The streets of Insomnia were alive with color.
Lanterns floated overhead, bobbing gently in the night air like stars trapped in glass, their light catching on the shimmering dome of the barrier above. Stalls spilled across the stone-paved avenues, heavy with grilled meats that hissed and smoked, candied fruits gleaming under enchanted frost, toys carved of wood and etched with faint runes that sparked when touched. Children darted between the crowds with sparklers, trails of light dancing in their hands. Overhead, the sharp crack of fireworks split the night, blossoms of gold and crimson blooming against the dark.
Sirius Blake clutched his mother's hand as they stepped into the festival's current. His father walked steady on her other side, Dominic's presence like a shield that kept the swell of strangers at bay. For a moment Sirius forgot the notebook hidden under his pillow at home, the scrawled prophecies that pressed on him like chains. For a moment, he was only a boy, swept into the tide of Lucis' celebration.
Lyla's smile glowed as she watched the lanterns drift higher. The silver-white of her hair caught the light and seemed to blend into it, making her appear almost ethereal. She squeezed Sirius' hand gently. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
Sirius' red eyes widened. "I've never seen anything like this."
Dominic chuckled, his voice low and warm. "That's because you've only just reached the age to remember it. The Festival of Lights is older than me, older than your uncle. It's a promise to the Crystal—that the people of Lucis still honor its gift."
Sirius looked around, wonder pulling at him from every direction. It wasn't just nobles or soldiers here. Merchants laughed with their children, guards shared bread with strangers, families pressed shoulder to shoulder with no thought of rank. For one night the whole of Insomnia seemed to breathe as one, united beneath the dome's glow.
They paused at a food stall where skewers sizzled over glowing coals. Dominic paid the vendor and handed one each to Lyla and Sirius before taking his own. Sirius bit into the meat, and the flavor burst across his tongue—savory, spiced, smoky in a way no food from his past life had ever been. His eyes went wide.
"Good?" Dominic asked, amusement flickering in his gaze.
Sirius nodded quickly, cheeks full. "Really good!"
Lyla laughed softly, her shoulders trembling with joy. Sirius stole a glance at her, memorizing the sound. He wanted to keep it forever, untouched by sorrow.
They wandered further, stopping at a craftsman's table where tiny glass charms glimmered in neat rows. Stars, crystals, miniature swords no longer than a finger—each one shimmered with faint enchantments. Sirius pressed close, eyes wide.
Lyla picked up a glass feather that seemed to glow from within, holding it to the lamplight before pressing it into her son's palm. "For you."
Sirius blinked. "But—"
"It will remind you," she said, smiling, "that even the smallest things can carry light."
Dominic nodded. "She's right. Keep it."
Sirius closed his hand tight around the charm. His heart swelled. I'll protect this too, he thought fiercely. Every piece of this life. Every moment.
His steps slowed when he spotted a pen of chocobos near the plaza. Their golden feathers gleamed under lantern light, their cheerful chirps carrying over the noise of the crowd. He froze, red eyes wide—he had only ever seen them on a screen before, sprites and polygons, never real.
An attendant lifted him into a saddle, and the bird shifted beneath him, warm and solid. As the chocobo trotted forward, Sirius burst into laughter, the sound raw and unrestrained. Lyla clapped her hands from the edge of the pen, her pale hair shining as she laughed with him. For that fleeting moment, Sirius was only a child, joy echoing in the night.
The night deepened, the streets swelling with people as fireworks thundered across the sky. Explosions of silver, red, and gold painted the barrier overhead, sparks cascading down like falling stars. The crowd roared with cheers. Sirius craned his head back, heart racing. He remembered this from the game—but never like this. Not with the smell of smoke in the air, not with the warmth of his parents' hands anchoring him, not with the boom rattling his chest like a living heartbeat.
Dominic crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. His voice was steady, solemn even in the chaos. "Remember this, Sirius. Not the fighting. Not the drills. This. The people, the laughter, the light. This is what we fight for."
Sirius turned toward him, the words striking deep. Dominic's eyes—dark, unwavering—burned with the same fire Sirius sometimes glimpsed in his own reflection. Slowly, Sirius nodded, clutching the feather charm tighter.
"I'll remember," he whispered.
---
Later, they found a quieter spot near the plaza's fountain. Lyla leaned against Dominic's shoulder, her breathing soft and measured. Sirius knelt at the fountain's edge, trailing his fingers through the cool water as lanterns floated across its surface, their glow rippling in delicate patterns.
He leaned closer. His reflection stared back—white hair, red eyes, a boy out of place in both worlds. For a moment, the laughter and noise of the festival dimmed, leaving only that face: an anomaly.
Then his mother's voice reached him, warm and fragile. "Sirius."
He turned. Lyla was smiling, her eyes tired but alight. "Are you happy?"
The question caught him unprepared. He swallowed, the glass feather digging into his palm. Happy. The word felt fragile, dangerous, as though it might break if spoken. But he nodded anyway. "Yes. I'm happy."
Her smile deepened, and she reached for him. He hurried back to her side, tucking himself against her slender frame. She held him close, and Dominic's arm encircled them both, one hand resting on the sword at his hip as though he could guard not only his family but the whole of Lucis. For a heartbeat, Sirius felt wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and strength, the world beyond their embrace unable to touch him.
---
When they returned home, the city still sparkled with light. Sirius slipped into bed, tucking the feather carefully beneath his pillow beside his notebook. His eyes burned with exhaustion, but sleep would not come.
He thought of the fireworks, his father's words, his mother's smile. He thought of how bright everything had been, how alive. And he thought of the story he had written in messy graphite—the fall of Insomnia, the death of Regis, the long night.
Tears stung his eyes, hot and angry. I won't let this memory be ruined, he swore. I won't let this joy be swallowed by war. If I have to fight fate itself, I'll keep this safe.
At last, exhaustion pulled him under. In his dreams, fireworks bloomed again—but they burst not into fire and ash, but into endless light that refused to dim.