THE LIVING FUNERAL

Elara Vance

The Vance Estate was draped in white. As our carriage crested the final hill, I didn't see the vibrant gardens of my youth or the bustling servants of a wealthy house. I saw miles of white silk hanging from the balconies, and the scent of lilies, sickly, sweet, and overwhelming, clung to the air.

"White," Kaelen muttered, his hand tightening on his sword. "They aren't celebrating a wedding, Elara."

"They’re mourning me," I whispered. "My father hasn't even seen my body, and he’s already declared me dead to the world."

The carriage pulled up to the main portico. A crowd of Southern nobles stood on the lawn, dressed in mourning black, holding candles that flickered in the dusk. At the center of the stairs stood my father, Lord Vance, his face a mask of practiced grief, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.

Kaelen stepped out first. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath that sounded like a cold wind. The "Monstrous Duke," whom they all believed had murdered me in the North, was standing on their soil, wreathed in a shadow-mantle that seemed to swallow the light of their funeral candles.

Then, he reached back and took my hand.

I stepped out of the carriage. I wasn't wearing white, and I certainly wasn't wearing mourning black. I wore the Thorne Red, a dress the color of fresh blood, with the black wolf furs of the North draped over my shoulders.

The silence was absolute. My father dropped his handkerchief.

"Elara?" he stammered, his voice trembling. "My... my daughter? This is a miracle! We were told... the reports said you had perished in the Northern famine!"

"Reports you likely wrote yourself, Father," I said, my voice carrying across the lawn. "I apologize for ruining your funeral. It seems the North is much harder to die in than you hoped."

“Ting.”

The Archivist was standing right behind my father, his translucent hands resting on my father’s shoulders. He looked like he was suppressing a laugh.

“Task Nineteen: The ‘Dead’ must not speak. Your father has placed a ‘Silent-Seal’ under the floorboards of the Great Hall. If you step over the threshold, your voice will vanish, making you look like a mindless puppet of the Duke. To win, you must make your father step on the seal first.”

I looked at the stone threshold of the front door. My "Sight" flared. I saw it, a shimmering, purple thread of magic woven into the rug just inside the entrance.

"Won't you welcome us in, Father?" I asked, taking a step toward the stairs. "The Duke and I have traveled a long way to discuss the... grain tax discrepancies Philip mentioned before he was detained."

My father’s eyes darted to the Great Hall. He knew about the seal. "Of course! But... the law of the South states that a returning ward must be blessed by the High Priest before entering the family hearth. Stay there, child, while I fetch the incense."

"Nonsense," Kaelen growled, his shadow lunging forward like a hound on a leash. "The Duchess of Thorne goes where she pleases. Or would you like to explain to the King’s nobles why you are keeping your 'miraculously' alive daughter on the porch?"

Kaelen moved to grab my father’s arm, but I stopped him. I needed my father to lead the way.

"Father," I said, my voice dripping with fake Southern sweetness. "I’ve missed you so much. Please, walk with me. Guide your daughter back into her home."

I reached out and hooked my arm through his. He went stiff. He couldn't refuse in front of the entire Southern court. He had to play the doting father.

"Very well," he hissed under his breath.

We walked toward the door together. I watched the purple thread. Just as we reached the rug, I feigned a trip, stumbling slightly to the left. To catch me, my father had to lurch forward, his right foot landing squarely in the center of the invisible seal.

CRACK.

A sound like breaking glass echoed in my mind. The purple thread snapped and wound itself around my father’s throat like a spectral noose.

My father opened his mouth to speak, to call for the High Priest, to scream for his guards, but only a dry, raspy wheeze came out. He clutched his throat, his eyes bulging.

"Father? Are you alright?" I asked, my face the picture of concern. I turned to the gathered nobles. "Oh dear! It seems the grief has taken his voice! He is so overcome with joy at my return that he cannot even speak!"

The nobles murmured in awe. Kaelen leaned in close to my father’s ear, his voice a low, lethal vibration.

"The seal was meant for her, wasn't it, Vance? Now, lead us to your study. We have some ledgers to discuss, and since you can't talk, I suggest you start writing very quickly."

As we walked into the house, I saw the Archivist wink at me from a mirror in the hallway.

Task Nineteen: Complete.

But as the door closed behind us, I felt a new presence. The lilies didn't just smell like death anymore; they smelled like the High Priest’s incense. Someone was waiting for us in the shadows of the library, and they weren't muted by a seal.