Reporters and cameramen flooded the venue of the funeral, broadcasting the premises, interviewing dignitaries and, as was their wont, making a general nuisance of themselves with exceeding relish. The gate, Ruban saw as their cab drove through it, was flanked by uniformed soldiers, who also brought up the rear of the venue, looking impressive in full military gear, like marble sculptures brought to life.

And then there were the Hunters. Hundreds of them, from every division in Ragah. And Ruban was sure some had arrived from beyond the capital as well; perhaps for the networking opportunity that such a gathering presented, or maybe just for the spectacle.

The Hunters weren’t in uniform, though. Every one of them was draped in some variant of mourning white. As were the politicians – grief-stricken in fashionably tailored tunics and jackets of the finest material. The who’s who of the IAW as well as the central government populated the venue – ministers, generals, diplomats – giving interviews, rehearsing speeches. Really, the only one missing was the Prime Minister himself, and Ruban had been personally assured by one of his aides that he would be arriving ere the end of the ceremony.

Subhas was to be cremated with full state honours, the media hailing him as a statesman, a hero. Flowers and letters sent from every corner of the country – and beyond – adorned the venue. Over the past few days, his face had dominated the front pages of almost every major newspaper, the story of Tauheen’s extermination aired on news channels around the world.

Had Ruban been of the inclination to be impressed, it was all very impressive.

And yet Hiya clung to him like she was drowning, clutching at his wrist with all her might as if he was all that kept her from the hordes of the underworld. Her eyes were bloodshot, face puffy and swollen from three days of constant, inconsolable tears.

She wasn’t crying now, though. She stood between him and Ashwin under a large tree near the peripheries of the funeral venue, her little body stiff under the numerous folds of her white silk frock. Every time he looked at her, Ruban half expected her to burst into tears. She looked seconds away from breaking, a rock teetering on the precipice. Indeed, Ruban hardly knew what held her back, apart from the sheer Kinoh stubbornness that ran in both their veins.

For all the relentless bawling she had done in the flat, her face buried in Ashwin’s soaked tunic, one of his wings wrapped protectively around her trembling, hiccupping form; she wasn’t going to cry in public, under the blinding flashes of a gazillion cameras.

Not even as complete strangers wept over her father’s body, some from genuine grief, others for the aforementioned cameras.

The sun had almost set by the time Ruban directed a murderous glare at another approaching reporter, sending the young woman scampering off after the Kanbarian ambassador – who happened to have wandered into her vicinity – and away from their little unit. He was too late to pre-empt the flash that went off, almost blinding them, from the other side of the venue, though. Ruban tensed, his mind flying automatically back to the fight, to the flashes of Tauheen’s devastating energy blasts.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Years of training – aside from Ashwin’s vicelike grip on his arm – was the only thing that kept him from reaching for his blade, from physically attacking the cameraman and grinding the offending device into dust.

A whimper, soft and quick, escaped Hiya. Ruban looked down at his cousin – his little sister in all but name – and felt the anger drain from his body, leaving him shaky with the sudden absence of adrenaline. And something like relief. A crying Hiya made his heart ache with helplessness, but a silent one terrified him.

The dam had broken, however, and tears flowed unchecked down her face, turning her nose red and causing damp spots to appear on the collar of her frock. She sobbed, sniffed, hiccupped, then sobbed again, the moans gaining in volume and energy with every passing second.

Standing awkwardly by, a hand pressed to her spasming shoulder, Ruban felt the now familiar dread creep back up his spine. Even after three days, he didn’t really know how to deal with this. What to do when Hiya got like this.

He had never been much of a consoler. And now, with all the secrets, all the lies, he seemed to be even worse at it than he normally was.

Ashwin dropped to his knees, his face level with Hiya’s blotchy, tear-streaked one. Ruban spared a moment to be thankful for immortal Aeriels practiced in the art of consoling distraught little girls.

Carding his fingers through her messy hair, he murmured something into her ear. Almost instantly, Hiya’s sobs quieted, subsiding into tremulous little hiccups. “R-Really?” she sniffled, wide-eyed, wiping snot off her cherry-red nose with a silken sleeve.

“Yep,” said Ashwin, nodding gravely. “Everyone knows it. Didn’t you?”

Hiya shook her head, looking confounded. Then she looked up, peeking through the leaves of the shami tree at the overcast sky above. The moon was all but obscured, a few stars glimmering weakly here and there as the clouds passed over them. “Really?” she said again, her tone incredulous.

“Uh-huh,” replied Ashwin, with a confidence born of centuries of unrelenting self-assurance. “When someone dies, they become a star. They live in the sky, shining for everyone they left behind on earth, and watching over them.”

“So he’s there?” Hiya exclaimed, something like hope colouring her voice for the first time in days. Ruban’s heart clenched in his chest and he turned away, blinking back tears he couldn’t afford to shed at the moment. “Baba is looking down at me right now?!”

“Of course,” the Aeriel assured her. “And if he sees you so sad, he’d be sad too, wouldn’t he?”

Hiya nodded, determination setting into her features. “You’re right. I won’t cry anymore. I won’t. Baba was a hero. Everyone says so. What would he think if he saw me crying?”

“He’d think you loved him. Love him, dearly.” Ashwin smiled, patting her on the head in a way that would have gotten Ruban’s hand bitten off, had he ever displayed the temerity to try it. Coming from Ashwin, though, it just generated a sniffle and a tentative little smile. “But he loves you too. So he wouldn’t want you to be sad, would he? Not even for him.”

Hiya nodded fervently, running the hem of her frock over her tear-and-snot stained face; leaving splotch-marks on the expensive fabric that would probably cost a small fortune to remove.

Ruban had never been more grateful in his life.