The earth was too soft.
Cassin knelt in the dirt, his fingers numb as they carved into the soil. The rain had stopped, but the ground still clung to his hands like it was begging him to stay. He dug until his nails split, until his palms bled, until the hole in the earth was deep enough to cradle what remained of her.
Eira deserved more than this. A pyre. A tomb. A name etched in stone. But all he had was a shallow grave at the edge of the woods and a silence so heavy it choked him.
He wrapped her in the blanket they'd shared those last two winters—the one she'd stolen from a market stall because the nights were cold and Cassin refused to admit he was freezing. It still smelled like her. Like wild grass and the cheap lavender soap she loved.
He didn't let himself cry.
(He wasn't sure he could.)
When the last handful of dirt had been pressed into place, Cassin stood. His body ached, not from the fight, not from the Shard's power—but from the absence. The weight of knowing he would never hear her laugh again.
The cabin they'd called home for two years stood behind him, its door still hanging crooked from where the man in black had kicked it in. Cassin stepped inside, his movements mechanical. He took what little they had—the stolen coins sewn into the mattress, the dagger Eira had gifted him on his seventeenth birthday, the half-empty bottle of lavender oil she'd dabbed on her wrists like some noblewoman playing dress-up.
His fingers lingered on the bottle. For a heartbeat, he considered smashing it. Letting the scent vanish forever.
Instead, he tucked it into his pocket.
The road was quiet.
Cassin walked without direction, his boots scuffing against the dirt path that wound through the hills. The sun was high, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. It was the kind of day Eira would have loved. She'd have dragged him to some creek to splash in the water or pointed at the clouds and made up stupid shapes.
"That one looks like a drunk pig."
"That's just a cloud, Eira."
"A drunk cloud, then."
The memory hit him like a knife between the ribs. Cassin clenched his jaw and walked faster.
The Shard hummed in the back of his mind, a quiet, persistent presence. It hadn't spoken since the clearing, but he could feel it watching, waiting.
"What?" he finally snarled, voice rough from disuse.
Silence. Then—
"You are moving."
Cassin scoffed. "Brilliant observation."
"You were not before."
He didn't answer. The Shard wasn't wrong. For days after burying her, he'd sat in that cabin, staring at the walls, waiting for—what? For her to walk through the door? For the world to make sense again?
But Eira wouldn't have wanted that. She'd have kicked his chair out from under him and told him to stop moping.
So he'd left.
The town of Velsford appeared as a smudge of smoke and timber on the horizon. Cassin slowed, his hand drifting to the dagger at his belt. Towns meant people. People meant questions.
But it also meant work. Food. A way to keep moving.
The Shard stirred. "You seek purpose."
Cassin ignored it.
The gates of Velsford were unguarded, the wooden palisades weathered but sturdy. The air smelled of fish and forge-fire, the streets bustling with merchants and laborers. No one glanced at him twice. Just another traveler, another face in the crowd.
It should have been a relief.
Instead, it made his skin crawl.
He found a tavern near the docks—a ramshackle place called The Rusty Anchor—and traded three copper coins for a bowl of stew and a night's stay in the loft. The stew was watery, the bread stale, but Cassin ate it without tasting it. Around him, the tavern buzzed with chatter, the clink of tankards, the occasional burst of laughter.
He wondered if Eira would have liked it here.
A man slumped onto the bench across from him, reeking of ale and salt. "You new in town?"
Cassin didn't look up. "Passing through."
"Ah." The man took a swig from his mug. "Well, if you're looking for work, the mill's always hiring. Hard labor, but pays decent."
Cassin grunted.
The man hesitated, then leaned in. "Or, if you've got a taste for something riskier, there's talk of a bounty."
That got Cassin's attention. His fingers stilled around his spoon. "What kind?"
"Some noble's son ran off with a girl his family didn't approve of. They want him back." The man smirked. "Alive, preferably. But the coin's good either way."
Cassin stared into his stew. A bounty. Tracking someone down. Dragging them back.
It was the kind of work he'd have taken without hesitation before.
Now, all he could think of was Eira's face as the knife cut her throat.
He pushed the bowl away. "Not interested."
The man shrugged. "Suit yourself."
As he stumbled off, the Shard's voice slithered through Cassin's mind.
"You could find him. The one who sent the man in black."
Cassin's breath caught.
"The token. The crescent and dagger. It is a symbol. A trail to follow."
A trail. A purpose.
Vengeance.
Cassin closed his eyes.
Eira would have hated this.
But Eira wasn't here.