The streets still echoed with the laughter from the square, Kael swaggering ahead, retelling his loss like it was a tale of victory. Sylas followed behind, quieter now. The cheer hadn't quite reached the narrow side alley he'd wandered into—shadows ran longer here, colors dulled, as if joy forgot to paint this part of town.
He turned a corner.
A small shop had been carved into the belly of a leaning building, all crooked beams and crumbling brick. It looked abandoned—except for the old woman seated just outside, swaddled in layers of dark cloth. Her face was half-sunk into shadow, her form so still she could've been a prop. Or a corpse.
Sylas glanced at her once. And kept walking.
But as he stepped beside her, her voice cracked the silence.
"O child of prophecy… take my appreciation. For you will return the favor beyond our grave."
He stopped mid-step.
"…What did you just say?"
He turned.
The woman hadn't moved.
Her face was still obscured by the folds of her cloak, except her hand—thin and shaking—rose slightly, offering something. A talisman. White parchment coiled with crimson spirals, bound by a ribbon that looked too red. Too alive.
Sylas's brow creased, but something guided his hand toward it. Fingers hovered just above.
That's when she grabbed him.
Her hand seized his wrist—cold as stone, and strong.
Her hood slipped back just enough to reveal her eyes. Pitch black, like ink poured into the cornea. Then they dripped.
Black tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks, thick and silent, smearing the spirals of red onto her skin.
Sylas leaned in.
Close.
His smirk came slow and razor-thin. "Don't act like you know me… woman."
But just as he said it, the world tilted.
His reflection in her eyes—his face—distorted, melted, shifted like wax in a flame. Something crawled behind his skin.
He blinked.
And he was standing at the end of the alley.
The square buzzed again. Light returned.
Kael glanced back. "You look pale. What, ghosts in the shadows?"
Sylas touched his chest.
"I… I don't know," he muttered.
But in his coat pocket, the weight of something small pressed faintly against his ribs. He didn't remember pocketing it.
Didn't need to.
All he could think was:
Why do I feel… nostalgic?
Fun hadn't stopped the flow of time.
And before they knew it.
The sun spilled sideways through the city, bleeding amber and burnt gold across crumbling rooftops and narrow streets. The noise of the festival had quieted now, softened by distance and the hush of evening. Sylas and Kael walked in calm tandem, their shadows long, their boots tapping a steady rhythm.
Then it hit them—scent.
Spices, sizzling fat, fresh bread—like home after war.
They both stopped at the same time.
Kael grinned. "Wanna go for a bite?"
Sylas smirked. "Only if you're paying."
"keep dreaming."
The inn they found wasn't anything special. Its wooden sign hung crooked like a drunk sailor, and the stone was chipped and old. But the smell—the smell—spoke of something sacred.
As they stepped inside, the first thing they heard wasn't the crackle of a hearth or the murmur of voices. It was a tune.
Soft, tender. Hummed from the kitchen, lilting like lullabies sung beneath twilight. The kind of sound that disarms you. Makes you feel… safe. Like maybe, just maybe, the world could still hold safety.
Kael's shoulders slouched. Sylas exhaled, something in him easing.
The inn's glow came next. the fireplace nestled in the corner, casting warm light on cobbled floors. Behind the counter sat a middle-aged man with tired but peaceful eyes, swirling a coffee mug like the day just started.
He looked up and nodded, a small smile pulling at his lips. Welcome, to our inn.
From the kitchen, the humming continued. Pots clanged gently. The smell of roasted meat filled the space, made more aromatic by the kitchens rhythm.
The man chuckled. "That's my wife. Best cook in the city, if you ask me—or anyone else, really."
They took a seat. The food came quickly. Simple, rustic, perfect. Sliced meat, glistening rice, soft vegetables steeped in slow-cooked broth.
Kael was in heaven. Let me tell you, This is what cooking was made for.
Sylas didn't speak—he just ate, listening, observing.
He looked up at the man. anyway, What is this festival for? Everyone's so happy.
The man rested his chin in his knuckle. "Hunting festival," he said. "Every few years, teens head out beyond the northern ridge. Try to prove themselves against the wild things out there. Only children and the elderly can't go."
Kael blinked. "And it's led by…?"
"Princess Luna," the man replied, with a kind of proud sadness. "She insisted. Said she wouldn't let anyone bleed if she hadn't first."
Sylas raised a brow. "So why the celebration?"
The man set his coffee down, his face adorned with a smile.
"Because this time, no one had to bleed."
None? asked sylas.
The man nodded. "Last festival? A hundred dead. This time? Not a single one. That's not a hunt. That's a miracle."
Sylas lowered the spoon. His food suddenly felt heavy. He stared into the bowl as the warmth around him curled strangely—too peaceful, too perfect. A ripple in still water.
A peacefulness only mercy gave, no, this felt.
Wrong.
A small voice broke the silence. Won't you take a room?"
They turned. A little girl no older than ten stood beside them, eyes wide and impossibly bright—like twin stars trapped in a small frame.
Kael staggered back, hand to his heart. "Ah—those eyes. Too bright. I've been blinded."
Sylas shook his head, amused.
Yes, we would like to take a room.
Later That Night
The inn was quiet now. The candlelight swayed gently across the walls. Outside, the wind rustled with the remnants of celebration. Inside, everything was still.
Then—
A scream. Sounded like kaels voice.
Sylas flung off his blanket, nearly slipping as he sprinted to Kael's room and kicked the door open.
"What the hell happened?!"
Kael stood on his bed in a dramatic pose, one leg raised like a conquering general, finger pointed to the ceiling.
"Do you remember Ashrosa?!"
Sylas blinked, still catching his breath. "Yeah. What about him?"
Kael did a slow turn like he was on a theater stage. "He was a dragon."
Sylas stared. "That's it?"
"No, no, no—don't you get it?" Kael dropped down, pacing wildly. "That man we helped back home, the one with the illness and the fake-sounding stories? The one you said became nuts after the death of his family?"
Sylas's eyes narrowed. "You're talking about the guy who said the four hero's sealed the demons?."
"Yes! And now think about what he said! All the mythical races. The God-empresses. The dragon hero. The prophecy. He was telling the truth."
Sylas's lips parted slightly as the pieces began to click, one by one. His expression shifted.
"Wait… that means…"
Kael struck another grand pose. "we fought ashorsa, a literal dragon, that means he was right."
Sylas stared at him.
A long pause.
"…Why are you posing?"
Kael didn't break form. "What do you mean? This is how great minds think."
Sylas turned and walked out. "Go to sleep."
Kael's voice echoed behind him. "You don't understand theatrics."