The city pulsed with life.
Lanterns swayed like hanging moons above the cobbled road, each painted in shades of crimson and gold. Their light rippled like water on the stone below, catching glints of movement—swirling cloaks, dancing fire, and the glimmer of too many eyes. Smoke drifted upward from skewers and grills, painting the air with the savory sweetness of roasted meats, caramelized fruits, and the faint perfume of incense. Drums thudded in the distance, matched by the rhythm of stomping feet and laughter bursting out like worker ants.
Kael practically bounced ahead, eyes drinking in every flash of color. "Sylas, look! That one has floating ribbons— it's floating! Without wind!"
Sylas followed, hands in his coat pockets, cool as moonlight but eyes darting like a hawk's. He wasn't guarded, just curious—mellow in the chaos, the way only a middle child of war could be. "Probably string tricks. Or some gas they pump through them."
They stopped in front of a stall carved from blackened wood, the edges singed like it had seen a hundred fire shows and survived. A crooked sign above read:
"There Are No Better Sweets Than Candy."
A soft clack echoed beneath it. A little red salamander clambered over the sign, tail twitching with glee. It jumped into the stall, landing perfectly in the palm of an old man—bald, with smile lines as deep as scars.
"Ahh, fresh faces!" the old man beamed. "You two look like you could use a bit of fire in your bellies."
Kael's grin could've lit its own lantern. "What's that thing on the roof eating flames?"
"Dreamfire," the man said proudly, nodding toward the performer behind the stall—a masked figure in colorful patchwork who leaned back and exhaled a torrent of orange flame. Children screamed in delight.
"He's eating my Firebite Orbs. Sweet outside, spicy center. Good for performance, fun for pretending, and if you're a good shot… well, maybe even useful."
Sylas raised an eyebrow. "is that safe? "
Kael snorted. "This whole place feels dangerous, in the best way."
The salamander chirped and climbed up the man's arm again. With a practiced flick, the old vendor tossed it a tiny candy ball, which it caught midair and puffed a tiny flame in return.
"come on, try one." The old man grinned, reaching under the stall. "First one's on the house. For dreamers we share."
He tossed two orbs—marble-sized candies with a faint glowing center.
Sylas caught his. Looked at it. Shrugged. "Why not?"
He popped it in his mouth.
The flavor hit like liquid cinnamon wrapped in honeyed heat. And then—something ignited.
"Step back," he muttered, cheeks puffing.
He exhaled. A roaring streak of fire blazed out of his mouth, crashing into the air with chaotic sputters, spiraling before fizzling harmlessly into smoke. It left a trail of ember dust in the air.
Kael blinked. Then grinned.
"This is absolutely awesome."
Sylas shocked. What just happened.
Kael was already bouncing again.
I want seven more of these things!
They ate as they walked.
The square throbbed with laughter and the stomp of feet. At its heart—ringed by rope and raised by dust-packed earth—stood a man carved from shadow. Shirtless, masked, glistening in sweat. A monolith in motion. He flexed once, slow and deliberate.
The crowd howled.
"Who's next?" the man bellowed, arms wide like gates. "Bet your coin, play your pride!"
Bets flew, clinking into the baskets of sprinting children. The masked man prowled, gaze sharp beneath that black veil, daring anyone to meet it.
Kael slapped Sylas's shoulder, a cocky grin splitting his face. "Watch this," he said, pride dripping from every word. "I'll have him kissing dirt before you can blink."
Sylas leaned lazily against a post. "Sure. I'll start unfolding the bandages."
Kael bounded into the ring like a storm with a spine. The crowd roared. The masked man cracked his knuckles like thunder rolling in.
They circled.
Kael smirked. "Try not to cry when I slam you down, old man."
The man surged forward—fast. Kael braced.
But he stopped just short. Tilted his head.
"You've got a strong body," the man said, voice like gravel muffled by cloth. "But not enough."
Before Kael could answer, the man dipped low—sweeping.
Kael's feet vanished beneath him.
"Wha—!"
He hit the stone hard. Then the man's hands moved—gracefully and sharply. Not a shove. A flow. A gesture like wind through tall grass.
Kael went soaring out of the ring without a single touch.
The crowd exploded.
Kael groaned from the ground. "What even was that!"
Sylas blinked. "You looked real confident up until the part where you flew."
Kael grumbled, brushing dirt off his coat. "He cheated."
Sylas stepped into the ring. Let me show you the ropes, kael.
Sylas entered the circle.
No grin. No grandstanding.
Just focus.
The masked man didn't speak either. He lunged.
Sylas slipped back—just out of reach. Feet light, arms loose. He moved like a question looking for its answer.
A jab. A Feint. Rinse, repeat.
The masked man dodged every time—either to his sides, or ducking low.
"Hm…" Sylas muttered. "Never back."
He dropped low, swept with precision.
Hit.
The masked man faltered.
Sylas was on him—rapid jabs to the ribs. Quick, relentless. The man's breath hitched. His footwork slowed.
"you're done," Sylas whispered.
He stepped in, readying a punch.
But the mask twitched. The rhythm shifted.
Then—he was gone.
A blur of black crashed into Sylas's gut.
Fire burst behind his ribs. He staggered, fell to one knee, breath stolen.
When he looked up, the man was already there.
Inches away.
So close Sylas could see the glint of his eyes beneath the mask.
Everything else vanished.
No crowd.
No ring.
No sound.
Only him.
Only the mask.
Only the predator's stillness.
Sylas moved before he knew what he was doing. Instinctively—purely, primal.
He dropped low, planted a hand.
Upkick.
The man's head snapped back.
Sylas twisted, rolled—reappeared behind him in a blink.
Punch. Everything behind it. Raging, will. Something without fear.
The masked man flew.
This time for real.
The crowd roared back into focus like a wave crashing down.
Sylas dropped to his knees, chest heaving. Blood thudded in his ears.
Kael grabbed his arm, yanking him up with wild eyes. "What the hell was that?!"
Sylas coughed a laugh. "I guess beating you up everyday, finally paid off."
Later, after the coins were divvied and the ring cleared, the masked man returned.
He said nothing. Just extended a hand.
Sylas took it.
With a grunt, the man removed his mask.
Old. Wrinkled. Hair white and pulled back in a tight knot. Eyes sharp as blades, gleaming with still quiet.
Kael blinked. "You've got a crazy physique for someone your age."
The old man chuckled. "I try to keep my youthful appearance."
They laughed. Fighters' laughter. Mutual, bone-deep respect.
The festival carried on.
As sylas and kael lived through it.