Chapter 83
A day later, Anastas stood beneath a fruit tree.
The branches stretched wide above him, heavy with ripe fruit that no one had come to harvest. The grass beneath his feet was overgrown, wild, left to grow as it pleased. And at the base of the tree, side by side, two tombstones stood.
His face was solemn.
The playful mask he wore like armor—the jokes, the smiles. In its place was something raw. Something real.
He gestured to the guard.
"Return to the clan."
The guard bowed and departed without a word. His horse's hooves faded into the distance, and then there was only silence. The rustle of leaves and distant call of birds.
Anastas turned to face the tombs.
"Mother. Brother."
His voice m tranquil. Barely audible.
"I have arrived."
He dropped to his knees. From his sleeve, he produced a flower—small, white, delicate. He placed it on the earth between the two graves, where the soil had long since settled and the grass had grown thick above them.
