Basil, of all people, smiled—small and sharp.
“I look forward,” he said, “to updating the registries.”
The day of the Harvest Festival arrived crisp and bright.
Banners fluttered from every balcony, not just the wealthy districts. Everything was hastily thrown together—but beautiful.
The central plaza thrummed with life.
Refugees from burned border villages ran food stalls, serving stews and flatbreads made from recipes no one in Valedara had tasted before. Orphans handed out hot rolls from baskets bigger than they were. Nobles—actual titled nobles—ladled soup side by side with blacksmiths and dockworkers, their silks protected by aprons they clearly didn’t know how to tie.
Music drifted on the air—fiddles, drums, a flute someone had rescued from a pawn shop.
Children shrieked with laughter as they bobbed for apples. Vorrik refereed a wrestling pit with more enthusiasm than sense.
“This is chaos,” Lupin muttered, standing beside Esther at the edge of the plaza.
“It’s beautiful,” Esther said.
He glanced at her. “You’re really not going to let us hide in the palace this year, are you?”
“Nope.”
He sighed. “Arietta volunteered us for the tug-of-war contest.”
“Of course she did.”
“She says it will ‘build goodwill,’” he continued mournfully, “and ‘show that my arms are not purely decorative.’”
Esther stifled a laugh. “She loves you.”
“I fear that she does,” he said gravely—then brightened. “But she also frightens me, so it’s balanced.”
Esther’s gaze swept the crowd again.
There were still gaps—thin faces. People were not yet ready to trust that this wasn’t some cruel trick.
But there was also something she hadn’t seen in a long time.
Hope.
Lucy bounded up, cheeks flushed, a smear of icing on her nose.
“Update: the pie stand is a hit, and Sylva is terrifyingly good at catching people trying to sneak extra portions.”
Sylva appeared behind her, arms folded. “We have rules.”
“They’re hungry,” Lucy countered.
“We made more pies,” he said. “They can simply get back in line.”
“You’re being very responsible today,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s unsettling.”
He opened his mouth to argue—then shut it as a small child tugged on his sleeve.
“Excuse me,” the beastkin child said, staring up with huge eyes. “Mister fox, sir? There’s a man over there who says he donated lots of money, but his wrist smells like lies.”
Sylva blinked. Slowly turned. Tracked the direction of the pointing finger.
