The Five Realms

Chapter 4: Chyna II

Chapter 4: The Funeral Without a Body

The funeral brought no body to bury, only questions too heavy for the rain to wash away.

The sky hung low over St. Augustine, a heavy iron sheet pressing down against the earth. The rain wasn't violent. It was worse—persistent and whispering, the kind that soaked into skin and bone and soul. Around the chapel, black umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers. The scent of wet magnolia mixed with the salt of the nearby marshes and something older, something that reminded Chyna Jackson of burnt parchment.

She stood beneath the largest umbrella, unmoving. William Thorn held it over her with quiet reverence. His hand was steady, his face unreadable. The only sound between them was the soft patter of rain on stretched nylon and the priest's voice echoing off the stone.

Chyna looked every bit the mirror of her twin, Joey, and yet there was an edge to her that always felt older. Her skin was a smooth medium-brown, glowing faintly in the chapel light. Her thick, dark curls were woven into a long side braid that draped over one shoulder, frizzing slightly in the damp air. Her large, deep brown eyes missed nothing, their focus unblinking, watchful. A silver charm necklace gleamed faintly beneath the collar of her coat, resting against a high floral blouse that hinted at softness beneath her guarded presence.

Her gloved hand curled around a silk ribbon pinned to her coat—the last of her father's possessions she had refused to surrender. It was pale blue, fraying at the ends, and it fluttered faintly in the breeze like a heartbeat barely holding on.

Before her, the headstone sat unnaturally clean:

In Loving Memory of Inderson J. Jackson

No dates. No epitaph. No ashes. No body.

Just a name. A placeholder. A lie carved into permanence.

"He's not under there," Chyna murmured.

William didn't reply. He didn't have to. His silence was its own kind of support, grounding and warm. In a way, he was the only thing in her world not crumbling.

Their mother sat in the front row, cloaked in black, her face hidden beneath a delicate veil. A statue of grief. Katherine held Carly's hand, her other clutching the funeral program like it might fly away. And Joey—

Joey stood close, his hand resting protectively on Chyna's shoulder.

Tie crooked, jaw tight, shoulders squared against a weight no one else could see. Grief made strangers of all of them.

The priest's voice shifted.

"In the mystery of fire, we remember both what is destroyed... and what might yet be reborn."

The word fire cracked the spell. Chyna felt it like static under her skin. Fire was no longer just a word. It was a presence. A thing that lived in their bones now.

She stared at the polished stone, but her thoughts unraveled. No forced entry. No sign of accelerant. And no remains. The blaze had devoured everything in minutes, like it had been waiting—hungry and purposeful.

"They think we'll forget," she whispered.

William leaned just enough for his breath to reach her ear. "I won't let you."

A pull.

Not a sound. Not a touch.

A thread tightening inside her chest.

Her eyes darted toward the tree line beyond the graveyard's edge.

There—just between two pines—stood a man. He wore a long gray coat and a wide-brimmed hat. His umbrella hung crooked above one shoulder, ignored. He watched the ceremony with unnatural stillness.