, burying her face in Daenys' skirt. Daenys pulled her close, holding her trembling form.

"It's okay to cry, Nalla," Daenys whispered.

"But… what about you?" Nalla asked, her voice small and cracked.

Daenys didn't smile. Instead, she crouched down and gently wiped away her sister's tears. "I've had my closure," she said softly. "Father told me he loved us more than anything in the world."

Nalla threw her arms around her. "Then you can cry too."

Daenys stroked her sister's hair in slow, soothing motions. "Father always said, 'Tears are our past regrets, asking forgiveness for the time we didn't spend with the dead.'" She paused, then added, "I don't have any regrets."

Their mother, Laenys, would have scolded them for such sentimentality. She believed tears were a weakness, that in Morgoi, death was as inevitable as the shifting of the seasons. "There's always a lesson in loss," she would have said. But Nalla didn't need lessons right now. She needed closure. She needed warmth.

Daenys would give her what their father would have, what their mother could not.

Laenys walked to the head of the procession, her bearing stiff and authoritative. As the village leader, she had no room for mourning. Leaders didn't cry. They adapted. They prepared. They endured. In her hands, she carried a ladle filled with thick, shimmering liquid—a mixture of mikar slime and a single drop of shifter venom. The green-and-gold fluid glistened in the faint light as she poured it into each of the bowls beside the caskets.

"Let the Great Shifter's blessing sustain you in the next step of your immortal lives," Laenys said, her voice steady and clear. "Rise as protectors, walk in the Untouched Gardens, and guard the family you leave behind."

Daenys' gaze drifted back to her father's casket, her lips trembling as she whispered, "Their next life will be one of great protectors." The villagers echoed similar words, their voices filled with reverence and sorrow. The air vibrated with their grief, but also with pride. These were their loved ones, and their sacrifices would not be forgotten.

At the edge of the gathering, Mirak held his injured mother. His arm was heavily bandaged, his expression grim but calm. Relief flickered in his eyes as he placed their family's offerings beside the caskets of friends and neighbors.

Daenys' attention shifted to another casket—one she hadn't noticed before. It belonged to a woman whose family had been lost to a hunting accident years ago. The woman had been the village's only leatherworker, her hands crafting the goods that clothed and armed them all. She was no warrior, but she had been vital to the community. Now she was gone, too.

Daenys' fists clenched at her sides. Why her? Why any of them? Her chest tightened with anger and grief, her thoughts spiraling. She tried to push them down, to tell herself that they were with the Great Shifter now. But doubt crept in, an unwelcome whisper at the back of her mind. Why should he have died? Why should any of them?

She closed her eyes. Keep telling yourself that.

Laenys moved among the caskets, murmuring words to the families of the dead. It was a role only she could play. As their leader, she knew each villager's story, their triumphs and struggles, their fears and dreams. She spoke with the weight of that knowledge, offering comfort in her own brusque way.

Daenys' eyes sought Akash in the crowd. She spotted him quickly—his burgundy hair made him impossible to miss, a stark contrast against the greens of the forest. He stood apart, leaning against a tree at the edge of the ceremony. His scarred lips were set in a hard line, his posture tense but composed. Beside him, Elys, his tiger companion, prowled the tree line, silent and watchful.

It felt wrong, seeing him there. Wrong that he stood so far from the others, as though he didn't belong. He had bled for this village, fought to protect it, yet they still saw him as an outsider. A bad omen.

A curse.

Daenys wanted to call him over, to tell him he had every right to stand among them. But she held her tongue, just as Mirak did. It wasn't her place, not in a ceremony like this.

When the Shifter arrived, the villagers had already begun to retreat to the observatory. No one wanted to remain near the pyre when the dead were claimed.

The faint hiss of scales slithering against wood and earth filled the air. Branches creaked under the weight of its massive body. The great serpent emerged, its pale scales gleaming like moonlight, its unblinking ruby eyes surveying the site.

Daenys held Nalla close as the Shifter wound its way around the caskets. The massive snake moved with a deliberate grace, inspecting each offering. Then, slowly, it began to consume the corpses. One by one, the dead disappeared into its maw.

Nalla buried her face in Daenys' chest. "Why does it have to eat them?" she whispered.

Daenys stroked her hair. "It's how they return to us, as shifters. It's their last gift to the village."

Mirak's voice was low, barely audible. "I always hate watching this."

Laenys overheard and turned to him. "The dead understand. We do what we must to survive. Burying them would waste their final gift. The Shifter ensures their sacrifice is honored."

When the Shifter finished, it coiled its massive body in a final loop around the village, its movements unnervingly silent for something so large. Its single slitted eye swept over the crowd like a predator surveying its territory. For a moment, its gaze locked onto Akash. Daenys' breath caught. That crimson eye mirrored the strange markings on Akash's neck—marks no one could explain. Marks that stretched closer to his arms now...

The serpent lingered, unmoving, before slithering back into the canopy. It disappeared as silently as it had come.

Mirak muttered under his breath, "I always hate watching the Shifter eat."

Laenys, overhearing, shot him a sharp look. "Yet the Shifter protects us," she replied curtly. "Without it, we would've been overrun long ago. The dead understand. Their final gift sustains the village, as they would have wanted."

Daenys said nothing. Her gaze lingered on the spot where the Shifter had vanished. The air felt heavier, though the serpent was gone.

Her mother turned to address the villagers. "Now we rebuild," she said, her voice carrying over the crowd. "As we always have. Our ancestors and loved ones watch over us, guarding us in their next lives. Let their sacrifice inspire your best efforts. Tonight, we feast in their honor. Share their stories. Speak of their deeds. Let them live through our memories."

The crowd dispersed, some heading home to change into celebratory clothes, others gathering to exchange quiet words. For many, the feast would bring closure, a chance to laugh and celebrate before life returned to its brutal rhythm. But not for Daenys. Not yet.

The observatory filled quickly, the scent of roasted meats and spiced drinks wafting through the air. The village had worked hard to prepare a celebration worthy of the dead. Children weaved between tables, laughing and chasing one another, their spirits already lightening. Adults shared drinks and stories, their voices rising with laughter as they recalled better days.

Daenys and Nalla stood near the edge of the gathering, watching the crowd. Nalla's face was pale, her small hand clutching Daenys' skirt.

"You don't have to watch," Daenys murmured.

"I need to," Nalla replied, her voice quiet but firm. Daenys studied her sister's face, the hard lines that had no place on a child so young. She looked too grown, too old for her years. The loss of their father had stolen the last of her innocence. Daenys felt a sharp pang of guilt, though she didn't know why.

"Come on," Daenys said, taking Nalla's hand and guiding her to one of the tables. "Let's get something to eat. You'll feel better with some sweets in you."

Nalla didn't argue, though she still glanced back toward the pyre, her eyes shadowed.

Across the gathering, Akash stood alone, leaning against a wooden post. He hadn't joined the feast, though he wasn't far from it. He simply watched, his expression unreadable. His wolf companion, Elys, prowled near him, occasionally snarling when someone wandered too close.

Daenys felt a familiar ache in her chest as she watched him. It wasn't fair. The villagers whispered about him behind their hands, treating him like an outsider even now, after he had fought for them, bled for them. His scarred face had become a permanent reminder of the battle, but no one thanked him for it.

Mirak noticed her staring. "He'll be fine," he said softly.

Daenys frowned. "He shouldn't have to be fine. He fought harder than anyone."

Mirak sighed. "I know. But you know how they are."

Daenys wanted to say more, to argue, but she held her tongue. It wouldn't change anything.

When the feast began in earnest, Daenys, Mirak, and Nalla sat together, eating and sharing quiet conversation. They didn't linger long, though. Mirak suggested checking on Winter, the sorceress who had saved the village. Daenys agreed without hesitation, eager for an excuse to step away from the noise.

Akash joined them as they left, though he stayed a step behind, as if reluctant to walk too closely. They crossed the hanging bridges that connected the village, the wooden planks creaking underfoot. The forest around them was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of birds.

"You think she's actually alive?" Mirak asked.

"She was breathing last I checked," Akash replied. His tone was blunt, but Daenys caught the flicker of concern in his eyes.

"You visited her?" Daenys asked, surprised.

Akash nodded. "She saved the village. Least I could do."