The parade had not yet begun, but the festival square already thrummed with anticipation. From every corner, music tangled with the laughter of children and the shouts of merchants hawking last-minute sweets. Clara, emboldened by the ease of the afternoon, let herself slip entirely into the tide of celebration, her arm entwined with Zarek’s as if they’d done it every day of their lives.

They rounded a corner and entered a plaza where the games had been set up: rows of booths and challenge stands, all painted in the festival’s gold and indigo. Children shrieked as they raced sacks across the grass, while adults lined up for more ambitious tests—strength, precision, balance. In the center, a cluster of wooden platforms wobbled precariously above a field of soft hay bales.

“Games of skill,” Zarek observed, eyebrow raised.

“Also games of ego,” Clara replied. “Last year, a visiting dignitary tried the tightrope and ended up in the fountain. The stories get longer every time they retell it.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “You ever try one of these?” She asked and tilted her head.

“The north prefers endurance. Our games last for days, sometimes weeks. Whoever is left standing at the end is declared the least foolish.” Zarek shook his head.

Clara snorted. “Here, we reward the most foolish.” She scanned the choices and pointed at the balance run—the logs, each narrower than the last, arched over a series of padded pits. “Watch me win,” she declared.

“I will spectate from a safe distance.” Zarek held up both hands in surrender.

Clara bounded to the queue, ignoring the twinge in her still-healing leg. The boy in front of her shot a nervous look at the logs, then at her, then whispered something to his mother. Clara flashed him a conspiratorial thumbs-up.

Her turn came quickly. The attendant, a girl her own age wearing a sash of festival flowers, offered a hand. “You know the rules, Princess?”

“Don’t fall. If you do, fall spectacularly,” Clara said. “Got it.”

Clara stepped onto the first log. It was wide, steady—a confidence builder. The second was thinner, already wobbling beneath her weight. She heard the crowd murmur, felt the heat of eyes on her. A year ago, the pressure would have made her reckless. Now, she steeled herself and focused on the rhythm: left, right, counterbalance, pause. The third log swayed with every step. Clara’s bad leg buckled. She nearly toppled, arms pinwheeling, and caught herself at the last instant—heart hammering, pride in freefall.

“Steady!” came Zarek’s voice, low and certain. Clara glanced back. He stood just beyond the boundary rope, hands behind his back, face unreadable but for the sliver of concern in his gaze.

The final log was barely wider than her foot. Clara braced herself and took the leap. Her balance went immediately, and she landed squarely on her backside in a drift of hay, legs tangled and skirt askew. The crowd cheered—not out of mockery, but with the infectious enthusiasm only a festival could conjure.

Clara scrambled upright and bowed, grinning. “That’s how it’s done,” she announced to no one in particular.

Zarek approached as she dusted off, his lips twitching. “You lasted longer than most,” he said. “But perhaps you should avoid high places for a while.” He offered her an arm, and when she took it, his hand wrapped lightly around her waist. The warmth lingered, more than ceremonial.

They drifted to the next row of booths. Clara aimed for the ring toss. She watched as a merchant’s daughter managed to land a ring on the tallest peg, winning a crown-shaped cookie. When it was her turn, she missed every shot—three rings, three spectacular failures, one rolling under the booth and into the gutter. She was about to laugh it off when Zarek stepped up beside her.

“May I?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Show me.” Clara folded her arms, challenging.

Zarek took a single ring, weighed it in his palm, and with almost imperceptible effort, sent it arcing through the air. It landed dead center on the smallest peg, wobbling for a second before settling with a satisfying thunk.

The booth operator whistled, impressed. “Winner’s choice!” she declared, offering Zarek a selection of prizes: carved tokens shaped like local animals, a painted glass globe, a bundle of festival ribbons.

Zarek considered, then selected a wooden wolf, no larger than his thumb but carved with exquisite detail. He turned, held it out to Clara, and said, “For luck.”

Clara took it, stunned by the simplicity of the gesture. She blinked and held it with both hands, “You’re full of surprises,” she said, not quite able to meet his eyes.

Zarek shrugged. “Not really. You just haven’t asked the right questions yet.” His hand grazed hers as he let go of the token, and for a heartbeat, she felt the calluses on his skin, the quiet power in his restraint.

A bell rang out, signaling the start of the parade. The crowd shifted as people rushed to the avenue to claim their spots. Clara and Zarek let themselves be swept along, the current of bodies drawing them to the edge of the main thoroughfare. The avenue had been transformed for the evening: the lanterns were brighter now, spells turning them from pale gold to vibrant crimson and sapphire, each one echoing the house colors of some major family or guild. The air smelled of cinnamon and charred sugar, a haze of magic and festival dust painting everything in a soft, dreamy blur.

They watched as the first parade float creaked into view: a platform carried by hidden wheels, its surface covered in living flowers. Dancers in petal-bright costumes spun circles around a giant papier-mâché sun. Behind them, a marching band pounded out a thunderous, joyful tune. Clara felt it in her bones, the way the rhythm synced to the beating of her heart.

Zarek stood close behind her, hands folded neatly at his waist. She glanced back once, caught his profile bathed in the strange light. For a man who rarely smiled, he looked almost at peace.

“You like the parade?” Clara asked.

“It is… unexpected,” he said. “I thought it would be smaller.”

“Everything here is bigger than it needs to be. It’s how we cope with the fact that we’re all supposed to be at each other’s throats the rest of the year.” Clara tilted her head, considering. “But it’s good. Reminds you there’s more to life than politics and power grabs.”

“It is difficult to remember, sometimes.” Zarek nodded.

The floats grew more elaborate. One depicted a sea monster rising from a wave of blue silk, while another showed a pair of dueling dragons. Each was accompanied by musicians, jugglers, and acrobats. At one point, a group of children in painted masks snaked through the crowd, scattering handfuls of confetti and tiny gold coins. Clara caught one and slipped it into her pocket, a keepsake for later.

As the parade faded into the distance, a hush fell over the square—a collective drawing of breath before the next act. The last light of the sun vanished behind the wall, and the lanterns took full control, washing everything in an otherworldly glow.

In the lull, Clara and Zarek made their way to the edge of the central plaza, where food carts and drink vendors clustered in anticipation of the night’s final spectacle. Clara spotted a stand selling fruit skewers dipped in a glowing blue syrup. She bought two and handed one to Zarek, who examined it with suspicion.

“It won’t bite,” Clara assured him, then bit off the top of her own skewer, the syrup staining her lips electric blue.

Zarek tried his. The taste was sharp, sweet, and—Clara guessed from the raised eyebrows—utterly new to him. He nodded once, then ate the rest in two bites.

They found a quiet spot atop a low stone wall, away from the densest press of festival-goers. From here, they could see the whole plaza and the avenue beyond, a river of lanterns and shadows.

Clara swung her legs, wolf token in hand. She was about to say something light, but caught the look on Zarek’s face: thoughtful, eyes fixed on the shifting patterns of the crowd.

“What are you thinking?” Clara asked.

He hesitated, then said, “I wonder if something like this would work in the north.” He didn’t turn to her. “It is not our way, but perhaps… we need something to remind us what we are fighting for.”

Clara stared at the dancing lights, the laughter echoing off the stones. “You could make it your own. Add a blizzard, maybe a contest for the best snow sculpture. People would love it.” She suggested. She liked the idea of a winter festival up north.

“Perhaps. Thank you.” He smiled, small but genuine.

“For what?” Clara asked and tilted her head.

“For not laughing,” he replied, and Clara realized how little he expected kindness, even for his own ideas. She blinked a few times.

“I mean, no problem. No need to thank me for something like that,” Clara said as she turned her head away to look at the plaza.

Zarek just looked at her for a moment, then nodded and followed her gaze.

The next moment, the plaza lights dimmed, and a chorus of gasps rippled through the crowd. At the far end, atop the festival’s tallest stage, a team of mages unleashed the first barrage of earth and fire magic fireworks. Gold and green and silver shot skyward, twisting into the shapes of wolves, lions, and serpents. Each burst left a lingering afterimage that faded slowly, like a dream reluctant to die.

Clara felt the hair on her arms rise. She remembered the first time she’d seen the fireworks, years ago, with Celia by her side. Celia had claimed to find the display boring, but Clara knew her sister’s tells—the way her lips pressed together, the slight tilt of her head. She’d been awestruck. Even now, the memory stung a little, the way memories do when you know they’re impossible to reclaim.

She let the silence stretch. Zarek, sensing her mood, said nothing. They watched together as the sky filled and emptied, again and again.

A final, enormous display arced overhead—a crown, rimmed in emerald fire, descending until it hovered just above the plaza. The crowd went wild. Clara watched the shape dissolve, gold motes raining down, and realized she was gripping Zarek’s hand so tightly her knuckles ached.

When the last sparks faded, the world seemed to exhale. Zarek turned to her, his features illuminated by the residual magic. He reached up, gently, and brushed something from her hair—a bit of the gold dust, caught in the tangle of curls. His fingers lingered at her temple, then trailed lightly down to her cheek. The touch was not ceremonial; it was real, warm, and electric.

Clara looked up at him, the world narrowing to the line of his jaw, the paleness of his eyes, the tenderness so carefully hidden from everyone else.

Clara realized, suddenly, that she wanted to be here, in this moment, more than anywhere else. She had been so focused on the past, but this moment, she wanted it to last.

Zarek let his hand fall. “Are you all right?” he asked, voice low.

“I am now.” Clara nodded.

Zarek watched her for a moment and nodded.

They sat together, hands intertwined, as the magic shimmered down over the city, each pulse of gold another promise of summer, of hope, of the chance to begin again.

For tonight, at least, that was enough.