The bells of Sunspire Palace rang out at dawn, their peals echoing across the golden valleys of Valmont like a summons to awakening. It was the first clear morning in weeks, the sun breaking through the lingering haze of spring as if the gods themselves approved of the day ahead. Elara stood on the balcony of her childhood chambers, watching as servants scurried below, stringing garlands of jasmine and crimson roses—Valmont gold intertwined with Arcturus red. The colors clashed, much like everything else about this union, but today they were meant to symbolize harmony.
King Aldric had announced the festival the night before, during a tense family supper in the private solar. He had risen from his carved oak chair, goblet in hand, his beard flecked with gray that seemed to have multiplied since Elara's betrothal. "Tomorrow," he boomed, voice steady but eyes shadowed, "we celebrate the Festival of Union. For the first time in generations, Valmont and Arcturus will merge as one kingdom under the joint rule of Princess Elara and Crown Prince Cassian. No more borders. No more blood. Peace, my children—peace at last."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Rowan had slammed his fist on the table, rattling the silverware. "Peace? With that snake on our throne?" Thorne had nodded grimly, his sharp features taut, while Lysander stared at his plate, lute forgotten in the corner. Queen Isolde reached for Aldric's hand, her touch a silent plea for calm. Elara herself had felt a knot twist in her stomach—happiness for the end of war, grief for the price. Valmont's independence, swallowed whole. Her life, chained to a man whose heart was as cold as his kingdom's winters.
But the announcement had gone out regardless. Ravens carried the news to every corner of the realm, and by morning, the palace grounds buzzed with activity. Villagers streamed in from the surrounding estates, carts laden with fresh-baked bread, wheels of cheese, and barrels of honeyed wine. Tents sprouted like mushrooms in the meadows—striped in gold and red, sheltering jugglers, acrobats, and storytellers hired from both kingdoms. A grand stage was erected near the ornamental lake, where musicians tuned lutes and harps, blending Valmont's lively folk melodies with Arcturus's haunting ballads. The air filled with the scent of roasting meats and spiced cider, laughter mingling with the lowing of decorated oxen paraded through the gates.
Elara dressed in a gown that mirrored the merger: Valmont blue embroidered with Arcturus crimson threads, a crown of intertwined roses atop her dark hair. She descended the stairs to find her family gathered in the great hall. Isolde adjusted Lysander's collar, her smile warm but strained. "You look every inch the bard today, my love." Lysander forced a grin, but his eyes were red-rimmed—he had spent the night composing a dirge for "lost freedoms," only to burn it at dawn.
Rowan paced like a caged bear, armor polished but unnecessary. "This festival feels like a funeral," he muttered to Thorne, who leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. "We're toasting our own surrender." Thorne's response was a quiet nod, his mind no doubt spinning contingency plans for if—when—the merger soured.
Aldric clapped Rowan on the back, his laugh booming but hollow. "Enough gloom, lad. The people need joy. We've buried too many sons and daughters in these wars. Let them dance today."
And dance they did. As the sun climbed higher, the festival burst into life. Children raced through the meadows, faces painted in swirling patterns of gold and red, chasing after puppeteers who brought wooden dragons and phoenixes to life with strings and clever voices. Elders from border villages shared stories around crackling bonfires, tales of raids turned to reconciliations, their voices thick with emotion—happiness at the peace, grief for the lost. One old woman from Valmont's fringes wept openly as she clasped hands with an Arcturian merchant, whispering, "My boy died in the last skirmish. But now... now his children won't."
Elara wandered the grounds, Cassian at her side like a shadow that didn't quite belong. He wore a tunic of black silk edged in gold, his crown absent for once, though his presence commanded attention. Villagers bowed stiffly to him, their smiles polite but wary. Whispers followed: "That's the one—the throne-taker." Yet the festival's spirit was infectious. Jugglers tossed flaming torches in high arcs, drawing gasps and cheers. Archers from both kingdoms competed in friendly matches, arrows thudding into targets painted with united crests. A troupe of dancers swirled in circles, their skirts a blur of colors, inviting onlookers to join until the meadow became a sea of twirling bodies.
In the midst of it, Elara spotted her brothers. Rowan had relented enough to enter a wrestling ring, grappling with a burly Arcturian guard in a match that drew roars from the crowd. He won, of course, pinning the man with a grunt, but instead of triumph, he offered a hand up, muttering, "Good fight." The gesture sparked applause—happiness blooming amid the grief of old grudges. Thorne organized a strategy game tent, where nobles from both sides puzzled over boards of carved pieces, forging tentative alliances over mugs of ale. Even Lysander took the stage, his lute strumming a new song he'd written overnight: a ballad of two rivers merging into one mighty flow, its melody uplifting but lyrics laced with melancholy for the separate streams lost.
Queen Isolde moved among the people like a gentle breeze, distributing baskets of fruit and listening to their stories. Her face lit with genuine joy at a young couple's announcement—they had met during truce talks, one from each kingdom, now expecting a child. "A true union," she said, hugging them. But later, when Elara found her alone by the lake, Isolde's eyes glistened. "I'm happy for the peace, my sun. Truly. But I grieve for what we've given up. Your freedom. Our ways."
Aldric, ever the king, presided over the main feast tent, toasting endlessly. "To the new kingdom! To Elara and Cassian, our guiding lights!" The crowd echoed the words, but Elara saw the flicker in her father's eyes—the grief of a man who had fought for independence only to yield it for his daughter's sake.
As evening fell, lanterns were lit—thousands of them, floating on the lake like stars fallen to earth. Fireworks burst overhead, painting the sky in gold and crimson explosions that drew oohs and aahs. Families picnicked on blankets, sharing food across old divides. Happiness reigned: a blacksmith from Arcturus teaching Valmont children to forge simple rings, symbolizing bonds unbroken. Grief lingered too—in quiet corners where widows clutched medallions of fallen loved ones, whispering prayers that this merger would honor their sacrifices.
Cassian observed it all with his usual detachment, walking the paths without haste, acknowledging bows with nods. But as the night deepened, something stirred within him—a sensation so foreign it took him moments to name it. He had slipped away from the crowds, finding a secluded bench beneath a jasmine arbor. The air was alive with sounds: distant laughter, the crackle of bonfires, Lysander's lute weaving through the breeze. Scents assaulted him—sweet flowers, smoky meat, the earthy tang of turned soil. Colors everywhere: the vibrant gowns, the glowing lanterns, the fireworks' fleeting brilliance.
For the first time in years—perhaps ever—he felt... alive. Not the calculated pulse of survival, the mechanical tick of ambition that had driven him since childhood. This was different. Warm. Chaotic. Human. His family had been a battlefield, emotions weapons to be wielded or discarded. Killing his siblings hadn't been joy or sorrow; it was necessity, a void where feeling should be. But here, amid Valmont's unrestrained joy, grief's quiet undercurrent touched something buried deep. The people's happiness wasn't forced; it bloomed naturally, like the roses entwining the arbor. Even the family's grief—their protective glares, their whispered laments—stemmed from love, a concept he had studied like a foreign language but never spoken.
He watched Elara from afar, her laughter genuine as she danced with Lysander, her brothers hovering protectively. She was the sun of this place, radiating a warmth that thawed even his frozen core. For a fleeting moment, he imagined what it might be like to join them—not as conqueror, but as part. To feel the pull of family, the sting of loss, the rush of unity.
But he said nothing. Told no one. The words would shatter the illusion, expose the vulnerability he couldn't afford. Instead, he leaned back against the bench, green eyes reflecting the lantern light, and whispered to himself—so softly the words dissolved into the night air.
"I'm alive. For the first time... I'm alive."
The festival swirled on around him, happiness and grief dancing hand in hand, as the new kingdom took its first tentative breaths under the stars.