“That's impossible."

“Oh yeah, definitely. But with that ring on my finger I figure I managed quite a few impossibilities that night. Anyway, I thought you should know I'll be doing as he asked and prodding you back into the land of the Living until you give in." He blinked and then looked down at the weapons and the thin razor-chains still resting beside her. "Or until you turn me into a shish-kebab with these things."

“I would never hurt you, master."

"I hoped that'd be the case. Don't think that we're not going to have a conversation somewhere down the line about these things and how you got to use them, by the way." He returned his attention to her rather than her tools of evisceration.

“But for now, let's go out and get dinner with the others. Then we can go to the funeral and remember our friends, and how happy they made us."

Talina remained still for a time, and her gaze wandered back to the rack of tools. Then she shut her eyes tightly as she forced a change in her mind, or at least the veneer of one. When they flickered open once again, her gaze was more in focus and it shifted back toward Gregory

She stood up and he followed her lead. Hand in hand, they felt the strength of their friendship in their touch before walking out together into the sunlight.

Many turned out to pay their respects to the courtesan and the blacksmith. Nearly every orc who had used Torren's practice weapons in the training glade turned up carrying what the craftsman had made for them. Every smith in the Embervine encampment turned out for the event as a sign of respect for the human's work, and for his bravery.

Gregory saw a number of orcs and human slaves he wasn't familiar with at first, and discovered they were Lydia's regular customers. They sat in a circle as the assembly was formed and told the stories she had loved to tell them. Fiona sat with them for a time, before searching out Talina so that they could cry together for their friend.

Once the assembly was finished, the time came to Light the fires. Both

Torren and Lydia's bodies had been placed within a chamber of branches on top of several crossed stacks of wood. Flammable oil had been doused over the pyres, and as Gregory approached them it smelled oddly sweet rather than carrying the chemical musk he'd expected.

Silence fell and heads lowered in mourning when Valise handed him the first torch. He had been told that it was his duty to Light the fires, as a master's sign of respect to his fallen servants. The act symbolised a last service to them in thanks for theirs to him in life.

He walked around the pyres, lighting them in the places he had been told and trying his damndest to do the job right. Tears were streaming down his cheeks by the time he was finished, and he offered the torch back to Valise.

The flames began to roar up into the darkening sky, and one by one the orcs began to sing. It was a slow, mournful song. The Last Song. Not something often sung for the passing of humans. Gregory couldn't join in, but he found the slow rhythm of the melody and hummed along with it whilst wiping his tears away and Looking into the flames.

When the song finished, the crowd began to disperse and only a few came to speak with him afterward. The first was the father of Frun, who carried with him a long torch of his own and said his name was Idrik.

He was a bulky orc, and had a bald head along with large black beard streaked with silver. A golden ring pierced his ear, and the resemblance to Frun wasn't difficult to spot. When he introduced himself, Gregory felt something inside him almost break. It was only uncertainty that kept him silent, as he was unsure how to apologize for the death of the orc’s son.

Idrik didn't seem to want an apology.

“My son always had trouble fighting. He was too stout for the charge, and he wasn't the fastest. I am glad that he met you, Gregory Hopkins.

He fought well with you." The orc smiled sadly, and then as if remembering it was in his hand he offered out the torch.

“On the night he died, Frun fought with this. His monument will stand in our home, but I had heard you might be raising human death-stones here for your friends. My son talked of the smith, and a little of the courtesan. He liked them. I thought his last weapon might give light to their resting places."