The House of the Reaper has opened its arms to welcome:
Novices K. and Mcnoodlies.
Operative TwistedToaster.
Their contributions and dedication to our cause will be honored through the Net and through the Stars.
---
The tension that had gripped the colony in the wake of Mark's revelations and the lockdown did not evaporate overnight, but the human spirit possessed a remarkably stubborn elasticity. Over the next few days, the chaotic rhythm of survival forced the city to return to a state of functional normalcy.
The wind turbines continued their rotations, funneling steady power into the grid, the industrial machinery roared back to life, the deep-core borers churning through the rocks and minerals of the northern mountains, and the agricultural sector had begun to bloom with the vibrant greens of rapidly growing, genetically modified crops.
Meanwhile, the Peacekeepers and Vanguard mercenaries maintained their vigilant patrols, their eyes scanning the dense jungle foliage. The fear the Strathari mechs had once caused had settled into a watchful readiness as Marcos finished dismantling the mech and delved into its schematics, running simulations to replace metals they simply did not have access to without sacrificing efficiency.
But before progress could fully consume the populace once more, a different kind of gathering took place in the central plaza. In the humid morning, the bruised indigo of the sky was just beginning to bleed into the crimson of the dawn. The entire colony had assembled at the base of the City Hall, standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the streets for a grounding of the soul.
Father Michael stood on the raised podium, his weathered, kind face illuminated by the warm-spectrum floodlights. Beside him stood Sister Elara, her hands clasped softly in front of her as she radiated a quiet compassion that seemed to physically soothe the anxious crowd.
Mark stood near the back of the plaza, clothed in a simple black T-shirt and dark cargo pants, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the older priest closely. He knew the revelations of the past week had struck a devastating blow to the foundation of human theology. After all, to be told that humanity was not the divine center of the universe, but rather the byproduct of an ancient, alien genetic experiment conducted by a race of twelve-foot-tall polymaths, was enough to shatter the faith of the most devout believer. Mark had wondered if the church would survive the truth.
Father Michael stepped up to the microphone, his voice echoing across the silent, waiting faces of the colonists.
"We have learned much in these past days," Father Michael began in a gentle tone that somehow carried unwavering strength. "We have learned that the history of our flesh and our bones is older and far more complex than we ever dared to imagine. We have learned of the Strathari, of an ancient empire, and of the immense, terrifying universe that stretches out beyond the walls of our sanctuary."
A quiet murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Many of you have come to me, asking if the truth of our ancestry renders our faith baseless," the priest continued, his eyes sweeping over the congregation. "You ask if the divine spark within us is nothing more than a calculated sequence of alien DNA. To that, I say this: look around you."
Father Michael gestured outward, encompassing the towering walls, the humming reactors, and the weary, resilient people standing together in the alien dirt.
"The vessel that carries the soul may have been shaped by hands from the stars, but the capacity to love, to sacrifice, to build a haven out in the middle of nowhere... that is the divine spark," Father Michael proclaimed, his voice rising with passionate conviction. "God works through many instruments, my children. Whether He used the slow march of evolution or the brilliant minds of an ancient, cosmic civilization, the result is the same. You are here. You possess the breath of life. You possess the free will to choose compassion over cruelty, and unity over despair. The origins of our blood do not negate the sanctity of our spirit!"
Once Father Michael finished speaking, Sister Elara stepped forward and was joined by the 3 other sisters, their unified voices rising in a beautiful hymn that had been sung on Earth centuries before the IUC had ever laid claim to the stars. The melody drifted over the colony, a sound that seemed to weave through the towering alien canopy and up toward the red dwarf suns.
Slowly, the colonists began to join in, their exhausted voices blending with the soft, melodic hum of the choir. This moment wasn't about whether every single person in the crowd believed in the exact dogma of the church, but about the communal act of sharing a moment of peace, of reaffirming their shared humanity in a universe that had suddenly become incomprehensibly vast.
Mark listened to the hymn, feeling a strange tightness in his chest, and though he didn't sing, he felt the settling calm that washed over the plaza. Father Michael had taken a truth that should have broken their minds and woven it seamlessly into a narrative of enduring faith and purpose, giving the people the emotional armor they needed to keep moving forward.
As the service concluded and the colonists began to disperse, filing out toward their designated stations, Mark gently pushed his way through the thinning crowd and approached the podium just as Father Michael and Sister Elara were stepping down.
"That was a beautiful service," Mark said quietly. "You gave them exactly what they needed to hear."
"I only spoke what I believe to be true," Father Michael said, smiling warmly while adjusting the silver cross around his neck. "The truth is only a weapon if you allow it to sever your hope. We are still God's children, no matter what hands molded the clay. But I sense you did not come over here just to critique my sermon."
Mark looked down, his jaw tightening slightly as the weight of the impending task he had set upon himself settled heavily on his shoulders.
"No, I didn't," Mark admitted, his eyes meeting the priest's, then shifting to Sister Elara. "I need to ask a favor. From both of you. It's... a private matter."
"Of course, Mark. Anything," Sister Elara said instantly as her brow furrowed with concern.
"I need you to perform another service," Mark said, his voice dropping into a solemn tone. "Just a small one. Later this evening, as the suns are setting. I'd like to hold it in the backyard of my home."
Father Michael nodded slowly, his experienced eyes reading the grief etched into the Commander's features. "A funeral service?"
"Yes," Mark replied softly. "I think it's only right."
"We will be there," Father Michael promised, placing a comforting hand on Mark's forearm. "Take all the time you need."
Mark thanked them with a brief, stiff nod and turned away, walking back through the humming streets.
Later that afternoon, he picked up Lyra from the care of one of the teachers at the new school near the residential area.
"Papa!" Lyra cheered, dropping a handful of brightly colored building blocks and running over to him as her auburn hair bounced. She was wearing a new set of overalls and had her stuffed Mr. Bear tucked securely under her arm.
"Hey, Bug," Mark said as he smiled, kneeling down to catch her as she barreled into his chest. He picked her up, settling her easily onto his hip. "Did you have fun today?"
"Mmhmm! We learned about the water pipes and how the big fans keep the lights on!" she beamed, her innocent enthusiasm a stark contrast to the task Mark was about to initiate.
"That's great," Mark said, forcing his voice to remain light as he began to walk toward the northern edge of the city. "Hey, Lyra... we're going to go take a walk. Just you and me, okay?"
"Where are we going?" she asked, looking around as they bypassed the bustling industrial sector and headed toward the silhouette of the crashed heavy frigate.
"We're going to the Shepherd," Mark said quietly.
They walked in quiet unison for a bit longer before reaching the steps of the Shepherd. Lyra clutched Mr. Bear comfortably, her small boots stepping confidently onto the metal steps as they stepped out of the humid, noisy atmosphere and into the cooled corridors of the starship.
The lighting inside the Shepherd was a soft white, the hum of the reactor vibrating through the deck plates beneath Mark's boots. They navigated the hallways with practiced ease, making their way toward a set of reinforced, sliding double doors marked with the stenciled emblem of the medical bay.
The doors parted silently, revealing the cold facility lined with advanced surgical suites, automated trauma bays, banks of high-tier diagnostic mainframes, and the two healing chairs. The air tasted of antiseptic and filtered oxygen.
Mark set a reassuring hand resting on Lyra's small shoulder and tapped his comms. "Marcos. You there?"
"No, I'm currently busy fighting a simulacrum back on Mechanicus, genius," Marcos replied in his sarcastic tone. "I detect you have entered the primary medical wing. Do you need me for something?"
Mark took a deep breath, staring at the back wall of the medbay, where a row of frosted-glass doors sealed off the cryogenic stasis vault.
"Yeah," Mark said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Bring up Lystren's body."
There was a second of silence.
"Mark," Marcos said, his tone entirely devoid of its usual casual sarcasm. "Are you absolutely certain? Given the psychological profiles and the current emotional stability metrics of little Lyra, confronting this trauma directly could trigger a severe regression."
Mark looked down at Lyra, who was looking up at him quizzically, her bright blue eyes wide with innocent confusion, completely unaware of what was resting just behind the frosted glass doors. Mark swallowed the knot forming in his throat and gave a slow, somber nod, his eyes never leaving Lyra's.
"I'm sure, Marcos," Mark said, his voice breaking slightly. "I think it's about time we lay her to rest. She's been locked up in a freezer for long enough. Now we have actual ground to bury her in."
"I understand," Marcos replied softly. "I will initialize the cycling sequence now. Mark... if I may suggest, a standard-issue body bag from the ship's morgue stores seems highly inappropriate for the occasion. Would you like me to utilize the printers to fabricate something more respectful?"
"Yes. Please," Mark nodded gratefully.
"I will design and extrude a proper wooden coffin from timber of the trees we logged on the northern ridge. It will be polished and sealed," Marcos detailed, anticipating Mark's needs. "I will also fabricate a metal tombstone. I will ensure it is more decorative than the standard-issue markers printed for the fallen Vanguard and Peacekeepers."
"Make sure to send it to my house, and... thank you, Marcos," Mark murmured.
"No thanks needed. It will be ready and waiting in your backyard within the hour," the AI confirmed as a deep, mechanical clunk echoed from the back of the medbay, followed by the loud, hissing release of highly pressurized atmospheric gases.
The frosted doors of the cryogenic vault slowly slid apart, revealing a stasis pod with a thick layer of frost clinging to the polarized glass lid, which began to melt rapidly, hissing into white vapor as the internal temperature protocols deactivated.
Mark knelt beside Lyra, gently turning her by the shoulders so she faced the pod.
"Bug," Mark said in a soft voice. "I brought you here because there's someone you need to see one last time."
Lyra looked at the metal cylinder, then back up at him with furrowed brows. "Who is it, Papa?"
Mark took her small hand in his and walked her slowly toward the pod. The glass had cleared entirely, revealing the serene, perfectly preserved face of the woman resting inside.
Lystren Caleth looked as though she was merely sleeping. Her features were delicate, her skin pale, and her auburn hair, the same vibrant shade of copper as Lyra's, was fanned out across the white padding of the stasis bed.
Mark stopped at the edge of the pod, lifting Lyra up slightly so she could look down through the glass.
"It's your mom, Lyra," Mark whispered, a single, traitorous tear burning at the corner of his eye.
Lyra stared down at the woman's peaceful face. For a long moment, she didn't say anything as her bright blue eyes tracked the curve of Lystren's cheek, the bridge of her nose, and the vibrant color of her hair.
And that's when the memory hit her. It was from the day Mark had brought her aboard his ship and utilized the miraculous technology of the Strathari medical chair to rebuild her broken senses. When she had opened her eyes, she was able to hear his voice and process the bright lights of the medbay.
She had been overwhelmed by it all, and played with Mark for a bit before being innately drawn to that door. This was one of the things Lyra's newly functioning eyes had ever seen, the very first time she had ever beheld the face of the woman who had loved her, and her mother just lay there, dead and cold on a metal table.
She had bawled her eyes out that day, screaming in pure, unadulterated heartbreak, her tiny hands shaking the lifeless body, begging her to wake up. But now, standing before the glass, Lyra's lower lip began to tremble. However, she did not scream. She just stared at the pod, her small fingers reaching out to press against the cold surface.
"I know," Lyra whispered, her voice cracking, sounding incredibly small and fragile in the massive, echoing medbay. "I know that's my mom."
A sadness settled over her features, the deep, quiet sorrow of a little girl who fully understood that the woman behind the glass would never wake up.
Mark wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. He kissed the top of her head, resting his cheek against her auburn hair.
"We are going to give her a proper burial today, Lyra," Mark said gently. "We're going to lay her to rest under the stars, in this beautiful place right behind our house."
Lyra looked away from the glass, burying her face into Mark's neck, taking a shaky, hitching breath.
"Would you like to talk to her before we do?" Mark asked softly, pulling back just enough to look into her tear-filled eyes. "Before we give her the burial she deserves? You can tell her anything you want."
Lyra sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her small hand. She looked back at the pod, her tiny hands clutching Mr. Bear tightly against her chest. With a sad, heartbreakingly innocent expression, she gave a small, jerky nod.
"Yes, please," she whispered.
"Okay," Mark nodded, his throat tight. He stood up, taking a slow step backward. "I'm going to be right outside the doors, okay? If you need me, if you get scared, you just call for me, and I'll be right here."
Lyra nodded again, her gaze locked on her mother's face.
Mark turned and walked out of the medbay, the double doors hissing shut behind him, leaving Lyra alone in the room with the stasis pod.
Mark stood in the corridor of the Shepherd, leaning against the cold bulkhead, and slowly slid down until he was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled up, his hands gripping his hair.
Through the slight gap in the doors, and amplified by his augmented hearing, he could hear Lyra speaking. Her voice was soft and trembling slightly at first, but as she spoke, the innocent rambling of a child took over.
"Hi, Mom," Lyra whispered, her small hands tapping lightly against the glass of the pod. "It's me. Lyra."
Mark squeezed his eyes shut as he felt a searing pain ripping through his chest.
"I... I wanted to tell you that the world is not dark anymore," Lyra continued, her voice drifting through the corridor. "Papa fixed my eyes and my ears. And I can see and hear everything now. And it's all really pretty. And now we live in a giant house, and Papa built these huge, spinning fans on a mountain to make the lights work, so it's never dark when I don't want it to be."
Mark bit down hard on his bottom lip, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth as he fought to suppress the sob tearing up his throat.
"And there are wolves, Mama," Lyra's voice rose slightly with excitement, recounting the wonders of her new world to the woman who would never get to see them. "Giant wolves! They're bigger than a house! There's one named Atlas, and he's super grumpy, but Ivory is really nice. She has white hair just like snow. And there's a little puppy named Snowball, and he plays with me in the dirt."
A single tear broke free and tracked its way down Mark's cheek, splashing onto the dark fabric of his shirt.
"And I eat noodles with spicy sauce now," Lyra babbled on, her innocent stories a devastating contrast to the tomb of the medbay. "And Papa does magic. He pulls giant guns and building blocks right out of the air! And he protects me from the monsters outside the walls. And he's really, really strong. You don't have to worry about me anymore because Papa keeps me safe."
Mark couldn't hold it back anymore and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently as he broke down. He wept silently in the corridor, the tears flowing freely as he kicked himself mentally for what he'd done over a year ago.
He had blood on his hands. It didn't matter that the pirate ship had the purpose of attacking them. Because of his actions, because of the brutal, unforgiving nature of the universe he navigated, Lystren Caleth was dead, and Lyra had been left to die alone on the ship.
"Mark," Marcos's voice murmured softly through his earpiece, laced with genuine concern. "Are you okay?"
Mark let out a choked sob, shaking his head. "No. No, I'm not okay, Marcos."
The air in the corridor three feet in front of Mark suddenly shimmered as a matrix of hard-light holographic projectors mounted in the ceiling whirred to life, the blue light compiling and resolving into the very first avatar Marcos had ever used.
It was the holographic projection of a rugged male human figure in a faded olive-drab military uniform from a bygone era on Earth, the fabric creased and worn. A battered military patrol cap hung precariously, almost lazily, off the side of his head. Resting casually between the index and middle finger of his right hand was a thick, smoldering cigar, trailing a stream of simulated, wispy blue smoke into the air.
Marcos' avatar crouched in the corridor so he was at eye level with Mark. The expression on the grizzled holographic face was one of understanding.
"You're tearing yourself apart, man," Marcos said, his voice gruff, lacking any synthesized distortion. He took a slow drag from the simulated cigar. "You've got to let it go."
Mark looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his face wet with tears, and glared at the AI, the weight of his guilt boiling over into raw anger.
"Let it go?" Mark asked in a broken whisper. "How the hell am I supposed to let it go, Marcos? I'm sitting here listening to a nine-year-old girl tell her dead mother about her stuffed bear! A mother who's dead because I shot that ship."
"We've been over this, Mark. It was a pirate vessel," Marcos countered evenly, the tip of his cigar glowing a dull, digitized red. "It was a hostile environment. You didn't pull the trigger that killed her. It wasn't intentional."
"Intentional or not, it doesn't take the guilt away!" Mark argued, his hands balling into fists and striking the floor, denting it. "It doesn't change the fact that I am the catalyst! I caused the chaos that ended her life. I have her mother's blood on my hands! But you wouldn't get it because you're just a damn piece of technology."
Marcos sighed and reached out, his holographic hand passing harmlessly through Mark's knee in a gesture of phantom comfort.
"Your words wound more than any short circuit ever could. But I understand you're hurting, so you tend to say things you don't quite mean. But listen to me, Mark," Marcos said, his gruff voice softening, pointing a translucent finger toward the closed medbay doors. "Listen to what she is actually saying in there."
Mark went quiet, his chest heaving, straining his ears to hear Lyra's muffled voice.
"...and I have my own room now, Mom. I have a big, soft bed, and I'm never hungry anymore."
Marcos looked back at Mark, his simulated eyes piercing through his grief.
"You found a blind, deaf, starving, terrified child trapped in a metal cage floating in the darkness of the void," Marcos said firmly. "And instead of walking away, you took her in. But not only did you take her in, but you also ordered me to restore her sight and her hearing. By her metrics, you have given her the stars, Mark. You gave her a home, a family, and a life she would have absolutely never been able to experience without you. Why can't you get that through your damn skull?"
Marcos took another slow drag of the cigar, the smoke dissipating into the sterile air.
"You don't have a time machine, so you can't change the past. And you sure as hell can't un-fire a weapon when your life depends on it," Marcos said quietly. "But you can build a future. Just look at what you've done for her. I ask you, Mark... isn't that atonement enough?"
Mark stared at Marcos' avatar and calmed a bit. However, the crushing guilt didn't vanish, and he knew it never truly would. It was a scar he would carry until the day he died. He thought about the smile on Lyra's face when she saw the sunrise. He thought about her laugh when she played with Snowball in the dirt.
Mark wiped his face with his palms, taking a deep breath. He looked at Marcos and gave a slow, exhausted nod. He was still incredibly sad, but Marcos was right. He couldn't just go around having breakdowns. He had to be strong for her. He had to be the Papa she needed.
"Thanks, Marcos," Mark whispered. "And I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said."
"No harm, no foul," Marcos said as his avatar offered a small, respectful salute, touching two fingers to the brim of his crooked cap before dissolving into a shower of blue sparks and vanishing from the corridor.
From inside the medbay, Lyra's innocent storytelling finally faltered. Her rambling updates about the colony faded into silence, replaced by the distinct, heartbreaking sound of soft, hiccuping sobs.
Mark pushed himself off the floor and wiped the last remnants of tears from his eyes, squared his shoulders, and hit the door release.
He stepped into the suite and saw that Lyra was leaning against the cold metal of the stasis pod with her small shoulders shaking and her face buried in her arms as she cried. The brave facade she had put on to talk to her mother had finally cracked.
Mark crossed the room in three strides and knelt down beside her, gently pulling her away from the pod and wrapping her in his arms.
Lyra collapsed against his chest, her small hands gripping his black shirt as she bawled, the tears and snot soaking into the fabric. Mark didn't say a word and just held her tightly, rocking her slowly back and forth, one hand supporting her back while the other stroked her auburn hair, letting her cry out the grief she had been carrying for so long.
They stayed there on the floor of the medbay for a long time, the silence of the room punctuated only by her slowing sobs and the distant hum of the frigate's reactor. Eventually, Lyra's crying subsided into exhausted, shuddering hiccups, and she pulled her face away from his chest, wiping her red, puffy eyes with the back of her hands.
"Are you okay, Bug?" Mark asked softly, using his thumb to gently wipe a tear from her freckled cheek.
Lyra gave a small nod.
"Then it's time to put her to rest," Mark said gently. "Are you ready?"
Lyra sniffled, looking back at the peaceful face behind the glass before turning her bright, tear-filled blue eyes back to Mark as she spoke in a small voice. "Papa? Will I ever be able to see her again?"
Mark's heart ached, but he couldn't lie to her. Not about this.
"You can visit her, Lyra. Anytime you want. We'll make a beautiful spot for her right in our backyard," Mark explained in a comforting tone. "But... no. You won't be able to see her again."
Lyra's face fell, fresh tears welling in her eyes.
"But hey, listen to me," Mark added quickly, placing both hands gently on her small cheeks, ensuring she was looking right into his eyes. "Just because you can't see her, doesn't mean she's gone. She is a part of you. She gave you that beautiful red hair and those bright eyes. And I promise you, Lyra... wherever she is now, she is looking down at you, watching you grow every single day, and I just know that she is so, so incredibly proud of the brave, bright, and amazing little girl you are."
Lyra stared at him, absorbing the words and allowing the sincerity in Mark's voice to anchor her. She took a deep breath, her small chin trembling, and nodded.
"Okay," she whispered.
Mark stood up. He walked over to the supply cabinets lining the room and retrieved a large white linen sheet. He moved to the stasis pod and disengaged the pressurized seals. The glass lid hissed and popped open, releasing a final wave of cold, sterile air.
With delicate care, Mark reached into the pod and slid his massive arms beneath Lystren's lifeless body, lifting her effortlessly from the padding. He gently laid her out on the surgical table, wrapping the crisp white sheet tightly around her form, securing it so she was entirely covered.
He lifted the shrouded body into his arms, carrying her high against his chest.
"Stay close to me, Bug," Mark said softly, and Lyra started to walk directly behind him, her small hand reaching out to grip the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself to him as they walked out of the medbay.
They navigated the corridors of the Shepherd and emerged from the cargo bay into the crimson light of the late afternoon.
As Mark carried the shrouded body down the steps and onto the streets, the bustling noise of the colony immediately began to die down.
An engineer carrying a toolbox stopped in his tracks, his eyes falling on their leader, who was carrying a white-sheeted body, with the small, auburn-haired girl walking quietly in his shadow. The engineer immediately set his toolbox down on the street and took off his cap, pressing it against his chest.
The gesture spread like wildfire as Mark walked down the main avenue toward his manor. The colonists stopped whatever they were doing, the mercenaries on patrol halted, standing at rigid attention, the mechanics, the farmers, and everyone who was on the streets stopped what they were doing. They didn't need an announcement to infer what was happening. The solemn silence of the procession spoke volumes. They simply bowed their heads in silent respect for the child who had lost everything, and the man who was carrying the weight of it.
Mark kept his eyes locked forward, his face an emotionless, stoic mask, shielding his grief and self-hatred.
Once they reached the manor, the biometric doors hissed open, granting them access. Mark carried the body straight through the spacious living room and out the back doors, stepping onto the lush grass of his expansive backyard.
Father Michael and Sister Elara had been let in by Marcos and were already waiting for them, dressed in simple, dark tunics. But to Mark's surprise, they weren't alone. Kenjiro, Valerius, Aurelia, Severus, Titus, Octavia, Lucius, and Cassius were all here as well, apparently having been reached out to by Marcos while Mark and Lyra were inside the Shepherd.
The backyard was like a tranquil sanctuary, and at the center of the lawn, a perfectly rectangular hole had already been excavated by Marcos's crawler drones. The coffin rested on a set of reinforced straps above the grave.
Marcos had outdone himself. The coffin was stunning, extruded from the dark, rich violet timber of the northern ridge, polished to a flawless, mirror-like gleam that caught the light of the setting suns.
Standing at the head of the grave was the tombstone that Marcos had modeled into the shape of a beautiful, multifaceted star, representing the cosmos she had traveled and her name. Delicately wrapped around the points of the star, forged from a lighter, silver-hued alloy, was an intricate, flowing pattern of alien flowers, permanently blooming in the metal.
Carved deeply into the center of the star, glowing faintly in the dimming light, were the words:
In Memory of Lystren Caleth, Mother of Lyra Shephard.
June 17th, 2956 - May 18th, 2985.
Mark walked to the edge of the grave, and with infinite gentleness, lowered the shrouded body of Lystren into the polished wooden coffin. He then stepped back, allowing Sister Elara, with the help of Octavia and Aurelia, to step forward and smoothly close the timber lid, sealing it with a soft, final click.
Lyra immediately stepped up to Mark's side, wrapping both of her arms tightly around his hip, burying her face against his stomach. Mark rested his hand on her shoulder, pulling her closer.
Father Michael stepped to the head of the grave, opening a small, leather-bound book, which had probably been the most expensive possession the Orphanage had owned when they were back on Mechanicus. The three red dwarf suns were dipping below the western ridge, casting the backyard in deep, bleeding shades of violet and crimson, painting the metal star of the tombstone in an ethereal light.
"We gather here today, beneath an unfamiliar sky, to return a mother to the earth," Father Michael began, his voice carrying a resonant, comforting tone that seemed to fill the quiet backyard. "Lystren Caleth walked through the dark, and though only our Father knows just how her journey ended, she leaves behind a brilliant, burning light in the soul of her daughter."
Mark stared straight ahead, his eyes blank. He listened to the priest's words, the sound washing over him, but his mind was anchored to the small, trembling weight clinging to his hip.
"As the stars watch over this world, so too shall she watch over Lyra," Father Michael concluded, raising a hand in a final blessing. "Dust to dust. Ash to ash. May she find eternal peace in the light of the Maker."
With a soft, whirring hum, the automated straps holding the coffin engaged, and slowly, the polished dark wood was lowered into the earth.
Sister Elara began to sing a soft, wordless melody, a lullaby for the fallen, and Lyra's grip tightened agonizingly on Mark's hip, her small body shaking with fresh, silent sobs. Mark didn't look down. He just tightened his grip on her shoulder, anchoring her to him, his blank eyes staring past the beautiful, star-shaped tombstone and into the three suns.
'I can't change the past... But I'll make sure to protect her future...' Mark vowed to Lystren and himself before letting out a whisper. "I'm sorry."
---
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