The wind blew heavy pockets of sand across the beach, blanketing everything with grit and ground, but the grave remained pristine, free of mud and soil. The girl knelt, polished the heavy stone at the head of the tomb. She watered the small, budding flowers that sprouted up along the green edges.

“What do people say of me?”

“They believe that you have turned fully to the Dark, my lady, that you have joined the ranks of the Faceless, and that you are preparing to lead the people of the lie to war.”

“And do you believe them?”

I chose honesty. “I do not know, milady.”

“I cannot blame you. The three who claim to lead the Faceless also draw in the Dark; most cannot tell us apart. Usij leads the southern faction—he makes a fortress out of the mountains in Daanoris and calls himself king, but he is all bark and bluster. Druj is wilier—he sows his discord in the west, and all city-states in Yadosha would pay a dear amount of money for his head. And as for Aenah, the last leader…”

She pauses. A curious, bitter smile is on her lips. “Not much is known about her save that she originally hailed from Tresea.”

“Mistress Tea,” I asked, “who is buried here?”

The grass stained her dress as she lay beside the grave, laid her cheek against the ground.

Sadly, she said, “A boy who died for me.”