---
The music was faint here.
Distant.
As though it belonged to another city altogether.
Every cheer, every drumbeat, every burst of laughter from the festival drifted into this place like echoes off stone. Thin. Hollow.
Here—
there was no celebration.
Only work.
A lantern burned low in a cramped room.
Its flame bent against the draft, pressing shadows long across the walls.
A map lay spread across a scarred wooden table, its edges curled, its surface marked with smears of ink and small, neat cuts where a dagger pinned it flat.
Boots shifted against stone.
Gloved hands tapped at parchment.
The voices came low.
Measured. Careful.
"…Sector six should've been cleared."
The speaker's tone carried neither anger nor doubt. Only expectation.
Another voice answered, quieter but tight at the edges:
"Not yet. Too many slipping through. They're hiding them now."
A pause. The sound of a chair creaked faintly, like weight shifting.
"…Sector eight?"
"Same. Word spreads fast. Families are vanishing, and the Quarter's starting to notice."
For a moment,
the only sound was the faint scratching of a quill.
A clerk—faceless in the half-light—kept writing, numbers flowing into margins, silent as stone.
A low breath.
Almost like a sigh.
"The Governor doesn't want noise."
The words fell flat. Heavy.
Another voice answered—calm, cold, without hesitation:
"Then take them quietly. Willing or not.
Breathing is enough."
The room went still.
Someone shifted in their chair, but no one replied.
Because there was nothing to reply with.
The orders had already been given.
Through the cracked shutters, festival drums rolled like distant thunder.
The tune was sharp and triumphant—utterly wrong here, in this silence.
A man at the window watched the faint glow of lanterns rising over rooftops.
His voice was soft, final.
"Clean. Quiet. No ripples."
The lantern guttered once, its light shrinking.
The men gathered their papers, their boots whispering against stone.
One by one, they left the room.
Their voices carried into the night, fading into nothing.
And the festival—
cheerful, endless, golden—
Carried on.
---
(The Guests of a Hundred Years)
[The Guests of a Hundred Years – Part I]
The grand estate doors opened wide.
Lanternlight spilled across the marble, catching first on the polished head of a cane.
A man stepped through.
Tall, still—but his height was tempered by the slow curve of his back, the weight of years pressing at his shoulders.
His hair was white, pulled neatly into a knot at the base of his neck. A close-trimmed beard framed his jaw, streaked silver against pale skin lined by time and travel.
His right eye was pale, clouded with an old wound that gave it a strange, milky sheen. The other was clear, sharp—cutting the hall like a blade, measured and deliberate.
The cane in his hand was carved from bone, capped with brass. It tapped once against the stone floor with every step.
Not loud.
Not rushed.
Steady.
Beside him walked a boy.
Young. No more than twenty, his shoulders narrow but upright, his step quick enough to keep pace without ever outpacing the older man.
His gloves were dark, marked faintly with ink stains that hadn't quite washed out.
His eyes—clear, restless—shifted between the path ahead and the man at his side.
Always watching.
For the uneven step.
For the breath that caught too sharply in his chest.
The boy's hands curled once at his sides. He drew a quiet breath, then leaned closer.
"Master…" His voice was soft, almost lost in the hum of laughter further down the hall.
"We shouldn't have come. I fear that the road alone.. was maybe too much for you."
The old man wasn't looking at him. His gaze stayed fixed on the vaulted ceiling above, where the chandeliers glimmered.
His cane struck once against the floor. Not hard. Just enough.
He shook his head, slow and certain.
"I had to."
They walked in silence a few steps more.
The boy pressed on, his words sharper now.
"You don't need this. Not anymore. Not after… they…"
The man's lips curved slightly—not quite a smile.
"Need?" His voice carried gravel, deep, cracked with age.
"It isn't about need, boy.
It's about memory."
Finally, he looked at the boy, the pale eye catching lanternlight, the sharp one unblinking.
His voice was gravel, worn but unshaken.
"The city of Veyra.. stood with Vash'Kael once before.
Long ago, when both were young and weaker than they'd admit."
"I won't have them think we've forgotten that."
The boy's jaw tightened. His gloved hands twitched once, smudges of ink catching the glow.
"They didn't invite you for memory. They invited you for spectacle."
The old man exhaled—something between a laugh and a cough.
His shoulders shifted, just slightly, like even the act of amusement carried weight.
"Then let them see my bones creak. That's still spectacle enough."
For a moment, the boy's worry broke into a reluctant smile.
But he didn't let it linger.
"You'll be the death of yourself with this stubbornness."
The man glanced at him sidelong.
"And you'll be the life of me with all your fretting."
The cane tapped once more, steady as a heartbeat,
[The Guests of a Hundred Years – Part II]
The banquet tables stretched long through the grand hall, dressed in velvet cloth the color of deep wine.
Silver goblets caught the glow of chandeliers above.
Platters of.. something akin to roasted pheasant, glistening fish,
and sugared almonds shimmered in the light, untouched but waiting.
Two women were guided to their seats by a quiet attendant.
He bowed lightly, hands folded behind his back. His voice was even, professional.
"My ladies, your places. Water or wine?"
"Wine," said the one in pearls without hesitation.
Her voice was smooth, practiced.
"Water," said the other, her tone clipped but polite.
The attendant nodded, poured with steady hands, and bowed out again,
slipping into the tide of servants moving through the hall.
For a moment, the two women sat in silence.
The pearl-strewn woman adjusted herself gracefully, smoothing the folds of her gown until they draped in perfect symmetry.
Her hair was pinned high, a gleam of copper wire woven through it like threads of fire.
She glanced upward toward the vaulted arches, lips curving faintly.
Her companion,
dressed in darker cloth with heavy rings on her fingers, leaned forward on her elbows.
She cupped her glass of water in both hands before she spoke.
"Quite the ceiling," the pearl-strewn woman murmured, eyes following the smoke curling toward it.
"One hundred years of survival… yet their architects never solved the problem of lantern haze."
The darker-dressed woman gave a small huff, not unkind, but not indulgent either.
Her eyes slid past the ceiling, toward the doors, where guards stood like statues, blades gleaming in the torchlight.
"You're looking at the ceilings," she said evenly.
"I'm looking at the guards."
The pearl-strewn woman tilted her head, studying her companion with mild amusement.
"And what do you see?"
"That they're not here to keep us safe." The darker-dressed woman lifted her glass, sipped once.
"They're here to keep the city out."
Her words lingered, quiet but pointed.
An older man at the same table leaned slightly toward them, offering a professional smile.
"Vash'Kael is diligent with its precautions," he said, voice smooth.
"No host wishes disruption during an event of such… historic importance."
The pearl-strewn woman turned her head slightly, acknowledging him with a polite nod.
"Of course. History requires order."
Her companion inclined her head, lips pressed tight, before she returned her gaze to the glass in her hand.
The older man excused himself with a bow and shifted his attention to another guest.
The pearl-strewn woman allowed herself a soft laugh, low enough for only her companion to hear.
"You see? That's what passes for courtesy here. Polite words in exchange for silence."
Her companion set her glass down with a faint click.
"And you've come all this way to complain about courtesy?"
"No," the woman in pearls replied, turning her goblet slowly in her hand.
"I came to see if the stories are true.
That Vash'Kael glitters brightest when you're already standing in shadow."
The darker-dressed woman tapped one ringed finger lightly against the goblet, a steady rhythm.
"I came because 'my council' insisted. "
She took a sip.
"My people celebrate survival in other ways.
We light no lanterns. We make no parades. We work the fields, the forges. That is how we remember."
The pearl-strewn woman studied her quietly, her expression softening just a touch.
"And, here you are. Sitting with me,
instead of scowling at 'your council'."
A faint sigh escaped the darker-dressed woman, somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
"I scowl better when I've eaten."
The pearl-strewn woman laughed quietly, genuine this time, before leaning closer, lowering her voice beneath the swell of music.
"You've heard it too, haven't you? About this house… about him?"
The darker-dressed woman tilted her head. Her rings stilled against the goblet.
"They say many things."
"They say," the woman in pearls whispered, "he went mad after the… you know."
The darker-dressed woman said nothing at first.
Her eyes flicked toward the high balcony where shadows lingered, then back again.
At last, she murmured—
"Well, we've all seen what happens when men outlive their wives."
The music rose, drowning them back into the hum of the hall.
They sat in silence for a moment. As the music, and the clatter of plates and voices filled the air.
Finally, the woman in pearls exhaled softly.
"Stories, of course. But sometimes… stories tell the truth more kindly than history ever will."
The darker woman lifted her glass in a small, dry toast.
"To truth, then—whether anyone remembers it or not."
Before her companion could reply, an attendant swept past,
bowing quickly as he placed a silver tray of fresh goblets on the table.
The interruption broke the quiet spell.
Another guest leaned in from further down, his laughter booming as he raised his cup.
"Ladies! Surely we aren't toasting already? The night is still young!"
The pearl-strewn woman offered a polite smile, slipping back behind her mask of grace.
"Then perhaps you should remind us what we're meant to be celebrating."
The man's grin widened, and just like that—the current shifted.
The conversation flowed into a new circle, voices overlapping, the festival spinning on.
---
[The Guests of a Hundred Years – Part III]
The man's laughter rolled out again, deep and booming.
His beard was dark at the chin, streaked pale near the temples, and the crimson coat across his shoulders gleamed with rows of medals.
Every time he shifted, they clinked softly—a reminder of battles fought far from these polished halls.
He raised his goblet higher, his laughter booming again.
"To a hundred years, and to those who've carried more than their share of the weight!"
A murmur of approval rippled around.
Beside him, a woman in traveling leathers tilted her goblet lazily, her hair coiled neatly down her back. Her eyes—quick, unblinking—rested on him with faint amusement.
She leaned toward him slightly, lips curling into a smirk.
"Careful, Rovan.
If you shout any louder, you'll rattle the chandeliers down."
The man waved her off, grinning.
"Let them fall! We'll use the chains for armor, the glass for blades. That's how it's done, that's how it should be."
A few at the table chuckled, though the woman's smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
She spoke again,
"And, endure.. Rovan?
Well, that's one word for it."
She let her gaze sweep the lanternlit hall.
"From what I've heard,
some cities endure more comfortably than others."
A ripple of chuckles followed after that, though muted.
An attendant appeared quietly, pouring wine into her goblet.
She lifted it but didn't drink.
Instead, she swirled it once, the dark red catching light.
"You sound as if war is your answer to everything," she said, voice calm but firm.
Rovan's grin didn't fade.
"It's the only answer the world respects."
A younger man seated further down—the only one at their table without any armor, medals or scars,
instead, clothes marked by subtle stains at the cuff—shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
He set his cup down too quickly, the clink sharp against the polished table.
He cleared his throat, tentative.
"Perhaps… respect isn't always won with steel.
Sometimes it's earned with trade, or trust."
"And comfort," he added carefully, "isn't always the same as safety."
The man turned his gaze toward the boy, one brow lifting.
"Spoken like a merchant's son. Where are you from, lad?"
The young man straightened a little, though his voice wavered.
"Faylen.
By the coast."
His voice faltered under the sudden silence.
Rovan's gaze slid toward him. Slow. Heavy.
"Ah. A coast-born."
He leaned back in his chair, smile spreading.
"I'd wondered who at this table smelled of salt and wet fish."
The braided woman's brow flicked, but she didn't interrupt.
"Faylen.
The city that bartered half its fleet away for 'peace.'
Tell me—how has that peace served you?"
The boy's face flushed, but he held his tongue.
The braided woman's hand came down lightly on the table, breaking the tension.
"Enough, Rovan. Leave the lad alone.
The boy swallowed, his voice low but steady.
"My people trade. That is how we survive."
Rovan chuckled into his wine.
"Trade." He let the word hang, dry as ash. "Some of us bled for our borders while others opened theirs."
The braided woman's voice cut in, soft but edged.
"Borders shift. Trade lasts. Both have their place."
Her gaze lingered on Rovan, then flicked to the boy.
"Though it does seem some places… are allowed their mistakes more than others."
Rovan's grin thinned, but he said nothing.
Instead,
he tipped his goblet back,
"Allowed,"
he echoed at last, setting the cup down with a sharp clink.
The word carried weight. Too much.
"Tch." He downed the wine in one long swallow, the sound of his laugh following after,
rolling into the clamor of the festival.
The music swelled,
cutting short the sharp edges of their exchange.
Goblets refilled, silver trays slid between them, the clink of cutlery and hum of conversation returning like nothing had cracked.
The man leaned back in his chair, jaw set, while the boy from Faylen fidgeted with his glass.
The braided woman raised hers calmly, the faintest frown curling at her lips—as if she'd entered a debate no one would ever admit was to be had.
The boy broke the silence again, too softly, almost to himself.
"At least… we weren't the ones who erased our own history."
His words dropped like a stone into water.
The mans gaze snapped toward him, but before he could answer—
voices from further down the hall rose, carrying across the crowd.
"They say the Governor keeps them under his roof."
"Elves." The word slipped out like a hushed breath. Too quick. Too careful.
Another voice followed—curious, almost amused.
"Children, at that. Strays, plucked from the outskirts."
"Not strays," someone else corrected. "Guests."
The word drew laughter, dry, dismissive.
"Guests. In Vash'Kael. Imagine."
The braided woman's smirk faded. She set her goblet down, fingers resting lightly against the stem.
Her gaze drifted toward the open floor, where the music was swelling again—where the crowd had begun to shift, ever so slightly, toward the tall doors.
A new ripple of sound stirred. Not laughter. Not the booming talk of politics and memory.
Murmurs.
The kind that always follow when a room turns its head toward something that does not belong.
The tall doors creaked open.
Callum entered first, expression unreadable, his step precise as he carved a path into the hall.
And behind him—
Sally.
King.
Lanternlight spilled over them, catching the pale edge of her braid, the sharp line of his shoulders.
Their steps were steady, but the silence that fell in their wake was heavier than the music could mask.
The guests watched.
Some openly. Some behind the rims of their goblets.
And though no one spoke loud enough for the words to carry clear, the whispers followed them still—like threads pulled tight through the fabric of the hall.
---
"…What are they saying?" Sally murmured.
Callum was leading them down, his step measured, every motion deliberate.
His expression didn't flicker, not once, as if the weight of every gaze meant nothing to him.
Behind him,
Sally and King descended side by side.
The marble stairs caught the lanternlight, the glow shifting over the folds of Sally's dress, the polished edge of King's boots.
Her hand brushed against the banister, not for balance but for something to do.
She could feel the weight of the room pressing down from below—hundreds of eyes, though none she could name.
King's jaw tightened as he scanned the crowd. He shook his head once.
"Doesn't matter. Just keep walking."
But the unease lingered all the same.
Callum glanced back briefly. Just enough for his eyes to meet theirs.
"Foreigners," he said simply, low enough that only they could hear.
"Our esteemed guests. Invited for the Hundred Years."
The word foreigners settled heavy between them.
Sally's gaze swept the crowd again.
Some of the guests smiled too easily, their eyes sharp.
Others leaned close to whisper behind jeweled hands.
A ripple of unfamiliar silks and furs shifted among the lanterns—cuts of clothing shaped by hands from far away.
King straightened his shoulders. His hand brushed instinctively toward the hilt that wasn't at his hip tonight.
"Guests… huh," he muttered.
Callum didn't answer.
His gaze was fixed on the crowd forming just below them.
---
The last steps unfurled beneath them,
marble steps spilling them into the hall like a river joining the sea.
And at once—
the sea rose to meet them.
The crowd.. like a tide.
Silks shimmered in colors Sally had never seen dyed before—deep sea-greens like polished glass, gold threaded into black so fine it caught light like fireworks.
Some wore tall plumed crests, others heavy chains of bronze,
some glittering masks that hid everything but the mouth.
A dozen languages fractured the air.
"…šariven doš'el—"
"…veyra'thul! hesh-ahn, hesh—"
"…kal tharen ul…"
Each word felt close enough to touch, yet none of them made sense.
Sally didn't know the words, but she knew what they meant.
Reverence. Recognition.
It was overwhelming—
too much color, too much motion, too much sound.
For the village kids, who hadn't experienced anything close to this before,
For someone who'd grown up where the loudest night was a harvest song around a fire—
this was something else entirely.
King, held his usual stone cold expression, his jaw locked,
eyes scanning the crowd.
"Your Excellency. An honor."
Both glanced.
It was Callum, to a man in bronze chains, his bow was precise, a hand to his chest.
To a woman in emerald silks, he inclined his head, voice carrying with dignified warmth:
"Your grace, your journey graces this hall."
Each word was perfect. Each gesture exact.
Callum didn't just acknowledge them—he confirmed their importance, mirrored their dignity,
and in so doing, in a way elevated Sally and King with every breath.
The guests responded in kind.
Every greeting was returned with their eyes still fixed on the 'elves'.
Sally felt it—
like walking through a dream she hadn't earned.
Her steps slowed for a heartbeat, caught between awe and dread.
Then,
She drew in a breath.
Straightened her shoulders.
King mirrored her, squaring his stance.
"Come on. With me."
Callum's voice slid in low, almost casual,
Then, without another word,
He stepped ahead,
his shoulders set in that measured poise that turned even the act of walking into an art form.
Sally and King followed,
though every step felt like dragging themselves deeper into the tide of foreign eyes.
The crowd shifted to let them pass—parting just enough, closing again just behind. Murmurs wove through the air, low and insistent.
"…šariven doš'el—"
"…el'venar, *he Go*er*or's ***sts…"
"…veyra'thul! hesh-ahn, hesh—"
"…ra**, so r*r* to *ee **em h**e…"
"…kal tharen ul…"
Sally couldn't tell if they were whispers of awe or suspicion. Perhaps both.
King leaned closer, his voice low, dry.
"They really like what they're seeing don't they.."
Callum didn't look back. He inclined his head smoothly toward another table,
acknowledging a nobleman's bow as though it were nothing unusual, nothing they couldn't endure.
"They do," Callum murmured, his tone polite but faintly detached. "And, I don't blame them."
Then, low, as if to himself, "But, I don't envy them."
He guided them through the sea of silks and jewels with effortless precision,
pausing only to return greetings, a hand pressed lightly to his chest, a tilt of his head.
And yet—
step by step—
they were drawn toward the circle of guests they had glimpsed before.
Inside,
The women in pearls and dark silks, the man with the booming laugh—conversations flowing, wine glasses raised.
As the elves entered.. surrounded by an unusually large crowd, the circle stilled.
Eyes turned.
The shift was subtle, but unmistakable.
The conversation about the house, the whispered doubts, the politics unspoken—
all of it folded inward,
to make space for them.
---
[A Festival In The Making]
Distant bells rang out. Drawing them forward.
Each toll rolled through the air like ripples across still water—
low, resonant, and alive.
John lifted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as the sound echoed once more.
Then,
A second bell joined it—slightly off in pitch, not as loud,
as if the towers weren't quite tuned in unison.
He didn't say a word. Just started walking again.
---
John and the others kept following the sound.
As the streets around them began to stir,
Just like a neighborhood roused from an afternoon nap.
Wooden shutters creaked open overhead.
Voices called out across balconies.
Doors swung outward with the sound of old hinges and sandals on stone.
A woman carrying laundry paused on her step, adjusting her scarf as she looked toward the bell.
Two children—dust on their knees, straw in their hair—
stopped mid-game in an alley to listen.
A potter in his stall grunted at the noise, set down his chisel, and muttered under his breath:
"Governor's ruckus again, no doubt…"
But still, he wiped his hands on his apron and leaned out for a better look.
Others moved with more purpose.
Small clusters of people—work-worn, sun-browned—emerged from behind half-open shopfronts,
drawn to the sound like birds to a tide.
Their clothing was simple. Handspun. Still wet in places from morning washings.
No one ran.
But they drifted—toward the center of the city.
And all around them, John and the others walked unseen,
ghosts in a world that didn't know they were watching.
The bell sounded again.
This one rang sharper—closer.
Jake winced.
"Ugh. That thing again…"
He rubbed the side of his head, fingers pressing behind his ear.
"Does it really have to be that loud?
I swear my ear's gonna start bleeding."
Aurora and Finn both chuckled under their breath.
Jake groaned, arms flopping to his sides.
"And my legs are gonna snap in half from all this walking."
He threw a tired look at John.
"John, are we walking all the way to the next century or something?"
John glanced back.
Behind them,
Harry kicked a small stone down the road, letting it bounce ahead.
"It's this way," John said simply.
"We're close now."
Jake squinted at him.
"You said that four bell-rings ago."
John just smiled, voice still calm. patient.
"And each one's been closer."
Aurora slowed beside him.
Her eyes caught on a man across the street, painting the shutters of a shopfront—bright orange over weather-worn wood.
"Is he really about to ignore the roll-call?"
---
[The Decree]
The road widened beneath their feet.
Stalls spilled into the open square,
voices rising, overlapping in rhythms too familiar to be noise and too unspoken to be song.
A cobbler shouted across the way to a butcher,
waving a strip of leather with both hands.
A woman with copper-threaded hair handed out slices of baked root wrapped in cloth,
children darting between her skirts like minnows around a rock.
An old man leaned out a window, blinking sleep from his eyes, half-curious and half-annoyed.
The bell tolled again.
Closer now.
Jake covered his ears immediately, now with both hands.
Aurora's gaze wandered—restless, tracking movement.
She watched the people.
Their clothes.
Their movement.
Their comfort.
So different from Vash'kael in the present—
where the city stood stiff and grand and reverent.
Here, there was… balance.
Then came the next bell strike.
Sharper.
Ringing not just through the air, but through the square itself—
and this time,
it wasn't alone.
A new voice joined it.
From the steps of a raised platform,
flanked by two flagpoles,
a man in a high-collared coat stood holding a scroll.
Deep. Clear. Authority without force.
His voice rang out across the square:
"By order of His Grace,
the Governor of Vash'kael—"
The crowd stilled.
John and the others slowed near the edge.
"Let this day be marked.
Let this hour be named."
A pause.
He unfurled the scroll further, then spoke louder still:
"As of this moment—
The city is to prepare for—
prepare for…
the Festival of the Hundred Years."
A hush swept the square.
The butcher lowered his cleaver.
A child stopped mid-skip, streamer fluttering still.
The speaker held his pause just long enough to let the words echo.
then raised his voice again,
unfurling the scroll even further:
"Let tribute be made.
Let tables be raised.
Let lanterns be lit.
Let our city remember its strength—
And celebrate its name."
Then, his voice came the loudest.
"Henceforth—
this city will be known as...
The city of Vash'kael."
A small, timed release of smoke burst above the platform—
red and gold petals drifting down in its wake.
John stood still.
But his eyes—his focus—drifted from the crier…
to the people.
The way they responded.
The crowd, met the announcement..
Not with applause.
Not with reverence.
But something… else.
At first, there was a pause.
A collective breath held too long.
A man near the front turned to his neighbor, speaking low and fast.
Another voice answered louder—too loud—then folded quickly into a forced laugh.
A whispered exchange.
A sideways glance.
In the space of seconds, the square shifted.
The cobbler stopped waving his leather strap.
The butcher leaned his weight on the table like he suddenly felt tired.
The woman with copper-threaded hair folded her basket closed.
Words flew.
Some hushed. Others not.
Discussions sparked in clusters.
Questions and declarations.
Skepticism. Curiosity.
Even—fear?
And it was growing.
A boy ran through the crowd yelling something.
A woman reached out to pull him back, but he slipped past.
Two old men began arguing near the food stalls.
Others simply left—walking fast, shoulders high like they had no interest in "celebrating."
A street over, a group began shouting, voices layered in a language John didn't recognize.
He took a step forward without thinking.
A sudden lurch—
a wave of people breaking apart, coming together again, rushing in different directions.
He stumbled back.
Finn reached for Aurora's hand.
Harry grabbed Jake's sleeve.
"Whoa—" Jake grunted, bracing himself as someone passed through him like mist.
Aurora jerked slightly, her hand still outstretched. "They—can't see us, but it still feels…"
"Too close," Finn muttered.
The sounds blurred.
Too many voices, layered and tangled.
Then—
Another bell.
Sharp.
Out of time.
The moment snapped.
People surged.
Someone tripped.
A basket fell, spilling fruit that rolled underfoot.
Finn's hand slipped from Aurora's.
Jake cursed as a woman passed straight through him, shivering like ice down his spine.
"Screw this—!" Jake spun around. "Where is—John?!"
A paper streamer tore in the wind.
A market pole cracked.
A voice shouted—distant, maybe on the platform, maybe not.
"Finn?" Aurora called out, turning too fast, colliding with someone who didn't see her.
John tried to reach them—but the space between them thickened.
The crowd wasn't solid, but it pressed like wind in a tunnel.
Voices roared.
A man shouted above the rest—another trying to calm him.
Someone cried.
Finn's face flickered between the sea of heads—briefly—then vanished again.
Harry's voice shouted something—but it was pulled under the chaos.
John gritted his teeth and pushed forward—
but every step was swallowed by motion.
Not one of them could touch the crowd.
But they could feel it.
The panic.
The fear.
The fracture.
And then—
the book turned its page.
---
The hush had returned—
but not the quiet.
It was a hush built on expectation, layered with murmurs, glances, lifted brows and half-meant smiles.
Sally stood just behind King,
and both feeling as though they were alone in a garden full of strangers.
A small circle had formed around them now.
Not too tight—
not rude.
But attentive.
Curious.
Some nobles had risen from their seats, drinks in hand,
others lingering at the edges of conversation,
eyes flickering back again and again.
A man with silver cuffs leaned in with a practiced smile, speaking words that curved like music.
Sally blinked, unsure where to look.
She smiled, small, polite. Nodded once.
King glanced sidelong, expression unreadable. He nodded, too.
Neither of them understood a word they heard.
The man continued as if he hadn't noticed.
Another joined in, gesturing subtly toward the cut of King's collar.
A comment,
perhaps a compliment—others around him chuckled gently, heads nodding.
Sally felt her mouth mirror their movements, her smile softening to a half-laugh she didn't quite mean.
King's posture straightened further, his chin rising by a breath.
If anyone noticed they weren't speaking back, they didn't say so.
"Just… nod if they nod. Smile when they... smile." Sally nudged King, her voice a whisper.
King's jaw flexed slightly.
His eyes flicked toward her, then back to the circle.
"I am smiling," he muttered, under his breath.
"Then smile harder, dammit," Sally hissed—still smiling, wider now, painfully so.
A chuckle rippled through the guests at something said nearby.
Sally let out a small, awkward laugh.
"Ha-ha… ha?"
Sally turned her head a fraction, her smile still pinned in place.
"How long are they gonna stare at us for?"
They kept nodding again.
And again.
"It seems they're starstruck by you."
Callum's voice entered like glass cutting through silk.
"They stare because they admire you."
He stepped through the layers of nobles with the ease of someone who knew exactly how much space he was allowed to take.
One hand rested lightly at his side, the other brushing along the line of his coat.
"Mighty elven blood," he added quietly, just for them. "How could they not stare?"
King arched a brow.
Sally's mouth parted.
Before they could speak, another noble leaned toward Callum with a question in that same flowing dialect.
Callum turned, smiling politely.
A brief exchange. Fluid, practiced.
Then a bow.
Then another smile.
"He keeps asking what province you're from." Callum added, still not facing them.
"And, why you haven't said anything."
Sally & King both straightened immediately.
"We, uh… well—"
Sally fumbled, glancing at King.
"We're just maintaining the nobility, right?" she whispered.
King nodded solemnly, a beat late.
"Isn't it noble to have your attendant speak for you?"
A pause.
Then—
Callum's shoulders shifted ever so slightly.
His voice, dry as parchment.
"But of course."
They both exchanged glances.
Callum stepped forward to the crowd.
"Your Excellency is reserved," he translated, to the guests.
"As all refined blood must be."
A beat of silence.
A ripple of response moved through the guests—
Few nobles gave quiet, approving nods.
One woman gave a light, melodic laugh—clearly charmed.
Another man tilted his head, skeptical perhaps, but said nothing.
Two others shared a fleeting glance before retreating behind their well-trained expressions.
Not all smiled.
But none disagreed.
Not outwardly.
And so, the questions came.
Curious.
Cautious.
Sometimes a touch sensitive..
Callum answered smoothly.
He did not hesitate.
Did not stammer.
Each response polished,
Then—
He glanced back,
"They'd like to know if the winters are harsh where you come from."
Sally blinked.
"Oh… terribly harsh,"
She nudged King's boot.
King gave a slight nod, playing along.
"Yes."
He didn't speak more.
Sally stared at him.
Callum did too. Until he simply turned back to the guests, translated with crisp elegance—
"The frost is said to bite like a blade.
The kind of cold that humbles even pride." He said, with a really serious expression.
The guests murmured with interest.
Another question came, this time from a younger noble with shiny cuffs and far too curious eyes.
Callum translated:
"She asks what your river spirits are called."
"..."
"We should go now."
And so they did.
They followed Callum through the crowd—
past the flicker of gazes, through the hush of shifting voices—
and stepped deeper into the gathering.
---
From the far end of the chamber,
beneath the shade of an arched window,
a figure sat in stillness.
Not among the crowd, but not apart from it either.
Not hidden.
Simply… overlooked.
She watched as the "elves" entered—
a tide of murmurs still trailing behind them.
Their faces unreadable.
Their steps steady.
The crowd, still reluctant to let go.
Her fingers rested lightly on the stem of her glass.
No gesture.
No smile.
Just the quiet tilt of her head as they passed—
like a note being struck,
too soft for anyone else to hear.
An attendant approached with a silver tray, the crystal on it trembling ever so slightly as he bowed.
She looked up. gave a smile.
Reached her fingers light on the stem, and brought the glass to her lips.
A slow sip. The faintest sound as it set back down.
Across from her,
someone leaned slightly forward from their seat.
"So," they said, voice just above the hum of conversation,
"what have you been up to since we last met?"
She didn't answer right away.
Her eyes remained on the crowd, on the distant pair still surrounded.
A pause.
Then the faintest motion of her lips—
like the beginning of a smile.
Or the memory of one.
"After all those years, I finally stepped out."
"I thought I wouldn't make it far—but I did."
"Met some strange people. Kind ones too."
"Saw things I never thought I'd see."
"My confidence… grew, I think. I don't startle quite so easy anymore."
pause
"But…"
"It was fun. And, I did really enjoy it."
"Still—
there's really nothing like… home."
"Oh, listen to you,"
the other said, half-laughing.
"All those years afraid to even step beyond your garden gate—and now you sound like a traveler."
"I was never afraid."
"You were terrified."
"I was cautious."
A pause.
The soft clink of glass meeting lips.
"I learned to breathe different air," she said lightly. "It changes a person."
"It's changed you, all right," the other teased. "You talk like someone who's forgotten what shyness feels like."
"Since I left. Since I realized I could. I walked into places I'd never seen, spoke to people I'd never imagined meeting."
"And?"
"I liked it. I liked me in it."
"So the little girl behind the curtains—?"
"Decided she didn't need curtains anymore."
a beat.
then,
"…And your father?"
Another sip.
"He doesn't decide. Not anymore."
"Wow."
"Don't 'wow' me."
"I'm serious. You sound like someone who owns the room now. And, i mean it."
"I do. I just don't need to announce it."
A last sip.
She lingered on it, letting the taste settle, then gently set the glass down.
No clink. Just the soft hush of crystal on polished wood.
Her fingers rested there a moment longer—light, unhurried—before she pushed the glass just slightly aside, as though drawing a line.
Then,
she stood.
Not in a rush. Not with ceremony.
Just a quiet ease, the kind that didn't ask for attention but claimed space anyway.
"I have some work to do," she said.
Her voice was even, almost soft—but it left no room for protest.
She smoothed the front of her sleeve.
Then gave the other figure a look—not distant, not cold, but final in its own way.
A gentle smile followed. Not the shy kind from before, but something steadier.
And with that, she turned.
Her steps were measured. Graceful.
"Meet you in another hundred years,"
the voice called after her.
She didn't pause.
But her smile, just barely, returned.
She didn't turn.
---
[TO BE CONTINUED IN EPISODE 23]