Chapter 56
Cameron
I don't know how to process this.
The only father figure I've ever had is dying. And it's a strange, gutting thing—building a funeral pyre for a man who's still breathing. Still alive. Still joking, even.
I keep my hands busy, stacking wood, branch after branch, letting the labor dull my mind. Wolves come and go from the cabin just a few meters away, filing in to say their goodbyes, and I stay out here—alone—constructing the place where his body will burn.
The final resting place.
Because apparently, that responsibility falls on the closest male relative.
And I'll be damned if Alric touches a single log of this pyre.
He tried. Brought his own pre-cut wood on a ceremonial cart, like it was a political show. A group of wolves carried it up the path with all the grace of a funeral parade. Lenora destroyed it the second she saw it.
She kicked it over, cracked the frame, spat on the logs.
