Guilt writhed inside of Luvena. She was a champion candidate, a member of the court, one who had welcome Ira with open arms as their new sovereign, and yet her she was, stood yards away from the city walls, missing the festival, and with no intentions to join everyone in time for the coronation. “You could just go for the very end” Picoro murmured softly, his breath whispering over her thin mane. “When the festival is mostly over, offer your congratulations to Ira” 

She shook her head. “I cant.” she replied, her voice very nearly shaking, and Yara pressing up against her legs. “I’ll offer Ira my congratulations and well wishes after.”  When the smoke has cleared, she thought. She knew her absence might be noted, she had so far put her name out to many as a participant in the trials, and she was making a bit of a name for herself as a healer on the outskirts of the market. She could have told Ira she wouldn’t be there, told him why. But somewhere, shame curdled inside her, for the panic that grew even from this distance. 

“Why watch from here then?” Picoro asked, “Why not go visit Rhone in Terrastella, or Galileo in Solterra”. She didn’t respond. Though the sight in front of her made her want to cower, she couldn’t turn her gaze away from it, as if her head was stuck in place, her hooves cemented to the earth.

They had had a similar festival in Herstial, except theirs was on the winter solstice, and celebrated something far darker. It was a remembrance of the day Ma Testri had been killed, burned alive, hundreds of years ago, by her many many times great-grandfather. As a child she had thought it such a joyous day, one where they feasted and sang songs around the massive bonfire, haunting tunes, with reeds and drums singing behind them. And at midnight, they too had a burning horse, but theirs was a gruesome and twisted woven willow depiction of the witch. One that was carried in by her mother and father, and chucked, somewhat unceremoniously into the flames. 

She used to relish in the smell of smoke after, even as it had burned her weak lungs. Had watched everyone dance with glee around the dying embers while she sat quietly to the side, between her mother and father. Oftentimes she looked at the crowns they each wore, her fathers a heavy metal circlet, so finely crafted, to look like interwoven branches of willow, but all cast in silver, imported from one of the neighboring kingdoms.  Her mothers matched in style, but the interwoven silver was made to resemble a flower chain instead, with all sorts of wildflower shapes bursting out of the mane frame. Each was secured to their head with strands of braided hair woven into the circlets. She remembered when she was very small, at her first festival, marvelling at the way the firelight danced on the silver. 

She had seen, in the jewelry room, the circlets she was supposed to don as she grew. They had ones made for both a prince and a princess of course, just in case. Each a combination of her parents crowns, willow branches twisted together, but the ones meant to be hers cast in rose gold instead. The smallest one had only carvings of flower buds, but with each size up they blossomed into full flowers.  

They had of course, decided as soon as she was born, that she would never be able to carry such a thing on her head, and so they had stored them away, and instead had a new set made from her. Her’s was virtually the same, but instead of metal, it was carved from light wood, and to maintain some sort of finesse, they had carved  swirling lines into each piece. She had only worn that rose gold crown once, on the day of her wedding, the day of her husband's coronation. 

It struck her suddenly that she was , technically, still married. Those days, flames had held warmth. The solstice, and not just that, but quiet nights sitting by the fire with her parents, and grandparents, a warm fur draped across her withers.  The quiet bonfires that often flickered among the poorer areas, as families gathered to share what they had and tell stories. Often she snuck out to join them. None of that though could quell what had taken its place.

She had watched with caution all summer as they had started preparing the pyre. It was easy to tell who was part of the proper construction and who wasn’t. Craftsmen hired by the regime came into the city with carts full of logs, likely harvested from around the lake, or the foothills of the mountains, and carefully placed them inside of the stone circle that had been placed down early on. But other court members pitched in too, weavers put their scraps into the bottom, as kindling. Carvers would put their failed projects in as extra fuel. Luvena did her best not to watch.

She watched as they started, knowing they had lit the burning horse when the first tendrils of smoke curled up above the stone walls. Slowly it grew, until she could see the tips of the flames flickering upwards, flinching every time a spark flew upwards. Even from here she could smell the smoke, which billowed upwards. Even at this distance she could feel herself tensing. 

It had looked the same way that day in Herstial, though there had been more than one tower of smoke. They had curled into the sky, and she had had only a moment to watch, before she found herself being rushed away, and before she knew it was running, her legs almost immediately crying out beneath her, coughing as smoke filled her lungs. Her crown came loose with the braids on her head,  lost somewhere behind her, and looking up she could see her parents, too, no longer donned theirs. 

Crucis had looked different, the trees far too high, and thick, for any of them to see the sky. Instead it was raging flames all around them, unimaginably tall trees falling across escape routes, and smoke so thick you could hardly see them to begin with. She wished her mind had been too muddled afterwards for her to remember any of it. But she could still recall every moment. Fleeing through the fire, pressed up between Io Kairavi and Orchid. A log blocked their path, and she remembered being pushed to go first. She had fallen on her landing, which was no surprise, what was thought was that she had made it over at all. Orchid has followed, urging her back to her feet.   

And she would never forget the moment after, as the flames had suddenly risen higher, with Io still behind them. Her scream as she launched herself through them. The scar that had lingered forever after. They had been split up at some point, all stumbling off separately, trying to heave the smoke out of their lungs.  She had woken up near the lunar mountains some time later. 

It was her and Oberon who had first started to restore the burned portions of the forest. Naming them the kings clearing, after Vander. They had planted a new tree there, buried an idol. But she had never felt comfortable standing in those ashes. 
 
She shuddered, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the chilling breeze that came with autumn, or if it was from the chilling onset of memories. Her ears flickered back at the sound of footsteps far behind her, and a moment later Mithras barking overshadowed them. She made no effort to turn around though, she was still within eyesight of the city's guards, and it would be foolish of anyone to try anything here. 

“Lu?” Picoro started, startling her, as she had slipped back into her thoughts, still staring at the faint glow ahead. “I think it’s Israfel”  She paid him almost no mind, still lingering on the image of three crowns, sunken into the ashes. The orange light of embers flickering off the silver and gold.

@Israfel