The Ferne graveyard was tucked away quietly in a peaceful corner near the flowing Aresina River, positioned so that all the tombstones faced the gently moving water. The field was remarkably well maintained and cared for: the winding pathways were meticulously cleared of debris and fallen leaves, and none of the weathered tombstones were in ruins or disrepair despite their age. This sacred ground belonged equally to all the people of Ferne—commoners and nobles alike, resting side by side in death.
"There's no low blood or high blood upon the flesh—after Tumlin takes your soul into his realm, you're nothing but an empty vessel of your former self, equal to all others."
It was a somber line the Ashers—Tumlin's devoted priests—recited at every funeral ceremony without fail. I had heard those exact words spoken several times throughout my life at various burials. The priests always spoke them in a deep, profoundly somber pitch, using the ancient Rothiya language that few still understood. It was a bone-chilling tune, haunting and unforgettable, and when those ominous words were muttered by tall, hooded figures whose faces you couldn't see hidden in shadow, whose identities remained completely unknown, it became utterly terrifying to witness.
I remembered being genuinely scared the very first time I witnessed the Ashers performing their sacred duties at my beloved brother's funeral. I had been just a small child, and I had hidden fearfully behind my mother's long skirt, clutching the fabric tightly. After hearing the ritual performed two more times at subsequent funerals, I had gradually grown somewhat used to it, become desensitized to the strangeness. But that eerie, unsettling feeling never truly left me completely. The Ashers were living, breathing reminders that Tumlin, the god of death himself, was always nearby, always waiting patiently in the darkest corners of our lives, ready to claim us.
I was suddenly reminded of all that because the impressive Tumlin Temple stood prominently in the very middle of the Ferne graveyard, its dark stone structure imposing and severe. And at this moment, an Asher was methodically raking dead leaves off one of the pathways with slow, deliberate movements. How they managed to see anything clearly beneath those heavy, concealing hoods, I had absolutely no idea. But the perfectly clear paths throughout the cemetery proved definitively that they could see quite well.
We had to pass directly by him to reach our destination, so greeting him properly was completely unavoidable. Ashers were strictly prohibited by their sacred vows from speaking aloud to people—except at funerals when their words were required. For all other communication, they used an elaborate system of sign language.
As we approached him steadily, Katherine, who walked close beside me, looked visibly uncomfortable and tense. Most of the maids and soldiers following us at a respectful distance behind were clearly uneasy, too, shifting nervously. There was an old, persistent saying in the north that everyone knew: if you happened to see an Asher three times in quick succession, it meant Tumlin himself was lurking around you closely, marking you. No one wanted death hovering nearby, waiting to claim them.
I personally didn't believe such superstitious things. In my experience and understanding, if you were dead, you were simply dead. No matter what precautions you took or rituals you performed, the ultimate outcome never changed—death came for everyone eventually. Having gone through three painful funerals of people I loved dearly, I felt strangely closer to the Ashers and their mysterious order than most. I donated generously to their temples often and visited Tumlin's dark altars regularly with offerings of black roses—his favorite flower according to tradition.
When we finally reached the Asher, I stopped and placed my hands together respectfully and bowed three times in the traditional manner. He responded by raising his hand in acknowledgment, his movements slow and ceremonial.
"We're visiting a friend's grave," I signed carefully, my hands forming the symbols. It had been quite a while since I had last used sign language, and I hoped I remembered correctly. My mother had patiently taught it to me when I was young.
"It's important that you can communicate effectively with all your subjects, in whatever way they need," she used to say seriously. And now, standing here, I was deeply grateful for her foresight and insistence.
"She has been waiting for you that way," the Asher signed back, pointing with one concealed hand in a specific direction. How he knew which grave we sought, I didn't know and couldn't begin to guess. Ashers always had that deeply unnerving ability. They somehow knew the answers to questions you never asked aloud, as if they could read thoughts or see the future.
I thanked him with a respectful nod and led our group confidently in the direction he had indicated. He returned immediately to his raking as if we had never been there at all, as if our interaction had been merely a dream.
"She's over there," I told Katherine quietly, pointing ahead. She followed quickly, her white dress flowing, and the rest of our group trailed behind us at a respectful distance.
Misty's grave wasn't hard to find once we knew where to look. It had an absolutely magnificent life-sized statue of her: a curly-haired woman sitting gracefully on a stone bench, playing a delicate harp. Her carved face held an expression of pure joy and contentment. The Northern stonework had captured her delicate features with absolutely astonishing skill and artistry. The craftsmanship was magnificent—so lifelike and detailed it was almost as though she had never truly left us, had only been transformed into stone and remained here to watch over us protectively.
I felt the same overwhelming awe I had felt all those years ago when I first saw her in person, that day Salime and I had snuck away to spy on her arrival.
"Your brother's fiancée has arrived at the capital," Salime had told me excitedly, bursting into the library where I studied.
"Really? Is she pretty?" I had asked eagerly, immediately putting down the heavy book I had been reading.
"I heard she looks exactly like a fairy from the old stories!" he had exclaimed enthusiastically. His baby voice back then had been so soft and high-pitched—so dramatically different from the deep, mature voice he spoke with now as a man.
"Let's go see her right now," I had said impulsively, grabbing his small hand firmly and dragging him with me despite his immediate protests.
"Bu—but Father said we shouldn't disturb—" Salime had tried weakly, his words disappearing and forgotten as I broke into a full run, pulling him along. I was always the mischievous one, the instigator; he was the reluctant follower who got dragged into my schemes.
We had reached the grand main hall and immediately hidden ourselves behind a large marble pillar, trying not to be noticed. We crouched down low and peeked out carefully around the edge. There she was, standing confidently in the middle of the vast hall, golden sunlight from the tall window illuminating her figure like a spotlight. She wore simple, modest clothes rather than fine garments. Her curly black hair was somewhat unruly and wild, flowing freely. But when she turned around, revealing her face fully, both of us stared in absolute awe, our mouths falling open.
She looked like she had been personally blessed by all seven gods of Mount Serana. Ethereal. Otherworldly. And her warm, genuine smile made her practically shimmer with inner light. She was blindingly, breathtakingly beautiful.
"A fairy!" Salime had whispered in wonder, and I had agreed completely, nodding vigorously.
From that precise moment, I had decided with childish certainty that I would follow my future sister-in-law, the future queen, and help her in every way I possibly could. She had loved us, too—especially children. Her soft spot for young ones was so deep and genuine that she had ultimately given her precious life to protect me from assassins.
Tears threatened to fall now, burning behind my eyes, but I couldn't allow myself to cry. Not here, not in front of my subjects who were watching.
Her grave was clearly very well cared for, obviously visited regularly. A beautiful flowering vine had grown naturally over the stone, forming an elegant arch that framed her statue perfectly.
"People visit her often," Katherine observed quietly, her voice carrying respect. "They bring flowers and clean the stone."
She was loved even after death, her memory cherished. Eternal in our hearts and minds.
Until the north itself perishes, may her name remain spoken, I prayed silently.
Misty... how are you doing in the paradise above Mount Serana? I'm so sorry you had to leave this world because of me, because of my foolish actions. I'm sorry I forgot what happened, that I buried those memories. I'm really, truly sorry for everything.
I found myself wishing desperately that Arvid were here beside me; if he were, I would have cried already, let the tears fall freely. I had grown so comfortable with him over these past days that now I was actually considering crying openly in front of him? That realization wasn't good. I was becoming too dependent.
We carefully cleaned her grave, removing dead leaves and dirt, and I personally planted the snowdrop bulbs I had brought from the capital—her favorite flowers. Katherine and the maids helped diligently with the rest of the maintenance. When we finally finished our work, we all recited a traditional poem together, as was customary when Northerners visited graves. Our voices drifted gently with the wind, the soft tune carrying across the Aresina River.
"When our mothers told us to beware of the gods,
We didn't fear,
Because Northerners are never afraid.
When our fathers told us to be careful of winters,
We didn't fear,
Because Northerners are always ready for gurgling winter nights.
When our forefathers told us to beware of Tumlin,
We didn't fear,
Because we Northerners will meet again in the paradise above Mount Serana as we promised."
By the time we returned to the imposing castle, evening had completely fallen—and I had something entirely new to worry about. A very angry husband. No… more accurately, a very mad husband. I had tried desperately searching my memory repeatedly for what exactly had happened between us last night, but nothing came. Was it even possible to black out that badly from wine?
I was served dinner immediately upon our return, but Arvid wasn't present in the dining hall. One of his loyal soldiers told me he had gone up to the roof to be alone. So I gathered my courage and made my way up the seemingly endless stairs, my heart pounding. We needed to talk seriously. Our responsibilities as rulers couldn't be ignored indefinitely, and we had to communicate openly if we wanted to truly understand each other—especially after everything that had happened on this emotionally intense journey.
When I finally reached the roof—completely breathless thanks to climbing all those stairs in my heavy gown—I saw him leaning casually against the low protective wall, staring up at the darkening sky. The wind was strong up here, tossing his blonde hair wildly around his face.
I walked toward him slowly and cautiously. Halfway there, he heard my footsteps and looked back. Then, seeing clearly that it was me, he deliberately turned away again without greeting me.
Yes. That was definitely my sulking husband.
I stopped beside him and mimicked his posture exactly, leaning against the wall. He acknowledged my presence with a slight shift but didn't move away or tell me to leave.
"You're back from the cemetery," he said softly, his voice carrying a distinct hint of sadness.
"I'm back," I replied simply, leaning a little closer to him, testing his reaction.
"So… what exactly did I do last night?" I asked directly, looking into his eyes. "What happened that made you so angry?"
He looked away immediately—whether from shyness or annoyance, I genuinely couldn't tell.
I reached out and held his hand with both of mine, enveloping it completely.
"I won't know unless you tell me," I said gently, reasonably. "Please. I need to understand."
He finally met my eyes again and sighed deeply, as if releasing a burden.
"Well… it was actually me who started everything. I'll admit that much," he began. "I kissed you on the forehead because you were being so adorable. I should've held back and maintained control—but I really couldn't resist."
His face was slightly flushed with embarrassment.
He thought I was adorable.
That was literally all my brain managed to process from his entire confession.
Great. This was definitely going to be a difficult conversation.