Back at Tuscanvalle, the men trudged away, carrying Turo's bier with heads bowed to avoid the accusing glare of Creda and the silent anguish of Bouma. None of them wanted to comply fully with Marnoell’s cruel orders, but none had the courage to defy him either.

  The women shifted aside, retreating closer to their homes with a collective sigh of resignation.

  Creda’s face twisted in disgust. “Are you sure he’s your brother? How can someone treat their own sister like this? He’s unbelievable,” she muttered, knowing full well her mother was in no state to entertain her anger.

  Bouma remained on the ground, cradling Samora’s tattered corpse with trembling hands, her grief raw and unrestrained. What mother wouldn’t? Losing a child was a torment few could endure, but losing them like this—violently, unjustly—was unbearable.

  And then, as if their pain wasn’t already enough, Marnoell’s petty, heartless decree made it almost impossible to perform the final rites.

  Tuscanian tradition forbade women from entering the cremation grounds—a rule so ancient no one even remembered its origin. Now, with the men forbidden by Marnoell to assist, they were left stranded. It was as cruel as barring them outright. Worse still, the sun was sinking fast. According to custom, a body must be cremated before sunset, or they’d have to wait until morning. And even that was taboo. Leaving a corpse uncremated overnight was believed to invite malevolent spirits to haunt the living.

  By what Nox had said, Samora had died the previous night. That meant she would go uncremated for two nights, her spirit left dishonored, her memory left stained, simply because of Marnoell’s vile spite. Creda knew this was his plan all along, a calculated move to deepen their suffering. What good came of this cruelty? What kind of chief acted like this?

  A few women approached Bouma, their hands resting on her shoulders in silent consolation. But the gesture only stoked Creda’s fury further. Where was this sympathy when it mattered? Why didn’t any of them have the spine to stand up to Marnoell’s injustice? Their hollow kindness made her clench her fists and turn away in disgust.

  “Stay strong, Bouma,” one of the women murmured. “He’ll see reason eventually.”

  It grated on Creda’s nerves. How would he see reason if no one dared to speak against him? Marnoell only saw his own twisted logic.

  “He will come around,” Daya added. Her head was still wrapped in bandages from the injury Samora had inflicted the night before. “He has to, right? It’s not good for any of us to keep a body like this overnight.”

  “A body?” Creda snapped, whirling on her. “She’s my sister!”

  “I know, dear,” Daya said, nodding gently. “But… she’s gone now.”

  “Gone to you, maybe,” Creda retorted, her voice shaking. She pointed a trembling finger at the group. “Not to us. She’s still here, watching this injustice.” Her eyes searched the dimming horizon, desperate for something—anything—to ease the gnawing hopelessness in her chest.

  Daya sighed, her expression weary. "You need to let go of this arrogance if you want to have even a decent life. It’s not good for a woman to be this stubborn. Look where it’s brought you and your sister. If you had kept your mouth shut, maybe our chief would have shown mercy."

  "Mercy?" Creda’s eyes narrowed, burning with fury. "Who needs his mercy?" She was seething inside, her anger stoked further by their dismissive remarks. "You think we can’t give my sister her last rites just because he forbade the men from helping us? Never mind. I’ll do it myself. I’ll do what a man is supposed to do. I’ll cremate my sister, and I won’t let her be disgraced like this."

  Bouma’s brow furrowed in confusion, her grief momentarily interrupted by Creda’s words. But Creda didn’t wait to explain. She stepped toward her mother and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Mother, come on. Let’s take her to the cremation grounds.”

  Bouma stared at her in horror. So did Daya and the other women.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Daya exclaimed. “Don’t you know women aren’t allowed to enter that forsaken place?”

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  “So what?” Creda shot back. “If no man will come to our aid, I’ll do it myself. I’ll perform my sister’s last rites.” She turned to Bouma again, her voice urgent. “Mother, get up. The sun is going to set soon, and we have so much to do.”

  Bouma glanced hesitantly between Creda and the other women, her mouth agape in uncertainty.

  Creda let out an impatient sigh. “Why are you looking at them? They’re not family to us. None of them are. It’s just you, me, and Samora. Now get up.”

  Bouma rose hesitantly, trembling.

  “Quick, Mother. Let’s lift her and take her to the cremation grounds before it’s too late,” Creda urged.

  But just as Bouma reached for the bier, a hand grabbed her arm.

  It was Nox.

  Creda’s expression darkened at the sight of him. “What do you want? Why are you here?” she demanded. “Did your uncle send you to cast more injustice on us? Are you here to stop us from doing what we’re supposed to do?” Her words came out in rapid-fire anger.

  Nox, his face impassive, ignored her tirade. When she finally fell silent, he turned to Bouma instead. “I’ll lift the bier, Aunt Bouma,” he said.

  “And I will too,” came another voice from behind them.

  They turned to see Bhola standing there, but Khotal held him back by the arm.

  “What are you doing? Didn’t you hear what the chief said?” Khotal hissed. “We’ll be punished for this.”

  “So what?” Bhola retorted. “We’ve never been part of them anyway. They won't even notice us missing. Come on, Khotal. Let’s help them lift the bier.”

  Khotal hesitated, his face pale. “I can’t do this,” he whispered before backing away, shaking his head. He turned and walked off without looking back.

  Bhola’s face fell for a moment, but he quickly composed himself. He turned to Creda with a sympathetic grin. “Never mind him. We’ll do this together. Here, let us help you,” he said, crouching down to lift the bier.

  But Creda grabbed his hand to stop him. “No, thanks. I know how to pay my sister her last respects. We don’t need anyone anymore,” she said sharply, deliberately avoiding Nox’s gaze. “We don’t need a savior. Mother, come on. Let’s go.” She crouched to lift the bier herself.

  Nox sighed, his voice heavy with sorrow. “We’re not here to play savior. We’re here to pay our respects. I want to be part of her funeral.”

  But Creda, too consumed by her anger, refused to hear him. “No, thanks. We’ll see to it ourselves. I said we don’t need anyone, and that’s final.” She turned away from him, adding bitterly, “And we certainly don’t need anyone else at her funeral.”

  Bhola frowned. “What’s the difference between you and the chief, then? Aren’t you the same as him? He’s keeping you from paying your respects, and now you’re pushing us away too.”

  Creda paused, contemplating her words. She knew Bhola was right—she was acting out of bitterness. But they could have saved her sister from dying, couldn't they? Why didn’t they?

  Nox nodded at Bhola to lift the bier, and together they did. This time, Creda did not interfere. Instead, she stepped toward her mother, seeking comfort, but Bouma refused to accompany them to the cremation grounds. She even tried to dissuade Creda from going, but Creda wouldn’t listen. She wanted to be with her sister until she couldn't, tradition be damned.

  Silently, she followed Nox and Bhola.

  Once they arrived at the cremation grounds, Bhola hesitated before speaking. “Maybe we should set up her pyre here. They’ve taken Turo near the river. We don’t want to risk grating on their nerves until this is over.”

  Creda opened her mouth, ready to snap, to say she didn’t care if it grated on anyone’s nerves. But then she stopped herself. What was the point in defying everything when there was nothing left to hold onto?

  Nox nodded at Bhola’s suggestion and set Samora’s body down. Together, Turo and Bhola began building the pyre.

  Creda scanned the area before her—the scattered bones, the sun-bleached skulls. Though daylight still lingered, the place felt wrong, as if the air itself rejected her presence. She wasn’t meant to be here. None of them were.

  She stood still as the pyre was prepared, watching in silence as Samora’s body was placed upon it. Bhola lit a torch, his fingers tight around the handle. He hesitated, glancing at Nox. Nox hesitated, glancing at her.

  Creda swallowed the sob rising in her throat. “I’ll light the pyre,” she said.

  Nox exhaled. “No. Let me.” His voice was quiet but firm. “If you had a man in your family, he wouldn’t have let a woman bear this alone. Consider me that man.” Before she could argue, he took the torch from Bhola and set the pyre alight.

  Flames caught, flickered, then roared to life, licking hungrily at every fold of Samora’s shroud. Heat warped the air. The scent of burning wood filled her lungs.

  Creda’s breath hitched. This was it.

  Her sister—the one she had grown up with, fought with, laughed with—was gone. And now, even her body would turn to ash. This fire was the last thread between them, and it was unraveling before her eyes.

  A low, keening wail built in her chest.

  Nox and Bhola stepped back from the growing heat, flanking her on either side as if shielding her from something unseen—ghosts, spirits or perhaps grief itself.

  For the first time, Creda wondered what it would have been like to have a father. A real one. One who would stroke her hair, hold her close, grieve beside her. Chief Marnoell could have been that, maybe, if only he hadn’t been so cruel.

  Her fingers brushed against Nox’s.

  She didn’t turn, didn’t look at him—just let her fingers linger, testing the warmth of his skin against hers. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe to remind herself she wasn’t entirely alone. Maybe to stop herself from shattering.

  He stiffened for a moment, then slowly, his fingers curled around hers.

  Rough. Warm. Grounding.

  The fire crackled, sending embers spiraling into the darkening sky.

  And Creda stood there, hand in hand with Nox watching her sister being turned into a pile of ash and bones.

  That’s a budding romance right there. What do you think of Creda and Nox together?