Cara looked around for the open graves, but there were none. Afiele’s people were confused. Had they been forgotten?

“No.”

Someone answered the question hanging in the air. A figure stepped forwards. A woman of shadows and death and light.

Arteis Ladel, who looked at her descendant of countless generations, Duchess Grishen. The old woman bowed, and the [Paladin] faced the assembly of souls.

“Lord Dantal and Lady Risel shall be escorted to the Tomb of Afiele. They shall be laid among the honored dead there.”

Heads rose. The people looked at each other uncertainly. Arteis glanced from face to face, her eyes lingering a moment on Cara’s.

“The Tomb was defiled. Its people used for terrible acts upon their home and children’s children. That is our fault. Too long we slept and faded away. No longer. No longer. We are the dead of Noelictus, and we swore to rise eternally when called upon. But we failed.”

She clenched her hand.

“We failed. So we will never rest again. The Tomb will be guarded forevermore. I swear upon Afiele’s ground—the ghosts of Afiele will be guide and protector to Afiele’s new rulers. No one shall harm them while we walk this world. Not the dead—nor the living.”

The Paladin drew her sword and knelt. The other ghosts knelt as well, forming a line. The pallbearers hesitated—then began to walk forwards. Someone would show them the way to the tomb.

The Gravewarden. He stood there, a solemn [Knight], worn by time. Like the others—failed in his charge.

Yet he stood. Never again will I fail. He looked up at the sky, then down towards earth. Ser Dalius bowed.

“This way.”

He began to escort the pallbearers down the hill. Cara watched. Then, and only then, the world reappeared outside of that small hilltop.

She looked down and smelled and tasted the smoke of the burning pyres. Felt her blistered hands, her weariness, her running nose.

And saw the army below, parting before the ghosts marching with Lord Dantal and Lady Risel.

“Ovela.”

Duchess Grishen’s voice was quiet. Cara looked over her shoulder and heard Seraphel inhale sharply.

The Earl of Ovela had come too late, two days ago. He had said little; nothing beyond greeting Seraphel.

His concern was with the ghosts.

He and his twin sister stood there, bowing before Dalius, Arteis, and the others. Their [Soldiers]—and they had a grand army, a useless one—gazed on with a mix of awe and trepidation.

Ghosts of legend, come back in the living’s hour of need.

It didn’t matter. Ovela’s soldiers, the Twins…and the forces from Noelictus’ capital who had all come far too late?

They didn’t matter. They looked up as the last chorus, a refrain, rose from the hilltop. Lord Lantal and Risel went one last time through their fields and villages, towards the forest as their people sang them the last verse.