Days passed as Ashira Village grew busier, preparing for the upcoming Festival.
This morning, for the first time in a long while, Elira and her father, Baran, finally sat together for breakfast.

“Elira,” Baran called. “What’s wrong? Why are you just stirring your food?”

Elira blinked, startled. She looked up at her father and tried her best to smile. He rarely had time to eat with her anymore—not with all his duties as the village chief.

“I’m just… worried I’ll make a mistake during the festival,” she said.

Baran frowned. His gaze was sharp enough to see through lies.
“Since when do you worry about such things? No one in this village would dare mock you even if you did make a mistake.”

Elira forced another smile. Everyone knew it was true—no one would ever risk upsetting Baran’s only daughter. But she couldn’t tell him the real reason behind her unease. She had promised Raka to keep what happened in the forest a secret.

“Or,” Baran continued, “is it because you’re coming of age soon? Samara told me the other girls your age have started thinking about marriage.”

The piece of meat Elira had just swallowed caught in her throat. She choked and coughed, face turning red. Baran simply waited, expression patient but serious.

“Father,” Elira croaked, “I’m not even interested in men!”

“What?” Baran set down his spoon. The air instantly turned heavy.

“No, no! That’s not what I meant!” Elira panicked. “Don’t misunderstand! I just mean I’m still a child—I—”

“I heard from Samara that you were curious about meeting men from outside the village.”

Elira wanted to crawl under the table. How did a warm breakfast turn into an interrogation? She’d definitely have words with Samara later.

“Are there really no young men in Ashira who catch your eye?” Baran asked, crossing his arms. “You can choose anyone you like, I’ll handle the rest. What about Rillus’s son, Henoch? He’s strong, capable, not bad-looking. I could talk to—”

“Enough,” Elira interrupted gently. “I don’t want to marry someone just because they’re scared of your axe, Father. Besides, I still want to be with you a little longer.”

She put on her most pitiful expression, and it worked. The stern light in Baran’s eyes softened into warmth, his lips curling into a small smile.

“One day, when you meet someone you truly like, you’ll beg me to let you go with him.”

“No!” Elira protested quickly. “Even if that happens, we’ll stay here—with you!”

Baran nodded, though Elira knew he didn’t fully believe her. That didn’t matter. All she wanted was for this talk to end.

The awkward breakfast was saved by Raka’s arrival. He came in carrying a large basket.

“Elder Samara asked me to bring this,” Raka said as both Baran and Elira looked up in curiosity. “Your festival gown. You forgot to pick it up last night.”

Oh no.
Elira bit her lip, refusing to meet her father’s eyes—she could feel his glare burning through her. Instead, she glared at Raka. He knew Baran hated when she neglected her responsibilities.

“Ehem!” She grabbed the basket quickly, hugging it close. “Thank you.”

Raka ignored her glare. He calmly sat beside her as Baran motioned for him to eat.

“Raka,” Baran said after a moment, “do you know Henoch? Rillus’s son? What do you think of him?”

Elira’s eyes widened. Seriously? We’re still talking about this?

“Elira’s more interested in men from outside the village,” Raka said flatly.

Elira kicked his leg under the table, but he didn’t even flinch.

“What’s so interesting about other villages?” Baran folded his arms again. “Why are you so curious about them, Elira? You’re supposed to be Ashira’s future leader.”

Elira rubbed the back of her neck as her father continued his lecture—about loving her home, her people, and the legacy of Ashira. Behind his wise image, everyone knew the truth: Baran might be a respected chief, but he was also the most talkative father in the entire village.

Breakfast lasted much longer than usual. By the time Elira and Raka finally left, she rubbed her ears in frustration.

“You could’ve helped me out, you know!” she complained as they walked toward the hall. “My head almost exploded!”

“I just told the truth.”

“Tsk!” Elira sped up, leaving Raka behind, who seemed completely unaware of what he’d done wrong.

The hall buzzed with activity when they arrived. With only two days left before the Fire Harvest Festival, everyone was busy. Even the children were quietly stringing flowers.

Elira turned suddenly, startling Raka behind her.
“Next time Father brings that topic up, you tell him I don’t want to be matched with anyone!”

“Your father’s just worried,” Raka said calmly. “You never talk to any man besides me.”

Elira scoffed. “Because I don’t need anyone else. Why waste time? I only need one person—and I already have him.”

Raka raised an eyebrow. Her face was red, lips pressed tight in frustration.

“Oh come on,” Elira huffed. “Don’t you get it? I was complimenting you!”

Raka said nothing. Elira’s expression twisted in disbelief as he sighed and turned away.

“I’ll be going,” he said simply.

Elira’s mouth dropped open. Unbelievable! He’d been so good at cheering her up lately, and now he just left? She didn’t even have time to yell before a group of girls called her name.

“Elira!” Sena and the others waved enthusiastically.

Elira exhaled, forcing a bright smile back onto her face. She didn’t want to ruin the mood—today was their final rehearsal, after all.

The girls of Ashira danced beautifully. Sweat soaked their skin, but laughter filled the air. They sat together in a circle as Elder Samara gave her final reminders. The festival would go just like every year—nothing had changed.

Elira’s gaze drifted past Samara’s shoulder. The bright sky had turned pale; clouds rolled in, heavy with rain. The elder’s voice faded into a distant hum.

“All right,” Samara concluded. “Rest well tonight. I expect perfection the day after tomorrow.”

Her closing words were punctuated by a crack of thunder. Elira froze, but the others kept chatting.

“Do you know what the prize is this year?” someone asked.

“Perfume?” said one girl.

“A wooden sword?” guessed another.

“Meat,” Elira said lazily.

“Since when is meat a prize?” Sena laughed. “They said it’s something rare—blessed by the elders themselves!”

Elira popped a grape into her mouth. She always enjoyed listening to their chatter, even if half of it was nonsense.

“They don’t even need a contest,” another girl said. “Henoch’s going to win everything again like always.”

“Not necessarily,” Sena said, holding up a finger. “There are new challengers this year.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lili, the youngest, replied. “They still won’t beat Henoch.”

Their playful argument went on while Elira quietly munched her grapes. She didn’t understand why her friends were so obsessed with men.

“Elira, you’re awfully calm,” Sena teased. “So confident Raka’s going to win the archery contest?”

The grape in Elira’s mouth shot out. Right. The archery contest was today. She hadn’t even said anything to Raka all day!

“Elira? What’s wrong?”

She set her bowl down, mumbled a quick goodbye, and dashed out of the hall.

The sky was darkening fast. Please don’t rain yet, she prayed as she ran toward the field near the village hall.

From a distance, she spotted him—Raka, standing with a group of men near the archery range.

“Raka! Raka!”

She waved, panting hard as she ran up to him.

Raka frowned and moved to meet her halfway. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Elira shook her hand, catching her breath. Her legs throbbed from running right after dance practice.

“No—nothing. I just… forgot today’s the contest.” She straightened up. “I should’ve given you something for luck.”

“You ran all the way here just for that?”

“That?” Elira raised her eyebrows. “Hey, my good-luck charms are powerful, you know.”

She glanced around quickly, making sure no one was watching. Raka followed her gaze, confused.

“What are you—”

Peck.

The question died on his lips as Elira’s kiss brushed his cheek. Raka’s eyes widened, breath catching. It lasted less than a second—but it felt like fire spreading through his veins.

“Whether you win or lose doesn’t matter,” Elira said, grinning. “But you’d better win! I made a bet with my friends—they’re all cheering for Henoch, but I chose you!”

Raka could only stare, speechless, as her words tumbled out one after another.

“Don’t waste my good luck charm!”

Silence. The wind rustled between them.

“Hey,” Elira said, impatient. “Say something.”

Raka opened his mouth. For a long, long second, nothing came out—until finally, he managed a single word.

“…Yeah.”