April 10, 2036 – the first day of Eid-ul-Fitr in both worlds.
The Eternal Bridge had never looked more alive.
The portal arch—now a grand, permanent structure of dragon scales veined with elven starbloom vines and Kot Addu brick—stood wide open in the heart of the merged orchard. Golden light spilled through from both sides, blending the warm Punjab dawn with Elandria's softer, multi-hued sunrise. The air shimmered with overlapping scents: frying sheer khurma from portable stoves on the Kot Addu side, roasted starberry-glazed meats from Elandrian hearths, fresh jasmine garlands mingling with the smoky sweetness of mango wood fires.
Ahmed Khan stood at the threshold, dressed in a crisp white kurta-pajama embroidered with subtle phulkari patterns his mother had stitched herself. Around his neck hung a simple ajrak shawl—his father's gift—draped the way elders wore it on special days. He looked older than his years, not from age but from the quiet weight of carrying two worlds on his shoulders for a decade.
Today, that weight felt light.
The orchard had been transformed into a cross-world Eidgah. Prayer mats from Kot Addu mosques lay side by side with elven silk rugs and dwarven woven tapestries. A massive communal table stretched under the oldest mango tree—laden with sheer khurma in silver bowls, sheer malai, zarda rice, date-nut laddoos, mango lassis in clay pots chilled by Liyana's frost, and Elandrian honey-glazed starberry tarts that glowed faintly. Children from both sides darted between legs—human toddlers chasing beastkin pups, elf younglings teaching dragonkin hatchlings how to weave flower crowns, Ammar organizing a friendly wrestling circle with orc teenagers who now called him "little wolf-brother."
Ahmed's mother bustled past, dupatta pinned neatly, carrying a massive deg of sheer khurma.
"Arre beta, jaldi karo—namaz ka time ho gaya!" (Hurry up—prayer time!)
Ahmed's father, already in his best kurta, adjusted his topi. "Portal te bhi namaz—dono taraf se ek saath." (Prayer at the portal—both sides together.)
On the Elandrian side, Thalira the dragonkin matriarch had arrived—her massive form carefully glamoured smaller, wings folded, wearing a flowing robe dyed in Saraiki ajrak patterns as a gesture of respect. Grom the bear-kin elder stood beside her, wearing a phulkari vest that barely fit his shoulders. Lirael and Borin—now honorary grandparents—helped arrange prayer rugs.
Ahmed's youngest sister—now twenty-one and studying cultural anthropology across both worlds—ran up, breathless.
"Bhai, sab aa gaye! Even the comedians are here—Nasir Uncle brought new material!"
Ahmed laughed. "Of course they did."
The call to prayer rose—first from the Kot Addu side, soft and melodic in the traditional style, then echoed and harmonized by elven voices on the other side, blending into something transcendent. Humans, elves, dwarves, beastkin, dragonkin—all knelt together across the portal threshold. Ammar, Zara, and Liyana prayed between their parents and grandparents, small hands folded, eyes closed in perfect imitation of the adults.
When the prayer ended, silence held for a heartbeat—then joy exploded.
"Eid Mubarak!" rang out in every tongue.
Hugs flowed freely. Ahmed's mother embraced Thalira—two grandmothers, one scaled, one human—both teary-eyed. "Mera pota te poti nu dekho," she whispered. (Look at my grandson and granddaughters.)
Thalira rumbled softly, "They carry the best of both fires."
The children swarmed the sweets table. Ammar piled his plate with sheer khurma and starberry tarts. Zara conjured illusion fireworks—tiny golden mangoes bursting into sparkles. Liyana frosted her laddoos so they glittered like jewels.
Ahmed's sisters organized games: sack races across the portal threshold (half in Punjab dust, half in Elandrian grass), kite-flying with elven wind magic making them soar impossibly high, and a massive dholki circle where Nasir Chinyoti, Iftikhar Thakur, and Zafri Khan (who had portal-hopped over for the occasion) took the mic.
Nasir started, deadpan as ever:
"Eid Mubarak, fantasy logon! Main sochya si—Eid te biryani milegi, par dragon biryani? Oye, eh toh next level ae!"
(Eid Mubarak, fantasy people! I thought Eid means biryani—but dragon biryani? This is next level!)
Iftikhar grabbed the mic:
"Oye inspector mode on! Sab passport dikhao—Eid visa check karna ae! No mango smuggling!"
(Inspector mode on! Everyone show passports—Eid visa check! No mango smuggling!)
Zafri tumbled onstage:
"Main vi visa mangda haan—par mera visa toh mango license ae!"
(I want a visa too—but mine is a mango license!)
The crowd roared. Even Thalira let out a deep, rumbling chuckle that shook nearby trees.
Amanullah's hologram (permanently installed near the portal) flickered to life, deadpan stare sweeping the chaos:
"Eid Mubarak… par eh sab drama? Main toh sochya si sirf sheer khurma milega—yeh toh full circus ae!"
(Eid Mubarak… but all this drama? I thought it'd just be sheer khurma—this is a full circus!)
Ahmed watched from the side, heart full. His mother slipped her arm through his.
"Beta, dekho—sab ek ghar vich." (Son, look—everyone in one home.)
He nodded, throat tight. "Ji, Ammi. Ek ghar, do duniyawan."
The day unfolded in perfect rhythm.
Morning prayers gave way to feasts—humans teaching elves how to eat biryani with hands (much giggling at the mess), dwarves challenging orcs to sheer khurma-eating contests (dwarves won by sheer stubbornness), beastkin pups showing human children how to howl Eid greetings.
Afternoon games: kite-flying turned epic when dragonkin hatchlings carried kites sky-high, illusion mango rains from Zara, frost fireworks from Liyana, Ammar's controlled howls sending kites dancing.
Evening brought music and stories.
Ahmed's grandmother sang Pathanay Khan's "Merra ishq vi tu," voice soft and soulful. Elves joined with harp harmonies; dragonkin hummed deep undertones. The children sat rapt—first time hearing the full kafi in such company.
Ahmed recited Bulleh Shah:
"Bulleh ki jaana main kaun?
Na main momin vich masjidan…"
The crowd joined the refrain, voices blending across worlds.
Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai's Sassui verses followed—Ahmed's mother singing the Sindhi lines, Thalira adding resonant dragonkin echoes.
As moons rose (both sets visible through the open portal), Ahmed gathered everyone.
"Ten years ago, we opened a door. Today, we celebrate what walked through it—family. Love. Laughter. Poetry. Power with heart."
He raised a glass of mango lassi.
"Eid Mubarak—dono duniyawan nu. Ik dil, ik ghar, ik khushi."
(Eid Mubarak—to both worlds. One heart, one home, one joy.)
The toast echoed—human cheers, elven songs, dwarven roars, beastkin howls, dragonkin rumbles—all one voice.
Fireworks (real and illusory) lit the sky—mango-shaped, star-shaped, heart-shaped.
Ahmed looked at his children—laughing, loved, belonging.
The bridge wasn't just open.
It was alive.
And so was the family it held.