Seven full days had passed since Vell and Sonder had arrived at the elven castle, and in all that time, there had been no official word from the council.
No declarations, no plans, not even the whisper of any formal procession.
The days drifted on; time felt slow here—stagnant.
Each morning arrived gently, with the sun spilling through the grand windows of their chambers. And each night fell quietly, casting the palace grounds in cool blue shadow.
Vell and Sonder had done what they could to pass the time. They wandered the palace's outer paths, spoke with dignitaries and diplomats, and met envoys both familiar and strange; sat beneath trees; and shared lavish feasts with the other guests at mealtimes.
And no matter with whom they talked, new or old, they also knew nothing about the processions.
Since her arrival, Limerence had not come to visit again. They saw her now and then, drifting like smoke in red silks, always speaking to someone new. But the encounters never lasted long.
She would pause, speak with some dignitary or noble envoy, and leave shortly after realizing they knew just as little as everyone else.
But on the seventh morning, something changed.
Just as the horizon blushed with the first light of dawn, a single bell rang.
It wasn't loud. Nor was it particularly deep. But the tone was pure, clear, high, and precise.
The ringing spread far and wide, threading through stone corridors and sun-warmed gardens. It reached every guest chamber, every garden, and every lone corner of the palace grounds.
Every guest paused, and even the birds stopped singing.
Then came the footsteps. A dozen elven attendants moved through the halls, gliding like spirits, knocking softly on doors, and offering the same message to all:
"The Council of Mourning has convened. If you wish to hear their statement, gather in the central courtyard."
Vell and Sonder made their way with the others, joining a slow march of every size and color.
Delegates of every race and realm fell into quiet step, robes rustling, hooves tapping, and weapons were sheathed, though hands remained ready.
They arrived at the central courtyard just before the sun had risen fully. The space was vast and paved with smooth white stone.
At its center stood a large circular fountain filled with crystal-clear water. The fountain made no sound. It simply glowed, reflecting the pale sky above.
Behind it loomed the castle's front gates, immense and white as bone, shut tight.
At the center of the courtyard, before a marble pedestal, stood a tall elf draped in flowing silver ceremonial robes. His hair was long and a pale gold.
When he spoke, his voice rang clear, not loud, but perfectly pitched.
"Honored guests," the herald began, "the Council of Mourning has convened. After due reflection, we now proclaim that the High Queen's Laying of Rest will be held in seven days' time."
A soft wave of murmurs passed through the gathered guests but quickly quieted as he continued:
"Until that time, the palace grounds remain open to all in mourning. If you wish to speak at the ceremony, submit your request to the stewards. You are invited to remain, to reflect, to offer tribute or memory as you see fit. Your presence is noted and appreciated."
The herald bowed his head slightly and stepped back.
From the crowd, a voice muttered under its breath, "Seven more days?"
But his companion beside him replied quickly, "That's fast, for elves, isn't it?"