The festival had drawn to its close with a quiet that came not from the absence of noise, but from the gentle retreat of it. The square, which for two days had roared with the press of bodies, laughter, and the thrum of drums, now bore only the soft scrape of carts and the low murmur of villagers returning to the ordinary rhythm of their lives. Straw was scattered in the dust, ribbons still fluttered from lantern posts, and the lingering scent of roasting meats and burning pine coals clung stubbornly to every corner.
Asoka walked among the remnants, baskets on her arm, tidying what she could, but mostly letting the scene fade into memory. Two days of sound, movement, and celebration had left her both exhausted and strangely exhilarated. There had been no shortage of minor mishaps: a barrel of apples overturned, a stray pig cornered by chasing children, and her own awkward encounter with Tristan, the stranger whose voice and presence lingered still in her mind. She recalled his careful amusement, the way he had guided her without intrusion, and found herself shaking her head, half embarrassed by how flustered she had been.
Beyond the square, near the forest's edge, a more secretive custom had always followed. The elders spoke of it in hushed tones, as if the ritual itself demanded discretion. At midnight, the young girls of the village—those sixteen and older who had not yet taken a husband, or rather more where still virgins—would gather around a great bonfire that smoldered at the forest's margin. There they danced and laughed, the flames casting long shadows across the trees, while the elderly women performed their rites. Strange herbs were ground between smooth stones, their powders pressed into markings upon the girls' foreheads. The elders said it was to appease the gods of the forest, to ensure that the young women were purified until their marriages, to safeguard their futures, and to honor customs older than any living memory.
Asoka had long since ceased to hold belief in these sacred acts. She joined the ritual out of habit, respect, and a desire not to stand apart.
The night air was crisp, filled with the scent of pine smoke and herbs, the firelight bouncing across the faces of girls laughing with reckless abandon. The rhythm of their steps and the warmth of the fire reminded her that even in customs she did not trust, there was life, and there was continuity.
It was there, at the edge of the dancing, that she found Eliza. The girl's laughter rose above the others, bright and unrestrained, though there was a note of gravity hidden beneath it. Asoka approached quietly, careful not to intrude upon the circle, and greeted her. Eliza's brown eyes met hers with a mixture of warmth and unease.
"I am to leave," Eliza said after a moment, her voice low enough for only Asoka to hear. "My father has promised me to a merchant from a town not far from the country. By next week, I must depart."
The words struck Asoka with a curious mixture of shock and resignation. Though she had expected changes and arrangements, she had not foreseen Eliza's sudden engagement. She searched her friend's expression, but Eliza remained composed, almost serene.
"Next week?" Asoka repeated softly. "And you… you do not object?"
Eliza smiled, but it was not a smile of joy. "I do as one is expected to do," she replied. "The rest is beyond me." She gestured to the flames, where the girls twirled and stamped, their shadows long and thin across the forest floor. "Come, Asoka. Enjoy the fire, if you will. There is time to think later."
So they joined the circle for a few moments, allowing the warmth to rise through their limbs and the music of clapping and stamping to fill the night.
Asoka found herself laughing despite the heaviness in her chest. The moment was fleeting, ephemeral as smoke curling from the bonfire, yet it left its impression.
Later, when the night had deepened and the ritual wound down, the girls dispersed, returning silently to their homes.
Asoka lingered for a few minutes longer, staring into the fire until the embers had dulled, wondering at the constancy of these customs and the strange authority the elders wielded. Their power had always felt distant, nearly unreal, but tonight she noticed something sharper, an almost imperceptible insistence that even those who laughed and danced were under watchful eyes.
When she returned home, the air was cool against her skin. Her house stood quiet, the animals settled for the night, and the faint glow of her lantern marked the doorway. She paused, thinking of Eliza, of the news she had received, and of the festival's echoing chants and fires. Change was coming, whether she wished it or no.
As she climbed into bed, sleep approached slowly, her mind still filled with the rhythm of the night. The warmth of the fire lingered behind her eyelids, and the echo of laughter followed her into the shadows. She felt the pull of the festival still, the sense that even after the crowds had gone, the village had not returned wholly to its ordinary life. Some currents, she sensed, had shifted, and they would carry the world forward whether she was ready or no.
And as she drifted into slumber, the events of the past two days—the crowd, the laughter, the fire, and Eliza's quiet revelation—folded into her thoughts. They became threads she could not unravel, subtle signals that the world was larger and stranger than she had allowed herself to imagine.
The next day would bring the ordinary: work in the shop, chores in the garden, tending the small livestock. she had thought of her friend, and has understood that for even the daughter of an elder, was still bound to the prejudice behind the village walls..