“Rafia’s dead,” Callebero said as Sirion stopped beside him.                Sirion inhaled sharply, belatedly taking in the letter dangling from one of Callebero’s hands. He was still in armor, his helmet wedged into the sand at his hip. Sirion lowered himself gingerly to the ground, careful to maintain a respectful distance.                “Valyn says they’re giving him all the Perduto rites, but— It should be—” He bit off the end of that sentence, staring hard at the horizon. “Sinaris or Ilios could perform the rites, but they haven’t been back to Ombrosita since I was a child.”                He pressed his lips together, expression tight. He hadn’t looked at Sirion once. Still—                “He would be proud of you,” Sirion couldn’t help signing, though it wasn’t his place.                He had never even spoken with Rafia-harad. He certainly didn’t have the familiarity to speak for him.                Callebero’s gaze had skated sideways as Sirion lifted his hands, but it returned to the horizon as he let out a humorless laugh.                “Probably not. He always said revenge was a snake eating its own tail,” he said. “Then again, I guess the throne is pretty secure now, as long as I don’t get assassinated.”