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Chapter 3 - Chapter Three: Festival Flame

Twilight draped Mirevale in a soft lavender haze, and the village transformed into a swirl of color and warmth. Banners fluttered from rooftops, lanterns flickered along the fences, and tables overflowed with roasted meats, sweetroot pies, and spiced cider. Music lifted on the breeze—fiddles, flutes, and drums echoing across the cobbled square.

Draven stood near the forge, brushing soot from his tunic. His broad frame was stiff from the day's work, but the scent of food and laughter tugged him toward the celebration.

His hair—thick, dark brown and just brushing the nape of his neck—was tousled by the evening breeze. Strands fell across his forehead as he stepped into the lantern-lit streets, sleeves rolled and arms marked with light scars earned from forgework. His deep gray eyes, calm and steady, reflected the flicker of firelight as he made his way into the crowd.

"Draven!"

He turned just in time to catch Talia barreling into him, her small arms wrapping around his leg. She looked up with eager eyes that sparkled like polished amber beneath a mop of unruly chestnut curls.

Talia was only eight, the baker's daughter, and full of endless energy and mischief. Her cheeks were round, freckled, and perpetually smudged with flour or dirt. She wore a bright green tunic a size too big, cinched awkwardly at the waist with a piece of twine.

Draven hoisted her gently into his arms with a grin. "You said you'd play!" she reminded him, puffing her cheeks.

"I did, didn't I?" he said, ruffling her hair. "What's the game tonight, beast or hunter?"

"Both!" she squealed. "But I get to roar first!"

"You always get to roar first," Draven said with a laugh as he carried her toward the square.

For the next several minutes, he ran, stumbled, and let himself be dramatically 'captured' while the children cheered and giggled in delight. Talia was the loudest of all, chasing him with a stick like a warrior princess.

At last, he fell back into the grass and let them tie his wrists with ribbon.

"We've caught the Beast of Mirevale!" Talia cried, planting her foot triumphantly on his chest. "Now we make him serve in the royal bakery forever!"

"Oh no," Draven said in mock horror. "Anything but kneading dough!"

The children cheered as they placed a crown of woven straw on his head.

"You are now Chief Beast," one boy declared.

Draven sat up, removed the crown, and placed it on Talia's head with exaggerated care.

"There," he said. "Now you rule the wild."

Talia beamed. "You'll play again tomorrow?"

Draven nodded. "Pinky swear."

She offered her pinky, small and sticky with honey, and he linked it with his.

As she skipped away to join the others, Draven watched her go with a fond smile. Talia wasn't just any village child—she'd clung to him since she could walk. Her older brother had died during a fever outbreak years ago, and since then, she'd quietly adopted Draven as her new protector.

He never said it aloud, but in many ways, Talia was the little sister he never had.

Whenever he saw her racing across the square, laughing freely, a quiet warmth stirred in his chest—one that even the forge couldn't create.

He dusted himself off and moved toward the food tables, his smile still lingering.

Mara stood by the cider barrel, arms crossed and a smirk tugging at her lips. She was seventeen like him, her figure tall and lean, with a quiet confidence in her stance. Her auburn braid glinted in the lamplight, and a smear of flour marked her cheek from earlier baking.

"You've gone soft," she teased as he approached. "Chief Beast?"

Draven grinned. "What can I say? The people demanded it."

Jareth leaned on the table beside her, tossing a small apple between his hands. He was a little taller than Draven, wiry but quick, with an easy grin and storm-colored eyes. His dark curls were damp with sweat from dancing.

"We were just debating whether you'd ever show," Jareth said. "Mara said you'd skip out like last year."

"I had forge duty last year," Draven replied, grabbing a cup of cider.

Mara raised an eyebrow. "Excuses."

Draven held a hand to his chest. "This year, I'm a changed man."

The three of them drifted toward one of the long benches beneath a row of lanterns. Music swirled around them, a fast-paced reel now rising through the square. A group of teens danced nearby, spinning and clapping in rhythm.

"Go on," Jareth said, nudging Mara. "Show them how it's done."

"You first," she challenged.

They both laughed, a rhythm in their teasing that was too natural to miss. Draven watched them, his smile lingering but distant. He didn't feel envy, not exactly. Just a quiet certainty—something between them moved deeper than their jokes. It was subtle, like the stillness before rain. He hoped one of them would see it eventually.

A sharp voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Draven!" Garrik's voice boomed across the square. The blacksmith approached with a bottle of dark mead in one hand and a skewer of meat in the other. "Too stiff to dance?"

"Too tired," Draven replied.

Garrik shoved the bottle into his hands. "Then drink, lad. Or Mara might think you're boring."

Draven gave Garrik a sidelong look as Mara raised her brow, amused.

"Thanks for that," Draven muttered.

Garrik just chuckled and clapped him on the back. "You're not fooling anyone, boy. I see the way you look when she walks away."

Draven nearly choked on the cider.

Mara blinked, then turned back to Jareth, who whispered something that made her laugh.

Draven looked away, his ears hot. It wasn't that Mara wasn't beautiful—she was, fiercely so—but she and Jareth had always had a connection. He saw it even if they didn't. Maybe someday, one of them would stop pretending it wasn't there.

As Garrik wandered off to harass someone else, the trio found a quieter spot beneath a tree not far from the fire circle. Children danced with lanterns, their laughter echoing. Crickets chirped in the grass.

Mara kicked off her boots and leaned back against the tree. "So, when are you two finally leaving this place and chasing your grand dreams?"

Jareth stretched his arms behind his head. "If I had coin, I'd go tomorrow. Join a guild in the capital. Learn proper swordplay, maybe even get hired as a sellsword. Travel, fight, drink."

"Shocking," Mara said. "And you, Draven?"

He hesitated. "I don't know. I like the forge. Building things. Fixing what's broken. But sometimes…" He paused, looking out toward the treeline. "Sometimes I feel like there's something waiting. I just don't know what."

Mara looked at him curiously. "You ever think about learning magic?"

He laughed softly. "Here? In Mirevale?"

"Seriously," she said. "I heard some folk in the south can shape earth with their bare hands. Pull stone from the ground and twist it like clay."

Jareth sat up. "The River Clans can freeze a man solid with a blink. And there's a rumor that the Ember Realms had warriors who could summon black fire—fire that burned without light."

Draven leaned forward. "You believe that?"

"I don't know," Jareth said. "But the world's big. Just because we've never seen it doesn't mean it's not out there."

Mara plucked a blade of grass. "Wouldn't it be something if one of us turned out to be a mage?"

Draven smiled faintly. "It wouldn't be me. I can barely read the town ledger, let alone magical scrolls."

"But you've got hands like a warrior," Jareth added. "If anyone's built to wield power, it's you."

Draven shrugged. "I'm just me."

A quiet fell over them, not heavy, just comfortable. The fire crackled nearby, and music still swirled through the air like a dream.

For tonight, the world outside didn't matter. It could wait.

And for tonight, Mirevale was everything they needed it to be.

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