The sun didn't just set on the day of the Festival; it seemed to bow out gracefully to let the city shine.
As the twilight deepened to purple, a single bell tolled from the High Keep. It was the signal.
From the docks to the castle gates, ten thousand paper lanterns floated into the air simultaneously. They weren't powered by fire, but by small crystals of glowing moss harvested from the Abyssal trade routes. They drifted upward like a reverse rain of soft, golden light, turning the capital into a dreamscape.
In the bustling plaza below, Leo spun in a circle, nearly dropping his skewer of candied nuts.
"Okay," Leo admitted, his mouth full. "This... this is better than the harvest dance in Oakhaven. Much better."
"It's breathtaking," Maya whispered, her eyes reflecting the galaxy of lights above. She clutched a new leather-bound book to her chest—a treatise on ancient engineering she had spent her entire allowance on. "The lift mechanism for the lanterns... it must be heat-based, but the stability is magical."
"Stop analyzing the magic and enjoy it," Leo laughed, dodging a group of children chasing a stray dog painted with glowing stripes.
Arthur walked a few paces behind them, his hands tucked into the pockets of his fine guest tunic. He smiled at his friends' joy, but his eyes kept drifting to the shadows between the stalls.
The castle has teeth, Gareth had said.
Arthur looked over his shoulder toward the fountain of the Weeping Dragon. Standing there, looking starkly out of place amidst the silk-clad city folk, was a cluster of familiar faces.
It was the villagers of Oakhaven. Not just Jon and the Miller, but all of them. Families with carts of turnips, weavers with bolts of rough cloth, and children staring open-mouthed at the lights.
And leading them, looking incredibly pleased with himself despite his grim expression, was Gareth.
They had left yesterday morning, just as promised. But apparently, the journey home had been short-lived.
"I don't believe it," Arthur muttered, a smile tugging at his lips.
He later learned from a passing neighbor that Gareth had marched them halfway back to Oakhaven before stopping the caravan. The old man had supposedly launched into a passionate, impromptu speech about "economic opportunities" and how it was a "crime against commerce" to miss the capital's biggest market day. He had convinced the entire village to turn their wagons around and crash the festival under the guise of trade.
It was a lie, of course. A tactical maneuver. Gareth just couldn't sit in an empty house while Arthur was here.
Gareth caught Arthur's eye across the crowd. The old man didn't smile. He just gave a curt, stiff nod, tapping his walking stick against the cobbles. I am here. I am watching.
Arthur felt a knot loosen in his chest. He nodded back, tapping the hilt of the sword at his hip. I'm okay.
"You look like you're expecting an invasion," a voice teased.
Arthur looked up toward the castle terrace. Leaning over the stone railing, dressed in a gown of shimmering silver silk that looked like woven moonlight, was Erika.
She waved, gesturing for them to come up.
The trio navigated past the Royal Guards—who now nodded respectfully to Arthur instead of chasing him—and climbed the stairs to the private garden terrace overlooking the plaza.
"You look..." Leo started, his eyes widening. "Like a Queen. A real one."
"Thank you, Leo," Erika laughed, though Arthur noticed her hands were trembling slightly. She smoothed the heavy fabric of her dress. "I feel like a decorated cake. If I move too fast, I might crumble."
"You look beautiful," Arthur said quietly.
Erika met his gaze. The playful mask slipped for a second, revealing the terrified girl underneath. "I have to give the Address in an hour. To the whole city. Blake wrote the speech. It's... stiff. Boring. 'Order, prosperity, obedience.'"
"Then don't say it," Arthur shrugged.
"Excuse me?"
"Say what you want," Arthur leaned against the railing, looking out at the sea of lights. He pointed down to where Gareth and the villagers were setting up a makeshift stall. "Look at them, Erika. Look at my uncle. He hates cities, but he brought the whole village back just to be part of this. They aren't here for 'obedience.' They're here for the light. Talk to them like you talked to me on the hill."
Erika watched the crowd. She saw a father lifting his daughter to touch a low-hanging lantern. She saw merchants from rival kingdoms sharing a drink.
"Maybe I will," she whispered, a spark of rebellion igniting in her chest.
"Just don't mention the apple theft," Maya advised dryly. "Might ruin the regal image."
They laughed, a warm, huddled sound against the vastness of the night.
Fifty feet below, in the crushing density of the crowd, a man in a hooded cloak bumped into Jon the Blacksmith.
"Watch it, heavy feet," the man grumbled, shoving past.
"Hey!" Jon bristled, raising his turkey leg. "Who do you think you're pushing?"
Gareth put a hand on Jon's chest, stopping him. Gareth's eyes narrowed as he watched the hooded man disappear into the throng. He noticed the way the man walked—rolling on the balls of his feet, like a sailor on a shifting deck. And he noticed the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against his thigh.
Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.
Gareth frowned. He had heard that rhythm before. Long ago, during the coastal wars. It was a signal.
"Stay close," Gareth whispered to the villagers, his grip tightening on his walking stick. "Something isn't right."
The man was Bosun Krell of The Obsidian Gallows. He moved through the crowd like a shark in shallow water. From across the plaza, near the northern gate, another hooded figure tapped back.
In position.
Krell smiled, revealing teeth filed to points. He looked up at the floating lanterns, then higher, to the black clouds masking the mountain peaks.
"Pretty lights," Krell muttered to himself. "Shame we're going to blow them out."
Back on the terrace, the bell tolled again. Eighth hour.
Erika took a deep breath. "It's time."
"You'll be great," Leo gave her two thumbs up.
"We'll be watching," Maya added.
Erika looked at Arthur. She didn't say anything, but she reached out and squeezed his hand. Her palm was cold, but her grip was firm.
"Guard me?" she asked softly, an echo of their first night.
"Always," Arthur promised.
Erika turned and walked toward the main balcony, her silver dress flowing behind her like water. Conrad stepped out of the shadows to flank her, his massive form encased in ceremonial armor, the black sword sheathed on his back. He gave Arthur a solemn nod as he passed.
Arthur watched them go. The hum in his blood woke up—a low, warning vibration that made the hair on his arms stand up.
"Arthur?" Maya asked, noticing his tension. "What is it?"
Arthur looked at the crowd. He looked at Gareth down below, who was now scanning the rooftops with the intensity of a hawk. The cheering was starting, a roar of anticipation for the Queen's speech. It was loud.
Too loud, Arthur thought.
He looked up at the sky. The lanterns were drifting higher, thousands of them. But above the lights, in the darkness where the stars should be... there was a patch of sky that was too black. A void where the wind seemed to die.
"I don't know," Arthur whispered, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. "I just have a bad feeling."
On the main balcony, Queen Erika stepped into the light. The crowd erupted.
And high above, hidden in the clouds, General Vane raised a hand, looking down at the little silver figure on the stage.
"Smile, Your Majesty," Vane grinned, the order poised on his lips. "It's showtime."