I was sitting inside that old tavern, staring at my new blade. A fine weapon, sharp and shining, though I doubted I'd get to admire it for long. With my luck, blood would stain it before I even gave it a proper swing. Still, it felt good in the hand, like it belonged.
The shoe was talking again. That cursed shoe. Always running its mouth. If it isn't complaining about how old the tavern is, then it's mocking the food, or whining about how its leather is drying up. The kind of companion you never asked for but can't get rid of. I tell you, silence is a gift from God, but this shoe… it was born only to destroy peace.
"Look at this place," it droned on, "falling apart… creaking floorboards… chairs ready to break… smells like wet dog."
I couldn't take it anymore. I got up, walked outside, hoping to find even a scrap of quiet. Of course, the shoe followed me. Why would it leave me alone? Maybe it was written in my fate, no moment of peace.
I found a tree to the right side of the tavern and sat beneath it. The sun was sliding down slowly, throwing long shadows across the ground. The sea nearby kept striking the shore, waves rising and falling like a drumbeat, soft but steady. It gave the air a melody, the kind of sound that makes you forget, for a moment, how heavy the world is.
But my mind wasn't calm. I was thinking of Zaman. Where was he? What was taking him so long? He should have been here by now.
And then I saw them. Two kids walking back, laughing at something between themselves. But behind them… I blinked. Big sacks of food and supplies seemed to be following on their own. Like ghosts dragging the baggage. For a moment, I thought maybe Elhaan had set another one of his tricks in motion. But when they got closer, I realized the truth.
It wasn't ghosts. It wasn't magic. It was Zaman.
He was bent under the load, carrying all those heavy sacks on his shoulders, step by step like a stubborn mule. The kids, of course, were wide-eyed, more shocked at the talking shoe than anything else. Zaman finally reached me, dropped the load with a grunt, and asked about the ship.
I told him what I knew.
"So we leave tomorrow?" he asked, sweat running down his forehead.
"Elhaan will decide," I replied. "He always does."
That was the truth. Elhaan always had the final say. We might talk, plan, argue, but in the end his word was the compass.
Night fell, and we found ourselves back inside the tavern, eating. Bread, meat, something that smelled like stew. Nothing too fine, but it filled the stomach. Elhaan still hadn't returned. From the window, the city looked alive, glowing brighter with each passing hour. Even the tavern seemed busier than usual, as if preparing for something. People moved about with more purpose. Tables were shifted. A fiddler tuned his instrument in the corner. Not too fancy, but something was stirring.
And the streets outside were glowing. Not with oil lamps or torches. I looked closely and saw small magical creatures floating in cages on tall poles. Each creature glowed with its own light. Some golden, some green, a few violet. They were tiny, no larger than sparrows, with wings that beat lazily, like they couldn't be bothered to fly away. I stared at them in wonder. Magic turned into streetlight. Takhbay had its own style.
I couldn't resist. I went out into the streets.
Takhbay was at its brightest. Music floated faintly from every direction. The air smelled of roasted meat, spiced bread, and sweet rum. Everywhere I looked, people were moving. Merchants closing their stalls, children darting between adults, lovers walking hand in hand. Life, busy and alive.
And those cages of glowing creatures… I stopped under one and tilted my head up. Their tiny bodies pulsed with light, steady and calm. The citizens walked past like it was nothing, but I felt like I'd stumbled into a dream. In Takhbay, even the streetlights had wings.
I turned, and there was Zaman again. Sitting high on a tree branch, like it was his throne. His sharp eyes scanned the crowd, but his body didn't move an inch. He looked carved out of stone, except for those restless eyes.
"What's all this?" I asked him.
"A festival," he said, voice calm.
Before I could ask more, another voice slipped into the night. Elhaan's. Of course. The magician who always appeared when the moment suited him.
"A festival of the dead," he said.
I frowned. "Festival of the dead?"
"They call it Homebound Night," he explained. His voice carried something softer, gentler, almost respectful. "Every year, they light lanterns for those who never came home. Lost at sea, fallen in war, swallowed by storms. They pour rum for the dead, then drink the rest to remind themselves they are alive."
As he spoke, I saw it. The first wave of lanterns rising. Small orange lights lifted into the sky one by one. Then dozens. Then hundreds. The heavens turned into a field of fireflies. The crowd cheered, voices lifted, drums began to roll. And then, as if on some secret signal, the orange glow shifted. The lanterns glowed green. A ghostly light fell over the city.
The people shouted with joy. Music rose, feet stomped against the ground, laughter echoed from every corner. And yet, beneath it all, I could feel it. The sorrow. The grief. This was mourning disguised as celebration.
But far from the streets,
above it all, in a quiet room with an open window, a man stood alone. In his hands, he held a lantern glowing faint blue. Not orange. Not green. Blue. He lit it with care and set it free into the night.
"Go light the world," he whispered.
Behind him, there was a sound. The slow sip of tea. Deliberate. Mocking.
"You're late," the man said without turning.
And from the shadows stepped a skeleton. His bones glowed faint green, his posture regal, elegant. He wasn't frightening. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a ballroom, holding a teacup with the grace of royalty.
"You're lighting a dream again," the skeleton remarked, tilting his skull toward the window.
The man stayed silent.
"Blue," the skeleton continued. "Bold choice. Trying to stand out? One gust of wind, and it's gone."
"And yet here you are. Watching," the man said quietly.
The skeleton chuckled. "I enjoy watching disasters in slow motion. Besides, I am waiting for my own moment. Do I look like a sidekick to you?"
"You are not," the man said simply.
"Exactly." The skeleton lifted his cup in a toast. "I am the most interesting creature in this entire tale. And I say that with humility."
Together, they watched the lantern climb. Unlike the others, it didn't flicker. It burned steady, stubborn against the night.
"To the dream," the skeleton murmured. Then, almost to himself, "Who was that man, anyway?"
His teacup slipped from his hand, landing on the floor with a soft clink. Empty. The man didn't move. He only smiled faintly, eyes still following the lantern.
"Him and his obsession with looking cool," the skeleton muttered before melting back into the shadows.
Outside, the blue lantern kept rising, higher and higher.