Boundless Evolution: The Summoning Beast
Chapter 52: The Weight of the Torch

Chapter 52: The Weight of the Torch

The city of Westreach stood in solemn silence, draped in black as banners bearing the sigil of House Valen fluttered from every tower. A sea of mourners flooded the streets, nobles and commoners alike gathered to pay respects to their fallen hero. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and the soft hum of whispered prayers. The weight of loss pressed down upon the city, a silent grief woven into every hushed breath and bowed head.

Shops remained closed, their doors barred in a solemn mourning. The city’s great bell tolled in slow, measured intervals, its echo carrying across the rooftops, reaching even the farthest corners of Westreach.

From the highest spires to the lowest slums, all bore witness to the loss of the man who had once been their shield.

The people of Westreach, a river of black-clad figures, funneled towards Lake Elaria, the ancient and revered body of water that stretched beneath the towering estate of House Valen.

According to legend, the lake was once a battlefield where an ancient king made his final stand, only for the heavens to weep and flood the land, transforming it into a pristine expanse of silver.

It had become a place of remembrance, where the spirits of the fallen were honoured and the past was never forgotten.

Today, the shimmering expanse of water mirrored the deepening sky, lanterns bobbing upon its surface like golden fireflies, their gentle glow casting a warm, flickering light upon the gathered masses.

As the procession neared the lake, the people formed a solemn queue, each mourner approaching the lake’s edge with reverence. There, waiting, were a series of people dressed in white robes who were tending to the people and handing them lanterns, guiding them to the water and ensuring that each lantern was properly prepared for its journey. One by one- father, mother, son- knelt on the wooden platforms, carefully placing their lanterns onto the surface of the water, watching as they floated deeper into the lake.

As each lantern was set afloat, the water seemed to shimmer in response, rippling outward as if whispering back to the mourners.

Above the water’s surface, a lattice of strings stretched across the lake, carrying hundreds of fragile, oil-soaked blossoms—each one suspended between the heavens and the depths below.

The blossoms swayed, trembling. Their delicate parchment petals, hand-shaped with reverence, curled ever so slightly from the sacred oils that soaked them, waiting—waiting for the moment when their silence would break, and they would burn.

Each one bore a prayer.

Some were words of grief, written with shaking hands. Others were declarations of gratitude, of love, of devotion. Some were mere names—no words, no explanations, just the inked imprint of a heart too broken to speak.

They remained in quiet suspension, a constellation of unspoken goodbyes, waiting for the moment the flames would lick their fragile petals. Then, they would fall—drifting like stars, scattering embers into the night. A final farewell to the hero who had given everything.

At the northern shore, beneath the looming shadow of Valen Estate, stood a bridge of elegant marble that arched over the lake’s calm waters. The bridge itself was a masterpiece, its sides adorned with silver filigree and intricate carvings that contained the history of Westreach and the figure of Darius and his battles had been etched on it. It was a path of remembrance, leading to the place where his final tribute would take place.

It stretched towards a lone stretch of land at the lake’s heart. And on the stretch of land, rested the Grand Pyre, a towering structure made of darkwood and polished blackstone. Upon it lay all that remained of Darius- his insignia and his battle-worn cape alongside his belongings that he had pre-stated to be burned with him.

The pyre was adorned with fresh laurels and banners of House Valen, their dark blue and silver sigils fluttering softly in the night breeze.

A single priest stood in silent vigil around the pyre, his robes shimmering with embroidered sigils of remembrance.

Back at the northern shore, a brazier burned low, waiting to be used for the final rites. The flames flickered against the carved pillars, their shadows dancing over the water. This was the heart of the ceremony—the moment when Westreach would say its final goodbye.

Silence stretched across the city, heavy and expectant. The sky, once golden with the setting sun, had darkened, the first stars flickering in the void above. The last remnants of daylight bled into the horizon, casting deep indigo and violet streaks across the heavens. The lake reflected the shifting colors, mirroring the quiet passage of time as the light faded into night.

Then, in a sudden, resounding shift, the bell rang out again—this time in a different rhythm, sharper, commanding. A final call, not of mourning, but of transition, signaling the moment when Westreach would bid its hero farewell.

From the northern shore, Bennet Valen stepped forward, Seraphina and Lucas at his side. The three of them dressed in solemn elegant mourning clothes- Bennet in dark ceremonial robes lined with silver, Seraphina draped in flowing midnight-bleu fabric embroidered with the sigil of House Valen, and little Lucas, his small hands gripping his mother’s sleeve, dressed in simple black, his expression clouded with confusion and sorrow.

In Bennet’s grasp was a single torch. He approached the low-burning brazier, its embers casting wavering shadows across its surroundings. With a steady hand, he dipped the torch into the fire, watching as the flame flared to life and crept onto the torch, crackling with heat and purpose.

It was now that the ceremony truly began.

Bennet exhaled, feeling the weight of both the flame in his hand and the legacy at his back.

As the torchlight illuminated his solemn features, he took his first step forward onto the bridge, his voice steady but reverberating with unshaken resolve, "A man is not measured by the strength of his sword, nor the power of his name. A man is measured by what he gives."

The words carried over the silent lake, over the bowed heads of mourners, pressing into their hearts like a vow unbroken.

"That was the code my father lived by. He was not simply a warrior, nor just a ruler. He was a man who gave everything so that others would not have to. He stood so that we would not have to kneel. He fought so that our hands could remain steady in peace. He bore the weight of this kingdom, not with pride, but with love."

As they started their slow procession across the grand bridge, the glow of the torch illuminated the carvings along the marble path. Scenes of Darius’s triumphs, his battles, and the peace he had fought for shimmered in the golden light, their details flickering as though the past itself were alive in the fire’s reflection. The light danced over the etched figure of Darius at the bridge’s center—his sword raised, his gaze unwavering, the stance of a protector.

Lucas’s eyes widened as he traced his small fingers along the carved image of his grandfather. The smooth marble was cool beneath his touch, but in his mind, it was not stone—it was skin, warm and strong, the rough calloused hand that had once lifted him onto broad shoulders.

His lips quivered. His breath hitched. His small frame shook with the realization that the warmth was gone, forever.

"I miss you, Grandpa," he whispered. Then, his voice cracked. A sob tore free, small but raw, breaking the silence like a fracture in the stone beneath his hands.

Seraphina pulled him close, but the sound of his weeping carried through the still air.

Bennet faltered. For a moment, the torch in his grasp felt heavier, as though its fire had turned to lead. He had prepared for this moment for weeks—the speeches, the rituals, the weight of his father’s legacy. But he had not prepared for this.

Not for the sound of a child’s grief, sharp and unguarded.

The ache in his chest tightened as he felt the loss anew—not as an heir, not as a leader, but as a son left behind.

Nevertheless, he forced himself to breathe. Duty did not wait for sorrow. He swallowed hard and steadied his voice, "Strength is not in the battles we win. It is not in the lands we rule or the swords we wield. Strength is in what we leave behind."

"My father did not fight for glory; he fought so that we would never have to feel fear. He built this kingdom not with power, but with sacrifice. And though he is gone, his love, his courage—these things will never leave us."

He turned his eyes to the waters of Lake Elaris, where hundreds of unlit lanterns drifted, waiting for their moment to shine. Above, the fire blossoms swayed gently in the night breeze, their delicate petals trembling, suspended in quiet anticipation. The weight of Westreach’s sorrow hung between them all, held in the balance between night and light.

"The lanterns upon these waters are not merely flames waiting to be kindled," he continued, raising the torch slightly, "They are memories. They are the echoes of a man’s life, his love, his sacrifice. And above us, the blossoms that sway in the wind are the unspoken prayers of those who will carry his name forward. Tonight, as their flames rise, they will not burn as a farewell, but as a declaration. A declaration that the man we honor will never fade from this world."

The fire in his torch flickered, as though answering his call, its glow mirrored in the still waters of Lake Elaris. He took another step forward, leading Seraphina and Lucas toward the Grand Pyre, toward the moment that would mark the final passage of Darius Valen.

"This is not the end," Bennet declared, his voice firm, echoing across the water, "It is the beginning of the legacy he has left for us to carry."

As he and his family stepped onto the final stretch of the bridge, the golden glow of the torch danced across the polished blackstone of the Grand Pyre.

The priest, an elder figure clad in silver and white robes, stood at its base, waiting with solemn grace. The moment Bennet’s feet touched the ground of the sacred pavilion, the gathered mourners held their breath, the lake’s reflection shimmering with the light of countless unlit lanterns and blossoms waiting to be set aflame.

The priest raised his voice, his deep tone reverberating through the night, "Tonight, we do not merely mourn, but bear witness. We do not simply grieve, but remember. We stand here before the flame, not to say goodbye, but to honor the journey of a man whose name will never fade. Darius Valen was more than a warrior—he was the pillar upon which Westreach stood. And now, as his mortal remains pass into the fire, so too shall his deeds be carried beyond the reach of time."

Bennet lifted the torch, the flickering fire reflected in Lake Elaris, casting golden ripples across the water. He turned to face the mourners, his voice steady, his resolve unshaken.

"My father gave everything—not for power, nor for recognition, but for us. He fought in wars so that we would never know the horrors of battle. He stood unyielding against darkness so that we could walk in the light. His strength was not in the steel of his sword but in the kindness of his heart, in the sacrifices he made for this land. Tonight, we do not send him away. We send him forward—to the heavens, to the stars, to the memory of every soul who walks this land."

With measured steps, Bennet ascended the platform where Darius’s insignia and battle-worn cape lay atop the wood, surrounded by offerings of remembrance. The torch in his grasp felt heavy—heavier than any blade he had ever wielded but not from the steel, but the memory. Not with fire, but with legacy.