The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow over Braxmond's cobblestone streets, and the entire city seemed to pulse with electric excitement as news of the Carnival's return rippled through every district like wildfire. Brightly colored fliers adorned every lamp post, their bold letters promising spectacles to rival legends of old. The parchment itself seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly quality, depicting silhouettes of fortune tellers draped in mysterious veils, dancers whose forms seemed to move even in still illustrations, and exotic beasts with eyes that followed passersby. Eager whispers among locals spoke in hushed, reverent tones of crystal balls that revealed forbidden futures, mesmerizing performers who could bend reality with a gesture, and creatures captured from lands so distant they existed only in sailors' tales. I walked briskly toward parliament with my assigned escort, my mind still haunted by echoes of the earlier airship flight—the metallic taste of fear, the worker's desperate eyes, the way brass had gleamed like predatory fangs. A lingering sense of unease clung to me like smoke despite the city's increasingly festive atmosphere.
The ornate gates of the parliamentary complex loomed ahead as we rounded the final corner, their wrought-iron designs twisted into the Kuznetsov family crest. I entered through the main gatehouse arches with my guards flanking me, hoping against hope to find my father still basking in his earlier triumph rather than having already retreated back into his familiar shell of cold pragmatism. The symmetrical fountains bubbled pleasantly, their crystal-clear water catching the dying light, while neatly trimmed hedges created geometric patterns that offered a welcome oasis of calm amid the city's industrial chaos. But today, my usual appreciation for such order faltered completely; my thoughts kept drifting like errant clouds to that deeply unsettling vision of shadows writhing behind brass pipes, of fangs gleaming in steam, images that felt far removed from the mundane political reasons why I had been summoned to meet with Father at the close of today's parliamentary session.
A lilting voice, melodic as wind chimes and unexpectedly playful, pulled me abruptly from my troubling reverie. "Do you often dream while awake, young lord, or is today particularly special in some way?"
Startled, I spun around to see a petite young woman cloaked in finery that would befit any aristocrat's daughter, though something in her bearing suggested an untamed spirit that no amount of silk and lace could truly contain. Feathers and tiny brass bells were braided artfully into her chestnut hair, catching the light with each subtle movement. She was clearly not someone to be easily ignored or dismissed. She stood poised gracefully on the very edge of the cobblestone path, balanced like a dancer frozen mid-step, with a playful curiosity dancing merrily in her hazel eyes that seemed to hold flecks of something deeper—knowledge, perhaps, or secrets.
"Dreams are considerably cheaper than sweets from the market stalls, and they're slightly more filling too," she tossed the words toward me like gentle arrows, each syllable carefully aimed, tilting her head with the innocent playfulness of a curious sparrow.
I hesitated for a long moment, genuinely unsure how to respond to such an unconventional greeting. The world around me seemed to soften somehow in her unexpected presence, every harsh corner of Braxmond's industrial architecture appearing less rigid and forbidding, more vibrant and alive with possibility. My reply stumbled awkwardly through layers of aristocratic decorum that had been drilled into me since childhood, wrapped in the trembling uncertainty of youthful awe.
"Sweets are... quite abundant in our household. I mean, if you find yourself so inclined toward such things."
The mysterious lady chuckled warmly, the sound carrying like a spring breeze across still water. "You didn't actually answer my question, but I suppose it was rather an odd question to pose to a stranger! My name is Ayla Wiltshaw; it is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Kuznetsov."
I managed what I hoped was a charming smile, encouraged by her infectious warmth and the way it seemed to chase away the lingering shadows of my earlier thoughts. "I'm afraid I'm not entirely certain what you mean about dreaming while awake," I replied carefully, allowing just a touch of humor to brighten my tone. "Oh, and my name is—"
With renewed boldness that caught me completely off guard, Ayla ventured several steps closer, her unwavering gaze seeming to peer directly into my very soul. "Lord Rhylorin Gregor Kuznetsov… I'm quite familiar with your family's distinguished sigil, the brass gears and iron crown."
I found myself nodding slowly, utterly entranced by both her confident familiarity and her vivacious energy that seemed to crackle in the air around her like contained lightning. She clearly knew exactly who I was, but as I searched frantically through the archives of my memory, I could place no such striking young woman among my acquaintances. Was she perhaps a classmate from the academy whom I had somehow overlooked? Or possibly the daughter of one of Mother's endless social circle? It seemed impossible that I would have forgotten encountering someone as memorable as Ayla if we had been previously introduced in any capacity.
My escort shifted uncomfortably behind me, clearly at a loss for words as they took several uncertain steps backward, unsure whether to interrupt what appeared to be a social engagement or to maintain their protective positions. I glanced toward the guard with the prominent scar across his weathered hand, noting how he seemed genuinely eager to break up our impromptu conversation so that he could properly fulfill his assigned duties. Just up the gently winding cobblestone road, the parliament's grand hall waited with its imposing columns and brass-fitted doors, and yet this mysterious lady had effectively cut us off in our tracks with nothing more than playful conversation.
"You seem as though you're overthinking something quite dreadfully!" Ayla pointed out with a delighted giggle that rang like silver bells in the afternoon air. Her eyes sparkled with undeniable mischief, hinting at exotic paths she had traveled, adventures in places far more thrilling than sterile academy halls or formal drawing rooms. "You can simply leave if you truly wish to—it would not be considered rude of you in the slightest."
Without any warning whatsoever, Ayla suddenly veered toward the shadowed archway of the gatehouse, leaving behind what appeared to be a faint, glittering trail of golden sand that sparkled impossibly in the dying sunlight. My eyes widened in genuine amazement at the sight, as though I alone possessed the ability to witness this inexplicable phenomenon. The golden particles seemed to glow with their own inner light, defying every law of nature I had been taught. Vibrant shadows began to envelop her retreating form like living things, reaching out with tendrils of darkness that seemed almost protective. She paused just at the threshold between light and shadow, turning to extend one graceful hand in clear invitation, beckoning me to follow her into whatever mysterious realm she inhabited.
My rational mind screamed warnings, but I found myself stepping closer despite every aristocratic instinct, my pulse quickening with each footfall, all of a young gentleman's carefully taught uncertainties cast aside by the sheer magnetic power of her beckoning allure.
There, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, she tossed a small crystalline orb high into the air—a perfect sphere that seemed to contain swirling galaxies of shimmering color. The orb burst like a miniature star, releasing painted wisps of smoke that danced and spiraled in impossible patterns. The entire alley transformed before my disbelieving eyes as vibrant reds and deep purples masked the mundane gray stones and mortar. Her refined aristocratic costume seemed to peel away like layers of illusion, the transformation so fluid it appeared to be magic itself, revealing beneath the vivid, flowing garments of the Gypsies—rich fabrics in jewel tones that spoke eloquently of absolute freedom, of journeys undertaken on nothing more than wind and whim and wanderlust. The sight stole my breath completely, an involuntary blush warming my cheeks as my sheltered upbringing collided with this vision of uninhibited beauty. The figure before me seemed carved from pure spirit and dancing light, more ethereal than earthly.
Both of my guards erupted into immediate fury, their voices harsh with alarm as they shouted, "Gypsy! There's a Gypsy on the parliamentary grounds! Seize her!"
But Ayla's eyes had already disappeared into the swirling, colorful mist, that final glimpse of her mysterious smile etched permanently into my thoughts as tangibly as the ancient stones beneath my feet. The two guards lunged forward in their futile attempt to capture the girl who had already become one with shadow and smoke. The cobblestone road gradually returned to its ordinary, unremarkable appearance, but the very air itself seemed to retain an unmistakable promise—a lingering sense of wonder and possibility, completely untethered by the rigid boundaries that had always defined my world.
I stood there in the aftermath, blinking once, twice, three times before the last traces of enchantment finally faded from the air. Both guards stared at each other in complete bewilderment, their expressions mixing confusion with the lingering burn of embarrassment. Ancient magic seemed to linger in the very stones around us, the atmosphere still echoing faintly with the residual energy of the Gypsy's vibrant spell. Amidst the narrow alleys and dancing shadows of the parliamentary complex, I had discovered golden threads of understanding woven mysteriously into the complex tapestry of this newfound person who had appeared so suddenly and inexplicably in my carefully ordered life.