Ashtara, a city in the western region.
The streets of Ashtara, quiet and dim under the midnight glow. Three young men walked together under a flickering streetlight.
"Work is so damn irritating," muttered the one in the middle.
"We know," said the one on the left. "That's why we told you not to join that place."
"Now you're crying about it?" the right one chuckled.
"I didn't have a choice, man," the middle one replied, stepping ahead and turning to look at them. "You guys know how much I loved her. Still saying I shouldn't have joined?"
"You could've convinced her," the right one shrugged.
"Yeah."
"I tried. I really tried. But she wouldn't agree."
"Why?" the left one asked.
"Because they pay more."
"What the fuck?" the right one barked. "Your girl's happy, and the pay's high? And you're crying about work?"
"You know how bad it is inside?
"Try entering a house where your wife yells about expenses every day," the left one said. "Or where someone's at your door asking about debt the moment you unlock it."
"If you bear the work stress," the right one said calmly, "you get peace at home. Don't ever think of quitting. She left her family for you — now you've got to show you're worth it."
The middle one nodded slowly. "Thanks, guys."
They reached a roadside stall, still flickering with light, a dying lamp hanging from a bent pole. Only one table was occupied, five men crowded around it, drinks and laughter spilling into the night.
The three walked up. The rightmost of them clapped the back of a man sitting at the table.
"Oi, Narun!"
Narun turned. "Look who it is! Saarav! You bastard, where have you been? What are you doing here this late?"
"These two are my friends," Saarav said. "Arav, Haran. Old classmates from Ashkavan."
"Ah, city scholars," said another man at the table. "Welcome to the filth."
"Shut up!" Narun stood up and shook hands with Arav and Haran. "Good to meet you. Sit, sit. Join us."
"What's got you lot laughing?" Saarav asked, eyeing the half-finished bottles.
"Sagnik's great King Aariv," one of them slurred with a smirk. "Body got kicked out of the royal cemetery."
Saarav blinked. "What?"
"You didn't hear?" another said, raising his glass. "Their holy graveyard rejected him. Imagine that. Even the dead said, 'Get lost.' Public disgrace, man. They had to bury him in the family cemetery."
Everyone but the newcomers roared with laughter.
"Rejected by your own ancestors," one of them cackled. "Even ghosts got standards in Sagnik."
Saarav frowned. "What the hell does that even mean?"
Narun's smile was mild compared to the others. "Sagnik's royal ground won't accept a king if he committed a grave sin."
"What kind of logic is that?" Haran murmured under his breath.
"It means the great King Aariv wasn't holy enough for dead stones," the stubbled man mocked.
"Sagnik has a book," Narun explained, keeping a more measured tone. "Written by their first ancestor. It contains rules the rulers must follow—and a list of sins that bar them from burial. Only kings and queens are allowed to read it."
"Sounds convenient," said another. "Write your own sins. Hide them. And when you break! Guess you don't get a fancy grave."
"I mean, if breaking rules gets you kicked from the ground, then half their kings should be rotting in the streets," one sneered.
A man leaned over the table, waving his glass. "Kaivan the Glorious! Remember him?"
"Pfft. Glorious? He burned half of Kairul just to prove a point."
"Exactly," the man slurred.
"Aariv was a coward," someone muttered. "Remember the Sagnik-Ashvara summit? That bastard couldn't even talk properly."
"That bastard is a coward," another sneered. "Doesn't even know how to swing sword."
"Heard his wife is in a coma. He couldn't even protect his wife," one of them said. "I bet his killer did more than just kill."
Arav crossed his arms, saying nothing. Beside him, Haran stole a glance at Saarav — who didn't speak, just clenched his jaw.
"Heard she's an angel," another leered. "Makes you think... what was she like in bed?"
"I'm sure she moans like one."
"I swear, man, she must have so many lovers," one of them announced. "One of her lovers killed him."
"Okay, that's enough, guys, you are full," Saarav said. "Narun, take them home."
"Why are you worried when we talking about her?" another said. "Are you one of her lovers?"
Saarav's fingers clenched under the table, his throat tight. This wasn't just drunken banter — it was rot.
Saarav pushed back his chair. "I'm not listening to this. Let's go."
Haran nodded. "Okay."
"This is getting disgusting."
Narun tried to speak. "Look, it's just—"
"No, Narun," Saarav said. "You want to drink and joke, fine. But mocking dead like this? That's low."
They turned to leave.
"Take care, scholars," another said.
As they turned to leave, a figure stepped into the light of the stall.
He was tall, wrapped in a faded brown cloak, the edge soaked from the damp road. His face was shadowed, but his presence silenced the table for a second.
"Stall still open?" the man asked quietly.
The vendor, who had been dozing, jolted awake and nodded. "Yeah."
The drunkest of the group looked up, squinting. "What's this, another mourner?"
The figure said nothing.
"Hey, you here to defend dead king too? Want to cry for Seriya? Maybe the sky will rain fire."
Narun stood slowly, his face pale now.
"Shut up," he whispered.
One of them raised his glass.
"To Sagnik's royal tears!"
"To kings who fail even in death!" another shouted.
"To ancestors who bury their secrets deeper than their bodies!"
Arav, Haran, and Saarav walked away.
They didn't look back.
But behind them, the night air shifted.
The mocking laughter still echoed.
And the man at the stall — he simply listened.