In silence, we had made our way to the exit of the Chillrest Dungeon. After the battle, I’d ignored the other two as they collected the treasure and harvested the drake in favor of spellcrafting a levitating stone coffin for Ram’s remains. It wasn’t the first time I’ve used [Earth Manipulation] for this purpose, but I never found it easy to do with someone I knew. Immediately before the entrance of the dungeon stands a fortified barracks and tollhouse supporting a dozen guards should a monster escape. To my left, the three high towers of the King's Seat, the greatest castle in the kingdom, peeking up into the horizon from where it sat in the very center of the city. Beyond that was an open-air market, with tables and crowds catering mostly focused on trading items bought or sold by adventurers. There were maybe twenty or thirty people besides the normal merchants and market-goers gathered around the exit ready to cheer for our success.

This mob of lackeys, originally hoping that cheering on victorious delvers would earn them a spot of victorious charity, quickly saw the mood of our party. Cheers and well wishes became the murmurs of quiet conversation, but only for a moment. It didn’t take them long to return to normal volume. Sycophants. It just shows how they’re more attached to riding along an adventurer’s potential success than they are to the adventurer themselves. The scum.

Behind me, I heard as Nina spoke to Erik, “Did you see that? He hasn’t shed a single tear! How cold-hearted can one be?”

Nina's question was rhetorical, of course. Tall and pretty, her muscular build suited the plate mail she wore. She spoke as if I couldn’t hear her. That was just her way. For the decade I’ve known the [Paladin], I've long since realized she wasn’t as open-hearted as one would expect.

Erik’s answer, though, was loud and clear. His voice cascaded over the crowd, “Well, if it means more loot for us, then more loot for us!”

The crowd cheered with his words as if they were entitled to a coin of our prize. His brashness now was at odds with how he normally carried himself. The short man, with a head of curly dirty blonde hair, was normally soft-spoken. Maybe pretending not to care was how he dealt with death, putting on an act in a contemptible show of nonchalance. Or, maybe, this was his way to redirect Nina to a different topic of conversation.

“Erik! Do you know no shame?” Nina asked, “What if it was you?”

“But it wasn’t, was it? I am alive and well, and the split need only go three ways now!” The bastard answered. My anger was about to get the best of me, and I gave him a sharp look before turning down a side way to leave the market by a different direction. I didn’t want to hear their conversation or face the crowds or really speak at all. Not when I had such a heavy heart.

Instead, I took the in-between paths away from the market. Despite several attempts by the city, the third ring lacked a purposeful layout of buildings. Few entrances or exits to shops were along the same road. Houses and temples, shops and schools were built next to each other with no thought given for their placement beforehand. While the few markets and thoroughfares in the third ring might contain crowds, the normal roads and paths were often sparsely traveled. Those whose paths crossed with mine were quick to move out of the way of a wizard followed by a coffin. More than once, I saw someone make gestures that warded away ill-luck.

It was almost dusk when I arrived at the undertaker’s lot. As with the other buildings, this two-story was also constructed in local light blue stones, though the ornate coffins on display outside did set it apart. It wasn’t the first time I’d been here, though almost a decade had passed since my last visit. Oddly situated between a pottery shop and the winemakers’ guildhouse, the only reasonable note about its location is that it was near precisely equal distance between the two dungeons. There were, of course, less than a handful of other undertakers in the city. Those few others serviced the residents of the fifth ring and held reputations as poor as their location.

The entrance itself was a thick set of double doors made of dark wood shined to a high gloss. I only knocked once, and the door opened promptly. Inside, the floor was made of the same dark slate as the street, but faded stains of blood and bile marked the difference. Several heavy oaken tables were laid about in no particular fashion, though the rightmost held up the body of a child. Beside that table a couple cried and held each other, the husband whispered softly to his wife.

“Please come in,” a heavyset woman gestured me inside with an open hand. Her face and voice held a practiced gravitas, though her hair seemed frayed and her clothes covered by a slightly worn burgundy apron.

I gave a single nod before I entered. The stone casket floated in behind me. If she was surprised it didn’t show.

The frontmost table, I saw, supported the corpse of a horse. Before it a young nobleman in green silk argued at an elderly undertaker, “—what do you mean you do not have a casket for my poor Bloodfire? You can make one! Why, I loved her more than my own mother! You absolutely must—”

Any other day, I may have been entertained or outraged by the thoughtlessness to bury a horse while a couple grieved their child nearby, but today it was meaningless. I let her lead me to an empty table, and moved the casket to lay on it.

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“My friend, Ram Stonemouth. Dwarven,” the words themselves nearly broke me. I could hardly speak for fear of bursting into tears.

“Do you know if he had any preference to ceremony?” She asked politely.

I shook my head, “No, I’ve yet to tell his family, though. I imagine they might.”

She nodded her head, “Certainly. We can maintain his body as it is now for a fortnight before a decision should be made. Adventurer?”

I nodded.

“Good, the guild usually covers the cost of burial, but it's rare that we see a dwarf. I will have to consult for their peculiarities.” She spoke hesitantly.

I almost gave her a sharp look. How could she speak of costs when I had just lost my best friend? But I knew that it was only her job, and she wouldn’t feel the pain I felt. With a deep breath, I answered her unspoken question, “I will notify his wife. Anything the guild doesn’t cover you may ask of me. Send to Nemon Fargus at the Arcanum of Elementalus. Do you need me to open it?” I gestured at the stone coffin I had made.

“No, the system is showing it as a [Coffin], so our skills will work. Is there anything else?”

I shook my head and left. I needed to speak to his wife before she heard from someone else.

With my mind in a fog, I made my way towards one of the square tower gatehouses for foot traffic that led to the fourth ring. The guards didn’t stop me as I passed through, but leaving near always felt easier than when I returned.

The roads and pathways in the Trader’s Ring were no different than the third, built from the same dark slate cobblestones. Those who walked these streets were more likely to wear clothes of their trade than any of the fashions of the third circle. While the buildings here were still built from the same blue stone, many were not in as good repair. Those buildings that boasted a second story, had the higher level built solely with darkened timber walls and matching shingles. This difference was not a large one, though the buildings here were also less ornately decorated. On occasion, some of the unskilled laborers from the fifth ring could be seen as they walked about, their appearance noticeable by their threadbare clothes or bare feet.

Unlike the third ring, there was a more evident division amongst the buildings, with houses closer to the inner wall, and warehouses closer to the outer one. The roads were also wider, so as to deal with the wagons that hauled heavy loads of raw materials. The city’s granaries were also situated in the Trader’s Ring, with silos that stood tall on every third street around the circle. The larger roads in the fourth ring and the wider spaces between its more common one-story buildings allowed a chilly spring air to push snow flurries about. The weather would have been suited to a jacket or thin coat, but I didn’t feel a thing.

Dusk settled, and I saw the various street posts whoosh to light. Certainly, a marvel of magical enchanting that I once had a hand in designing, though any pride had long since washed away. It seemed to be the signal for the end of the workday, as many craftsmen and laborers came out of their buildings to form a river of men and women headed home for the day.

It was in a morose fugue that I made my way to the smithy and home of my closest friend. Each step was harder to take than the one before it, like an invisible weight pressed against me. Regret and shame burned, and more than once I found myself standing still at a crossroads with no attention spent to those around me. I would have been an easy mark for a pickpocket, though few would dare to steal from a wizard.

I don’t know for how long I stood before Ram’s house. The dusk had turned to night, and, except for the occasional drunk or guard the streets had cleared. The familiar one-story cottage possessed a single shuttered window facing the street, and a wooden door with brass banding and knocker. The home connected to a covered smithy next door; the smells of metalwork evident across the whole street. Ram was the type of person to throw himself fully into everything he did, and his home reflected that. Despite how welcoming the home looked, and how I’d spent more than the occasional evening sharing a fine dinner and ale here, I hesitated. This was not a conversation I wished to have.

It was my suggestion to my friend Ram to go on one last adventure. A way to close out that part of his life so he could focus on his future with their new son, I'd claimed. A way to ensure that he didn't feel that his time as an adventurer was left unfinished. Lutha was against it, of course. She was always against him adventuring, but that's part of who he is. Was. Who he was. And this time, she'd been right. Now, the rest of his life was left unfinished. So, in my mind, I set most of the adventure through the dungeon to word. I carefully choose how I would tell my best friend’s wife that her husband was gone. My shoulders and hair collected snowflakes while I thought.

Eventually, with a sigh, I knocked. I heard the shuffle of feet as I waited. Soon, the door creaked open revealing Ram’s wife Lutha, carrying in her arms his son, Little Ram. Compared to Ram’s short black hair and beard, Lutha had short brown hair and freckles. And piercing blue eyes. Though they weren’t always piercing, only now as they looked around behind me before settling in an accusing glare. A glare that was the least of what I felt I deserved.

“Lutha, about Ram. I—” I began, but the words that I’d prepared moments before were already lost.

“No. Where is he?” She demanded. Her tilting accent was at odds with her curt words. An undercurrent of anger made her question a demand. The normally jovial woman showed no signs of happiness. Not that I blamed her.

My mouth opened as if to speak, but I couldn’t force any words out. With a pained grimace, I looked away. We stood in silence for a while, with only the sounds of the wind and the occasional gurgle from Little Ram.

“Nemon,” she said softly, and I glanced up. I wished I hadn’t. “I know Ram loved you like family, but I… I hope never to see you again.” While her voice no longer had the edge of anger but a solemn weight that hurt more than I could have ever imagined. Her expression was one of condemnation.

I closed my eyes and nodded slowly. If that’s all she wanted, that’s the least I could do. It didn’t mean it hurt any less. It wasn’t until I heard the door slam shut and Lutha’s anguished scream that I opened my eyes again and started slowly to make my way home.