The thing is, Yellowstone during the lead-up to the Solstice is the worst possible place to fixate on that feeling.
It’s impossible to stay focused on one worry when the world keeps throwing miracles at your face.
I had expected… I don’t know. Fewer people, maybe. Fewer humans, definitely. But as Boone promised, this place is not just monsters hiding in the woods. It’s a community. A convergence. A meeting point where myth and reality don’t bother pretending they’re separate things.
And there are more humans here than I ever imagined.
Some of them are clearly long-term—comfortable, confident, moving through the space like they belong. Others, like me, still have that slightly stunned look, like they’re waiting for someone to tap them on the shoulder and sayjust kidding, you don’t actually get to see this.
It’s the fifth day since we crossed the wards. Five days of color and sound and magic layered so thick it makes my head spin in the best possible way.
Boone has left me alone for exactly one hour.
He promised. Swore, actually, with that low seriousness he uses when he’s trying very hard not to hover. And I believe him. Mostly.
Still, when he’d kissed me this morning—slow, deep, lingering—I’d known it was a distraction tactic.
A very effective one.
The festival grounds stretch farther than I’d realized when we first arrived, winding between trees and geysers and natural clearings that feel deliberately chosen. Stalls cluster in loose rings, each one distinct, radiating its own energy.
I drift toward the first cluster like a moth.
There’s food everywhere.
Creature-safe foods are clearly marked with symbols I’m beginning to recognize—warnings about toxins, metals, enzymatic incompatibilities. Human-safe foods are marked even more boldly, complete with enthusiastic signage likeYES, YOU CAN EAT THISandBOB INSISTED.
I buy a warm, spiced pastry from a vendor who looks like a cross between a salamander and a moss-covered boulder. It tastes like honey and smoke and a spice I can’t quite identify. I eat it slowly, savoring the flavors.
Nearby, performances erupt and fade like weather.
A drum circle pulses in one clearing, the rhythm so deep I feel it in my ribs. In another, a group of vocalists produce harmonics that make the treetops tremble, leaves shivering like they’re caught in a held breath. There’s laughter, applause, the crackle of magic moving through the air like static before a storm.
Winged cryptids take to the sky periodically, swooping in controlled arcs for aerial displays that make my neck ache from staring upward. One routine times itself perfectly with a geyser eruption, percussion syncing with the roar of steam in a way that makes the crowd cheer.
I’m grinning so hard my face hurts.
This is… a lot. Overwhelming, yes, but not in the way I’d feared. No one looks at me like I don’t belong. No one treats me like I’m fragile or out of place. If anything, I get a lot of curious glances, friendly nods, and the occasional “First Solstice?” from passing strangers.
At one stall, I linger over enchanted crafts—talismans that hum faintly under my fingers, runes etched into bone and stone and metal, potions sealed in glass that refracts light in strange ways. I don’t buy anything yet. I want Boone with me when I do.
I’m laughing at a particularly snarky sign—NO, IT WILL NOT MAKE YOU INVISIBLE, STOP ASKING—when I bump into someone.
“Sorry—” I start, then stop.
He’s human, mid-twenties, maybe, with sun-warmed skin and a crooked smile that looks like it comes easily. He’s holding a cup of liquid that smells vaguely metallic and sweet, and he looks just as startled as I feel.
“Wow,” he says. “Okay, that’s a relief.”
I stare. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. No offense to the, uh… everything—” He gestures vaguely at the surrounding cryptids. “—but it’s nice to run into someone who blinks at the same rate.”
I laugh, tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying easing out of my shoulders. “Agreed. I’m Elias.”
“Cole,” he says, offering his hand. “Cole Denny.”
We shake, the contact grounding in a way that surprises me.
