Page 115 of Crown of the Courtesan

We trust you to comply with this directive and keep her at your residence until we retrieve her. Any attempt to obstruct will be considered an offense and will invite severe consequences. To prevent further fraternization, she shall be placed in the Solarian’s Spirit-Fae Cathedral. Please store this letter for official record-keeping purposes. There is no need to respond.

Yours in service,

High Priestess Berenice

Beatrix whispers, “They took your grandmother to the Solarian Islands?”

I blink many times over, trying to understand. Why would there be a cathedral in the Solarian Isles? They gave up Lady Courtesans for concubines ages ago. The weathered missive crinkles as I carefully fold it back, preserving its fragile state.

Examining a broken jewelry box, Alisse says, “So, let me get this straight. You have a tongueless priestess for a grandmother? Will you be trying to save her too, or will you just cry about it to anyone who will listen like you usually do?”

I begin to seriously question why I allowed her to tag along. Somehow, I bite out, “Don’t be ridiculous. We have no way to know if she’s still alive, and even then, how would we sail across the sea?”

Agitation pricks at me from all sides.

I don’t have time for this.

Digging through my past wouldn’t help my current problems. I need to move on so I can focus on the real issues at hand, like Klara.

Beatrix shakes her head while confusion knits between her eyebrows. “These aren’t the same letters I found a few weeks ago. If I find those letters from Theodora again, would you like me to set them aside for you?”

With a curt nod, I leave and head for training.

* * *

Tonight is our final night as the grounds transform into a sacred space under a clear sky. Led by Rett, the orc soldiers gather in the grove beside the stables, arranging themselves in a circle. The moonlight casts a soft glow, framing the deep sorrow on their faces. The silence is palpable, broken only by the gentle breeze rustling through the sparse leaves remaining on the trees.

Rett stands with his head slightly bowed, torch flames distorting his handsome features into something unrecognizable. He steps into the center of the grove, his deep voice resonating. “Tonight, we give thanks and bid farewell. We honor our dead, not with magic, but with ancient rituals never forgotten.” Rett’s torch gutters as he whispers a prayer. The flame dissolves into mist on the wind.

Beatrix and I step back to watch from a respectful distance. The intricacies pique my curiosity as she leans closer, whispering, “I’ve never seen an orc’s Death Ceremony before. There’s an intense dignity about it.”

Within the circle, Rett holds aloft a metal helmet, battered and beaten; his voice carries a seriousness rarely heard from him. “Without bodies, we must cast our brothers’ spirits to receive proper passage to the Otherworld.” That’s when I notice the pile of helmets at his feet, and my stomach clenches. How many died because of me?

Thrak chants, swaying his body as Rett beats the helmet like a drum. Drakka joins in, harmonizing. Gorrash strikes his spear against the ground, emphasizing the rhythm of their melody. An eerie ambiance sends gooseflesh down my arms.

The orcs step forward individually, each holding the helmet and murmuring words of remembrance. Thrak presses his forehead to it, his eyes squeezed against tears. Drakka lifts his spear, pointing his blade to the stars in salute.

In the following quiet, Rett marches, raising the helmet toward the moon and calls out to Drakka in a beastly cry. His emerald hand contrasts with the shining red metal’s reflection in the moonlight.

Rett is a beacon, beaming across to the soldiers. “May your spirits soar with the winds, and may your essence join the stars.”

I whisper to Beatrix, “Their tradition is so overwhelming and so… so… beautiful.” She clings to my arm as we stand close for warmth.

The ceremony concludes when they lower the helmet and the orcs stand in silent reverence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot some courtesan students, wrapped in their paisley dressing robes and with their hair hanging in rag curlers, edging around the outskirts of the gathering.

I try not to chuckle as I observe them arguing between themselves. Beatrix glances at me apprehensively but slowly smiles when she sees what they are carrying.

“Do you think they’ll get mad?” asks a young girl.

They huddle, heads bent, while they dart glances at the warriors. “I don’t think so. They’ve been so nice to us,” the older one answers.

“We’ll present it together,” Elodie declares, leading the pack. “Remember, we shouldn’t fear the orc men. They’re more scared of us—at least that’s what Rett says…”

The girls approach with crimson-blushing cheeks, presenting an evergreen wreath intricately woven with white and yellow wildflowers.

Thrak clears his throat before he takes their offering, grinning ear to ear. “Dell would have loved this. His mother grows buttercups just like these where he was raised.”