Arzhel hissed a curse under his breath, his red eyes flashing like deadly lightning in the gloom. His muscular arms remained crossed over his chest as if he wanted to appear relaxed, but his tense shoulders betrayed his mood.
Despite the vibrant animation on the screen and the dramatic voice of the storyteller, despite the poignant tension of the tale… eyes never left Vidalia. Nobles, commoners, old men, young men, even children—all stared at her like moths drawn to a flame too bright.
Some boys blushed so hard they nearly choked, their eyes wide with wonder at such ethereal grace. The adults sighed unrestrainedly, their expressions blissful, while others tried in vain to look away so as not to appear impolite. But their eyes always returned, inevitably, to the same sight.
Of course. How could they possibly stop themselves? Arzhel thought, his lips curling into a bitter smile. They don't see a woman, they see a mirage, and these fools are stupid enough to think they could touch her…
Vidalia, seated with an unconscious elegance, seemed oblivious to the flurry of stares. Her long, midnight-blue hair with silver tips cascaded around her like a living waterfall. Her skin, luminously pale, lacked the pallor of cloistered nobles, but possessed the translucent gleam of marble polished by centuries, or of porcelain so fine that a breath could shatter it.
Arzhel frowned, his jaw tightening. A porcelain doll? No… even worse. A work of art. And, of course, everyone suddenly fancies themselves a patron of the arts. Pathetic.
Her eyes slid up to her face: those emerald-green irises, shimmering like jewels carved by a divine hand, seemed to capture and reflect the light in a thousand shards. Framed by long, white lashes, they hypnotized anyone who dared meet them. Her soft, full, rosy lips had that unnerving charm of promising something she offered no one.
Arzhel groaned, his breath coming in a hollow. By all the hells… they're devouring her with their eyes. Even a blind man would find a way to "look" at Vida. If only she were aware of the effect she was having… but no, she just smiled with that candid face. Innocent. As if she weren't driving me mad.
A sardonic grin stretched across her lips. Let them enjoy it. Let them gaze at her from afar like one gazes at a jewel behind a sealed display case. Because the first hand that comes too close… I'll burn it up to the elbow.
And yet, despite himself, his gaze softened for a moment. Vidalia, in that light, seemed unreal, almost untouchable. A work of art too precious for the world, one that should have been locked away in a sacred temple to prevent mere glances from damaging it.
A forbidden work of art… that's what it is. And me? A dark, crooked smile twisted his face. Me, I'm the heretic ready to steal the sacred relic. May the saints choke.
"The days passed, the years passed, our young soldier grew stronger, and he was no longer alone…" the storyteller continued, his vibrant voice bringing Arzhel back to reality.
The mage's shadow stretched across the taut canvas of the tent, motionless and imposing, while his reddish gaze rested calmly on the scene. He didn't applaud, didn't laugh at the narrator's suggestive little barbs that made the spectators giggle, but listened with half an ear, an air of detachment.
"When he returned to his tent in the evening, he would find the innocent and beautiful stranger there… When he accomplished great deeds, he would come to tell them to his friend, and later, more…" the storyteller began mischievously, eliciting knowing laughter and tender exclamations from the assembly.
Arzhel didn't smile, merely raising an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. Always the same old story. They embellish bedtime stories to keep the crowd enthralled… he thought, a hint of irony in his eyes.
He crossed his legs, absently adjusting his coat sleeve, without a word. Beside him, Vidalia, her eyes shining, had been completely absorbed by the story. Arzhel barely turned his head to observe her sideways: her fingers delicately gripped her handkerchief, her lips parted slightly with each emotion, as if she were hearing the story for the first time.
"Then one day, Lyreos was called to the front to face the enemy… He had to leave his dear wife alone in their little house…" the storyteller continued, modulating his voice dramatically. Emotion swept through the audience; some were already wiping away tears, others nodded gravely.
Arzhel remained impassive. Not a hint of tension, not a theatrical reaction. His relaxed figure contrasted sharply with the fervor of the crowd.
as if this much-celebrated legend were nothing more than a song repeated a thousand times over.
But his eyes never lingered long on the stage. They tirelessly returned to Vidalia, who seemed to drink in every word with childlike fascination.
"Finally, after years of battles, defeats, and tears, Lyreos won victory with his own hands! Yes, my friends, the poor, nameless orphan became the greatest soldier in history and brought glory to his village, just as promised! In the end, he received the title of Marquis of the kingdom!"
A thunderous applause shook the tent, and exclamations of enthusiasm and pride erupted from all sides.
"Woooow!" cried children, their little hands clapping loudly. Laughter and cheers echoed beneath the canvas.
Arzhel, for his part, remained calm, almost indifferent. His arm moved just enough to brush against Vidalia's. A simple gesture, deliberate or not, but one worth more than all the thunderous applause around them.
Arzhel noticed a movement in a corner of the tent—a slight tremor, almost imperceptible. Nothing obviously suspicious, and yet the hooded figure that emerged made the hairs on his forearms stand on end. The dark cloak concealed a face; at the mysterious individual's waist hung a sword whose hilt gleamed in the lantern light. This simple detail brought back a bad feeling to the mage: the man was staring at Vidalia with a burning intensity.
The storyteller's voice momentarily rose above the sounds of the tent: "Peace reigned in the kingdom, the people sang, celebrating the end of the fifteen-year war! Lyreos was praised as the savior… but the hero cared nothing for it; He spent his days happily with his beloved wife, Elanthe. Yes, dear viewers, after years, the foreigner had learned her husband's language; having become mistress of a noble house, Lyreos had fulfilled his dream and now lived in peace.
Arzhel finally sat up straight. Anger, cold and simmering, simmered within him like a fire that nothing could contain. Vidalia, noticing his movement, looked at him with a slight questioning eyebrow, her head tilted innocently.
"Is something wrong?" she asked candidly.
He inhaled slowly, trying not to betray the storm rising within him.
"No, nothing," he replied in a deep voice. Then, in a firm command: "Stay here. I'll be right back."
Vidalia pouted slightly, her lip pursed:
"Aren't you waiting for the end of the story?" "
Arzhel gave a wry smile and allowed himself a lighthearted jab, as if to defuse the tension:
"Everyone knows the history and legends of the kingdom. You, as a nobleman and bookworm, know them by heart; and I, I'm a mage." His voice took on the most natural tone imaginable, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Vidalia blushed, crossed her arms, and pretended to pout, inadvertently attracting a few curious glances. Arzhel straightened up, glanced toward the tent exit—the hooded man had just disappeared into the crowd—and said simply,
"I'll be back."
Without waiting for a reply, he stood up and made his way through the crowd.
"Follow the Sorel, I'll be right behind you," he ordered the elemental spirit accompanying him; The entity, impassive, obeyed and floated with mocking detachment among the people.
They took a side alley behind the tent. Arzhel whistled softly to attract attention; his aura warmed, a burning, heavy presence that made the passersby squint. He stared at the point where the man and the Sorel had vanished, his muscles tensing like bowstrings.
Three figures materialized behind him, emerging from the shadows as if the alley had yielded them up. Three imposing men, dressed in ample coats cut in the style of shadow agents: high boots, leather gloves, tight belts from which hung short sabers and small handguns. Their faces, mostly masked, revealed only square jaws and alert eyes. They fell to their knees, a mixture of poise and respect, as one bows before a well-known power.
"You called us?" asked the middle man in a deep, calm, almost polite voice—but without the slightest gentleness.
Arzhel, motionless, felt the pressure mounting. He crossed his arms, then, without softening his tone, gave his instructions as if the slightest hesitation would have cost someone their life:
"Watch Vidalia. Let not a single hair be out of place, let not the smallest scratch befall her—and you will understand what suffering is."
His voice was almost a whisper, but his searing words carried a clear and terrifying promise. The latent flames in his hands…
The blades cast an uncertain glare on the blades at the men's belts. They swallowed hard, feeling the heat of the threat vibrate against their skin.
"Yes, Your Highness!" they replied in unison, their voices low, respect tinged with a hint of dread.
Arzhel granted them a brief moment, standing straight and imposing in the dark alley, then turned on his heel. The expression on his face had hardened; each step he took led him back to the tent, to Vidalia, and to the spark of danger he had sensed. His hand mechanically brushed against the Aelyras stone he kept at his belt—more than an ornament, an instrument of power.
Behind him, the three men would soon rise, melting into the crowd, now ensuring that the young woman was never out of reach. Their imposing, silent presence was a warning: Arzhel was not joking.
≈≈≈≈≈≈
Vidalia watched Arzhel's broad back disappear among the spectators, his coat brushing against the seats as he passed. Without knowing why, her heart clenched painfully in her chest. She placed a slender hand against her bodice, as if to soothe the erratic beating.
It's not as if he's leaving forever… so why do I feel like he's getting too far away?
She inhaled gently, performed a short breathing exercise she had learned from Camélia to calm her racing heart, then forced her thoughts back to the stage.
"My dear audience! You know very well what happens next, don't you?" the storyteller announced in a theatrical voice, his arms opening wide, causing a wave of excitement in the tent.
The shouts erupted immediately:
"Yes! Yes!"
A radiant smile lit up the man's face:
"Our dear Lyreos was finally living a peaceful family life, after so many years of suffering… And one day, his loving wife showed him the most extraordinary and precious thing he had ever seen. My friends, what was it?"
The spectators joined in the fun, raising their arms and offering their answers like children at school. Vidalia, surprised at herself, chuckled softly and enthusiastically answered in turn.
The clamor exploded as one:
"Magic!!"
The entire tent roared with cheers. Bright sparks burst in the air, swirling in a shimmering rainbow. The shadow puppets transformed into sparkling silhouettes: Elanthe, her hair flowing like a starry veil, conjured constellations of light from her hands, while Lyreos, dazzled, embraced her and kissed her fervently. Their steps intertwined in an eternal dance beneath a shower of stardust.
The children gasped in wonder, the couples sighed tenderly, and even the old men had a trembling smile.
Vidalia, her eyes shining, watched with childlike amazement as the magic unfolded around her. When a shower of sparks erupted into the front rows, she instinctively reached out. A playful, luminous fragment seemed to notice her: it skipped a little, then twirled around her fingers before settling in her palm.
Vidalia burst into a clear, almost surprised laugh as she felt it tickle her skin. The tiny flame danced, light as a feather, before taking flight again and mingling with the others.
This crystalline laughter drew all eyes to her: some spectators, already captivated by her presence, were astonished to see her bathed in light, as if magic itself had chosen a favorite.
≈≈≈≈≈
Far from the dazzling revelry under the big top, Arzhel ventured into the city's dark quarters. Where the festive lanterns dared not shine, the thick mist mingled with the acrid stench of discarded refuse. The uneven cobblestones echoed beneath her steady steps, and her nonchalant gait contrasted sharply with the palpable tension that pervaded these forgotten alleyways.
Around a corner, a translucent figure awaited him. Sorel, floating as usual a few centimeters above the ground, wore his usual nonchalant air, arms crossed, his gaze half-veiled with irony.
Without a word, the spirit raised a pale hand and pointed toward a grimy window of a half-collapsed shed. Behind the glass, Arzhel made out the silhouette of a man who had just entered. Inside, three others were already waiting for him, all with hard faces and demeanors that betrayed their lack of innocence and angelic nature.
The contrast was striking: a few streets away, the songs and laughter of the national holiday burst forth like fireworks, while here, the city showed its other face—that of shadows and conspiracies.
≈≈≈≈≈
While Arzhel was already beginning to get annoyed at being kept away from The show under the big top was in full swing. Laughter, murmurs, and collective excitement filled the air, until a muffled, magical explosion resounded, startling the audience.
The storyteller, unperturbed, raised his arms, his theatrical voice rising above the commotion:
"My dear spectators, while Lyreos and Elanthe were finally living in their bubble of love and peace… some, in the shadows, were already plotting against them! For one day, Lyreos was summoned to the king's castle… but upon his return, he could no longer find his beloved!"
The projected images changed abruptly. Lyreos's manor was shown in complete disarray, the servants lying lifeless, the chaos frozen in moments of panic. Then came the days that swept by like a storm: Lyreos running, searching, calling out. His rage and despair were etched into the flames that danced across the stage.
"Elanthe had been abducted! Kidnapped by the Kar'Thaal Empire and held prisoner in their capital, Drakzhen!" the storyteller roared passionately. "And even more terrible, Lyreos learned that his own king had sold her to the enemy!"
A murmur of indignation rippled through the crowd. Vidalia felt her heart race.
"Mad with rage, our great knight rose up against the throne! My friends, the entire people marched to his side! And this war, this sacred revolt, lasted not two years, nor fifteen… but only three days!"
The tent vibrated with the cheers. Flashes of red and gold light flooded the space, representing the flames of battle. On the shifting screen, Lyreos, his eyes burning with fury, was seen beheading his king and seizing the crown, before brandishing his sword, ready to free Elanthe.
Vidalia, her eyes wide, watched in wonder. She almost held her breath, absorbed by the grandeur and strength of this hero who, for love, had defied an entire kingdom.