Page 61 of The Truth-Teller's Bargain
Not even one.
The thought did not flare or rage; it settled, heavy and unmoving, somewhere deep within her, where it would not be dislodged by reason or time.
She did not hear Dawes approach. There was only the faint disturbance of the air beside her and the muted crunch of frost giving way beneath a heavier step. She tightened her grip on Cyrus’s hand as he stopped beside her, feeling it in the shift of the air.
She was not ready for a lecture.
Not about the cost of war. Not about the way her heart recoiled each time blood was drawn, as though it still believed the world could be otherwise. Not about the weakness of her stomach or the softness that refused to harden no matter how many bodies lay at her feet. She was not ready to be told this was the price of what they were doing. That this was ordinary. That she would need to become something sharper if she intended to survive it.
The quiet between them stretched, filled only by the low scrape of shovels further down the line and the soft whisper of wind moving through the grass.
She waited for the words.
He drew in a breath, and she flinched.
“Do you know the rite?”
Alethea did not look up. Her fingers remained wrapped around Cyrus’s hand, the chill of it seeping slowly into her own. She shook her head.
Dawes lowered himself beside her with deliberate care, his movements unhurried, mindful of both the sanctity of the moment and the injury that made her posture so still. “Would you like to do it?” he asked.
The question caught her off-guard. Her throat tightened, a sudden resistance rising in her chest.
The rites belonged to those who had fought beside him—those who had known him beyond a passing greeting or a shared night of watchfires. She had no claim here. No right to stand in this moment where something sacred was being returned.
And yet Dawes had asked.
It did not matter that Cyrus’s death would remain with her, a quiet stone she’d carry for the rest of her life. It did not matter what she felt.
Cyrus had one last need of the living.
And she was here.
Her throat tightened further, but she managed a small nod. Dawes reached for the bowl of ash and held it out to her, reciting the words for her to speak.
“In Aevensor’s keeping,” he said quietly, “we return what was borrowed.”
She dipped her thumb into the ash, her hand unsteady as she touched the powder. It was softer than she expected, warm from the coals it had come from.
Dawes guided her without touching. “The brow,” he murmured.
She pressed her thumb gently to Cyrus’s forehead. The ash left a pale smudge against his skin. Her voice trembled as she recalled the words.
“For thought returned to stillness.”
“The throat.”
Her hand moved lower, the tremor in it barely contained. “For breath returned to wind.”
“The chest.”
The fabric of his tunic was cool beneath her fingers. “For blood returned to soil.”
“The hands.”
She hesitated there, already holding one.
Dawes waited.
