Death.

Was it really like what people say it was? Dread? The end? Pain?

Or was it a form of relief, a time when you really disappear and rest?

For the first time, I wished to be in that position..the quiet stillness of the grave where my father lay. It should have been me. Perhaps it would have been better if it were me.

Maybe.. Just maybe my life wouldn't be hell on earth or worse than hell.

I stood at the edge of the freshly turned earth, the scent of damp soil mingling with the faint perfume of lilies. The coffin, which was polished and dark, seemed too heavy for the world to bear. For a moment, I imagined it closing around me instead, a final escape from the suffocating weight of grief.

The crowd murmured, polite and calmed. Uniformed black. Family acquaintances, distant relatives, and a handful of loyal employees who had been with my father since the empire was just a name whispered among steel factories. Their faces were a blur. Only one stood out.

Damian.

He was tall, composed, a shadow of a man burdened by something he could not say. I had always trusted him, he had been my anchor, my fiancé, and a constant presence beside my father but today, even from afar, he seemed different. His eyes were guarded, unreadable, as if every glance carried a secret too heavy to speak aloud.

And then there was Elara.

My best friend or at least, someone I thought I could trust. She lingered near Damian, her hand brushing against his sleeve, just barely, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Something about her made me uneasy. I could not name it yet but we were all grieving, it was the grief. He was like a father to her, a father to all of us.

I forced myself to breathe, gripping the edges of my gloves until my knuckles whitened.

“Althea…” a voice murmured beside me. I glanced sideways. Seraphina, my stepmother, was there, gliding in her black silk gown, elegant in every movement, her smile was faint but precise, like a blade hidden beneath roses.

“Thank you for coming,” I said softly, though it was impossible to find warmth in my throat.

She tilted her head, her eyes glistening not with sorrow, but calculation. Always calculation, I thought. Even here, even now, she measured, weighed, and judged.

I turned back to the coffin. Something was…off.

My father Adrian had been strong. Always strong. His hands were once steady and warm, had been reduced to weakness, his chest weak, his color fading too quickly. The doctors had claimed it was a sudden illness, something rare, untraceable. But I remembered the look in his eyes the night before he died. It was of unease, suspicion, pain that wasn’t only physical. He had whispered a single word to me, barely audible “Watch them.”

Now, standing here, I felt it again, an itchy sense that this death had not been natural. That someone had wanted him gone. That someone had succeeded.

Lucien, my uncle.

His presence was subtle at first, just behind Seraphina, leaning slightly against the railing, his lips twitching as if amused by a private joke. The same uncle I had once trusted, was now a predator in the shadows of my grief. His eyes met mine for a second, and I shivered. He had won. Or at least, he thought he had.

The priest began to speak, his words floating around me. I hardly heard him. My thoughts were consumed by the man inside the coffin, by the warmth that had left him too soon, by the legacy that might be stolen before I could claim it.

And then Damian moved closer.

He bent slightly, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “Althea… I’m here.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. It was not comfort I felt, but tension, an unfamiliar tightness in my chest. His hand brushed against mine, not a touch of reassurance, but a reminder of everything I had once known, everything I had lost.

Elara stepped forward, her smile soft now, her tone gentle. “He was a remarkable man,” she whispered. “Your father… he loved you more than anything.”

Her words should have been soothing. But they weren’t. Somehow, they felt hollow, like she was too weak to console me and I understood, I really did.

The casket lowered slowly, the chains creaking. My father was slipping away, truly gone. I closed my eyes, trying to hold back the tremors of despair, trying to make the world stop spinning long enough to think clearly.

That’s when Seraphina approached.

“Althea,” she said softly, her voice smooth as silk. “Your father… he would have wanted you to be strong.”

Her hand hovered near my shoulder. I flinched. Every movement, every word from her felt like a test. I wanted to scream, to tell her she had done this, that she had poisoned him, that she had stolen my legacy, but no sound emerged. I had no proof, only instinct.

The finality of the shovel hitting the earth made me jump. I felt the heat of tears rising but kept my posture, because if I gave in here, they would see weakness. And weakness was dangerous. Especially now.

Damian’s hand pressed against mine again, firmer this time. “You’re not alone, Althea. Not now.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe anyone. But the calculating tilt of Seraphina’s head, the glint in Lucien’s eyes, they all reminded me that I had no one.

As the crowd dispersed, murmuring condolences, I stayed rooted, watching the coffin disappear beneath the soil. My father’s last lessons, his voice, his touch, all of it felt like a memory slipping through my fingers. And in that void, I realized something terrifying.

The world I knew was gone.

And whatever came next, whatever storm waited, I would face it alone.

But I would not break.

Not yet.