Dario guided their horse with an expert hand through the open doors into the heart of the festivities, weaving through the crush of bodies. The mingled scents of sweat and cloves filled the air, as close as the press of people around them. Dancers swirled in vibrant costumes while musicians plucked at strings.
“No, the city becomes something else entirely during the equinox,” he explained, his voice low as overhead lanterns cast shifting pools of light that highlighted the honeyed flecks in his eyes. “From this point forward, keep your hood drawn closely. Edgar’s ravens are scattered everywhere; we’ll need to tread cautiously.”
Elara tugged her hood lower, shrouding her features until the fabric brushed against her lashes. All she could see was the broad expanse of Dario’s back directly ahead. The narrow field of vision felt suffocating, almost claustrophobic. Tentatively, she eased the hood back just a fraction—enough to let in a sliver of the festival's vibrant lights and colors. Surely, a little glimpse wouldn't hurt.
“In what ways does the city change?”
Dario shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the leather saddle emitting a soft creak that seemed louder in the quiet of the alley. He seemed to gather his thoughts before he spoke again, his voice low and reflective. “On a night like this, people have a way of setting aside their differences to pay homage to the Mothers. But don’t mistake this display of unity for true harmony. It’s a night of forgetfulness, not forgiveness.”
The ghostly echo of Fenlin’s last words wove through Elara’s thoughts.“You might sit on that throne and feast while the rest of us starve, Lord Osin. But remember, empty bellies breed brave hearts. The realm remembers.”
Her flesh prickled as an involuntary shudder threaded its way down her spine.
Rebels.Edgar had painted them as minor nuisances, easy to snuff out.But maybe there were more Script Keepers out there than the priest had let on. Perhaps they weren’t as scattered and powerless as she had been led to believe.
They wound their way into the city square, which teemed with masked merrymakers flushed with drink and heady delight. Their masks were beautiful. Some were shaped like fierce beasts, fangs bared in silent snarls, while others glinted with a lavish array of ribbons and gems under the lantern light.
They swirled around a massive bonfire, keeping time with the rhythmic plucking of lutes and the pulsating beat of drums. As they danced, their clothes caught the lantern light, setting them aglow. The earthy brown of fallen leaves, the fiery orange of a setting sun, the blooming yellow of ripening fruit pooled in the folds of their garments. They swirled and twirled, merging and breaking, a kaleidoscope of autumn captured within the confines of silk and satin.
Elara watched, fascinated, as children dashed through the streets, their laughter echoing around her. They waved sticks decorated with flowing ribbons, vibrant like spirits in the breeze.Their uncontained joy was palpable; some raced back to their parents' open arms, while others reveled in the night's freedom, climbing crates, and howling at the waxing moon. A pang of longing struck her, yet a smile still found its way to her lips as she wondered what life might have been like had she known the carefree days of a normal childhood—or any childhood at all.
She pushed the melancholic thought aside and took a deep breath, savoring the air rich with spices that seemed to warm her from within. Her senses were in overdrive—every smell, every sound, every sight amplified a thousandfold. It was almost too much, but there was a wild beauty in this unfettered flood of life. It wasn’t a dream, though it felt like one.
It was real.
Shewas real.
And for the first time in her life, Elara felt a part of something greater, something immense and powerful.
“Why are they wearing masks?” she asked, her gaze lingering on the crowd.
“They are a tribute to Aine,” came Dario’s reply, pulling her focus back to him. He dismounted, his boots thudding softly against the packed earth, then secured his horse to the public hitching post before turning back to her. He offered his hand to support her waist as he helped her down. “They’re an ancient tradition. The masks are an honor to Aine and a nod to the shifting of the seasons and the shifting of Aine herself.”
It made sense, then. According to legend, Aine often took on different forms when visiting the mortal world, her most famous being a crimson mare. Elara's gaze drifted across the sea of masks, a sad smile tugging at her lips. Tonight, there would be no red mare grazing on the edges of the festivities. No soft, divine eyes watching them from the heavens. Only the vast, indifferent cosmos spinning on, deaf to the many tributes rising in her honor.
“Wait here,” Dario murmured, his eyes holding a glint of mischief as he vanished into the crowd. Elara bit her lower lip, her gaze tracking him and landing on the stall awash in amber light. Through the thick crowd, she caught a glimpse of Dario’s animated chat with the seller and the glint of gold passing between hands. A few moments later, he reappeared with two masks in hand and a victorious smirk playing on his lips.
He presented one to her, light glinting over its gem-studded surface—deep purples, vivid emeralds, pleated feathers fanning like wings.
“A bird?” Elara asked, eyeing the delicate work. Before she could touch it, Dario lifted it to her face and tied the black ribbons, his fingertips brushing her neck.
“A starling,” he said with a quiet smile. “They move in great flocks, following the wind as one. From the outside it looks like chaos, yet there’s beauty in their unity—always adapting, always surviving.”
Her amusement softened as his gaze lingered.
“And when the light catches them, they’re extraordinary,” he added, voice low. “Complex, resilient, impossible to ignore. Like you.”
The world seemed to hush. Elara could only stare, surprise melting into something warmer, unexpected. A slow smile curved her lips.
“I’ve never been compared to a bird before,” she teased. “But coming from you, I think I like being a starling.”
His smile widened, so open and genuine that Elara found herself looking away. She cleared her throat, a shiver of anticipation running through her, mingling with the excitement of the unknown and the cool caress of the evening breeze weaving through the lively square. When she looked back, she found Dario fastening his own mask—a rather obnoxiously large replica of a luna moth. Its long, curling antennae waved with hisevery movement, while the wings, bathed in a soft, pale green, nearly engulfed his face. He looked absolutely ridiculous.
A snort of laughter escaped her. “Really?”
“What?” He tried to feign innocence, but the chuckle in his voice betrayed him.
Elara, still trying to stifle her giggles, was about to slide off her mask when Dario's hand stopped her. His playful demeanor shifted.
