### **The Funeral of Rennick** The people of Rivermarch gathered in solemn silence as the funeral procession made its way beyond the city’s edge, to a quiet field where the wind whispered through the tall grass. It was a place untouched by fire or steel, a place of peace—now consecrated as the resting ground for those who gave their lives in service to the city. Rennick’s body lay upon a wooden bier, draped in the banner of the Rivermarch Guard he had sworn to protect. His fellow initiates, the first "Steelborn" trained by Maximus, walked beside him—not as warriors, but as mourners. Their formation was imperfect, hearts heavy and eyes red, but they stood proud, the symbol of a young city’s resolve. Maximus stood at the head of the gathering, an unmoving sentinel against the fading light of the evening sun. The burnished metal of his frame reflected the golden hues of dusk, making him seem almost lit from within. He looked out upon the people—the guards who had known Rennick as a comrade, the Ysoki who had only just begun to call this place home, the humans, kobolds, and elves who had weathered storm and war together—and the families who now understood the cost of the peace they sought to build. He spoke, his voice steady and clear, amplified not by magic, but by design—built to command attention. > “Rennick was among the first to step forward when Rivermarch needed defenders. He was not born into knighthood, nor did he carry a noble name—yet he took up the duty all the same. He was a man of courage, of will, of sacrifice.” A breeze passed over the field, and somewhere in the back, a child began to cry softly. > “His loss is a wound upon this city. But wounds heal. The guard will remember this pain. The city will remember this pain. And from it, we will learn. We will grow stronger—not just in steel and stone, but in unity. In purpose.” A hush fell again as the bier was lowered into the grave. Sir Brinnard Whitewood stepped forward first, driving a shovel into the dirt. No flourish, no ceremony—just quiet duty. Then each member of the council, one by one, followed suit. Brinn, his hands steady despite the weight of grief. Tybalt, bowing his head before casting the earth. Gideon, whispering a blessing in a tongue only his eidolon understood. Tartuk, uncharacteristically silent, his tail coiled tightly around his leg. Even the kobold work crews who had delivered the city’s stone stood off to the side, claws pressed to their hearts. Tartuk had insisted they be present—not as servants, but as citizens. A simple marker stood at the grave’s head, carved with Rennick’s name and a phrase Maximus had chosen: _“He stood first.”_ And then—unexpectedly—Linzi stepped forward, lute in hand, her voice trembling as she began a soft song. It wasn’t grand or formal. Just a melody carried on the wind, telling the story of a young man who had once stood at the gates and said, “I will.” As the sun dipped behind the horizon, the people lingered. Not out of obligation, but because something had shifted. Rennick’s death had not only consecrated the field—it had consecrated Rivermarch itself. From this loss, a city was becoming a nation. And somewhere, far away in Pitax, a rival king would soon hear whispers that Rivermarch had buried its first guardian—and did not break.