Chapter 2) Invitation Letter
Morning came like a whisper.
The sun had barely begun to stretch across the village rooftops, gilding them in a soft, honeyed light. Liswood stirred with lazy grace, yawns behind shutters, the creak of old floorboards, the splash of water from wooden barrels. The air was warm, not yet heavy, rich with the scent of dewy earth, crushed grass, and the distant comfort of freshly baked bread.
Somewhere beyond the vegetable plots, roosters called to one another like musicians tuning before a song. In the trees, leaves rustled in gentle conversation, the hush of dawn speaking its secret tongue.
Caelum stepped barefoot onto the porch.
A dry plank groaned under his weight. The morning breeze met his face, cool but tender, brushing through his hair like an old friend's hand. He stretched his arms high above his head, and the sunlight painted warm gold across his cheekbones. From down the lane, a cart creaked by, a broom swished, and someone hummed a tune under their breath.
He paused, breathing in.
The flowers along the fence were still beaded with dew, their petals yawning toward the rising sun. The grass shimmered. Birds passed overhead in slow, gliding arcs, unhurried, at peace. This was the kind of morning that asked for nothing. It just existed. And that was enough.
Inside, his uncle was setting clay bowls on the table.
"You're early," the man grumbled, not bothering to look up.
"Wanted to catch the sunrise."
"Caught it? Good. Sit down. Eat."
They ate in silence, a silence that had long since settled between them like an old rug. Worn, but familiar. The air inside the house carried the scent of barley porridge and herbal tea, while outside the world stirred louder with each passing moment.
After breakfast, Caelum stepped back outside. He strolled past the gate, waved to a neighbor, nodded to the old woman by the pond. Children giggled on the street corner, one holding a basket too big for their arms, the others running barefoot through dust, leaving scattered prints in their wake.
He walked the familiar footpath between the homes, where every board and every fence post had a story, worn down by summers past. The air warmed steadily. The light grew heavier. And yet, the joy of the morning never left.
Near the village well, Syrex stood leaning against a post, lazily chewing something that looked like dried apple.
"Good morning, good sir," he drawled as Caelum approached. "You look like a man who just dreamed of a feast made of a hundred sweetrolls."
Caelum smirked.
"And you look like someone who still owes Greta five coppers."
"I dreamed you married her. Woke up in a cold sweat."
They laughed and started down the path together, no real destination, just the pull of friendship and sunlit curiosity.
The village unfolded around them, women hanging laundry, chickens darting through courtyards, the distant clatter of pots and pans. Children raced with wooden toys, doors banged open, and someone cursed at a goat in the next alley. Everything lived. Everything breathed.
They reached Syrex's house, crooked, small, with peeling paint on the shutters and grapevines creeping lazily along the fence. Caelum had spent plenty of time here. Helping with chores, fixing leaky corners, hammering in silence while Syrex talked enough for two.
"Hey," Caelum said as they stepped back into the lane, "come to my place now? Uncle needs help. And I promised."
"Oh no, here it comes…" Syrex groaned theatrically, arms crossed. "This isn't just a clever trap to feed me soup and trick me into lifelong field labor, is it?"
"Absolutely not," Caelum replied in a mock-serious tone. "Just a tiny bit of boot-scrubbing, wall-painting, roof-mending, and potato-sorting."
"Regretting this already," Syrex muttered. "But fine. I'll go. Only because you're handsome."
"You're blind."
"And you still can't tell a joke," Syrex grinned, giving him a playful shove.
They walked slowly, chatting, bickering in the way boys often do when everything around them is too peaceful to argue for real. They waved at the baker. Nodded to passersby. This was their world. Safe, ordinary, a little worn, but theirs.
Caelum's home stood in that same golden light, dappled through trees. Inside, the scent of wood and wildflowers lingered in the walls. Someone, probably Uncle, had left a small bouquet in a clay jar on the table.
The boys got to work.
Shifting crates. Dusting off corners. Clearing out a storage nook near the door. Syrex couldn't stay quiet, muttering like an explorer in forgotten ruins.
"This corner reeks of abandonment. Surely this is where the hermit spiders dwell. Pass me a torch and rope."
"It's just old rags," Caelum muttered, tossing one at him.
Then came the knock.
A sharp, hollow sound, once, twice. Not hurried. Not familiar.
Both boys froze.
It came again. Firmer. Faster.
Syrex looked at him, brows raised. "You expecting someone?"
Caelum shook his head. His body was already moving toward the door.
It was the kind of knock that didn't belong to neighbors or friends. There was no impatience in it, just precision. As if the one knocking knew exactly how many times would be enough.
He opened the door.
A man stood there, draped in a long gray cloak, hood drawn low over his face. Behind him, a simple cart, pulled by a tired-looking horse. From a worn satchel, he pulled a bundle of letters, tied with dark thread and sealed with wax. Neat. Purposeful.
He said nothing.
Just handed Caelum one.
The envelope was thick, the seal unbroken. A sigil marked the wax, one Caelum didn't quite recognize, yet… it stirred something in him. Like a memory forgotten but waiting just beneath the surface.
"Wait!" he called, stepping forward, but the man had already climbed into the cart.
The wheels groaned. The horse trotted forward. The figure never turned back.
"What the hell was that?" Syrex stepped up beside him. "That for you?"
Caelum nodded, eyes still on the road where dust now hung in the air.
"There's… a crest. Royal, I think. But not from around here."
Syrex scratched his head.
"Well, should we… open it?"
"Wait," Caelum said, voice low. "What if… what if you got one too?"
"Me?" Syrex snorted. "What, I'm the secret heir of some noble bloodline now? Greta doesn't even write me."
"…What if," Caelum repeated. And this time, the question felt real.
They sprinted.
The village blurred past, the sun, the dust, the trees. People turned to watch the two boys run like messengers of fate. But the boys didn't stop. Didn't speak. Not until they reached Syrex's porch.
And there, lying perfectly still on the wooden step, was another letter.
Same wax. Same seal. Same quiet weight of something big.
Syrex stared at it, lips parted slightly in disbelief. Then bent, picked it up.
Held it like it might shatter.
"…So I'm a prince now," he whispered.
Caelum nodded. "Ready?"
"Nope," Syrex said. "But let's do it."
They stood side by side in the square, near the fountain. Evening now. Light bathed the village in bronze. Dust sparkled in the still air. Time, for just a moment, seemed to wait.
Caelum broke the seal.
He read aloud.
> "This letter is an official invitation to the resident of Liswood for a ceremonial event that occurs once every ten years — The Festival of the Seven Kingdoms. A gathering of the continent of Solarithia, attended by emissaries and nobles from all Seven Realms. Location: Elventaria, Central Kingdom. The festival begins tomorrow, at sunset. This invitation is extended to every resident of Liswood. If you choose not to attend, your decision will be respected.
With honor,
The Senior Steward of the Festival."
Silence.
Then Syrex tore his open, scanning it quickly.
"Same." He blinked. Then added, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, "We're getting out of this village."
Caelum smiled, breath shallow with something between excitement and awe.
"Maybe… we should find someone with a cart."
"Old Fenn," Syrex snapped his fingers. "He's got two horses and a restless spirit. We talk to him."
They split off, scattering into the village like seeds caught in wind. Asking. Searching. Most villagers answered the same:
> "Yes, we received one." "No, we're not going." "Too far. Too loud. Not our world anymore."
By midday, the heat clung to the stones. Caelum waited in the square, alone.
Until Syrex appeared, triumphant.
"Fenn's in. Leaves tomorrow. Says he hasn't seen the world in twenty years and it's about damn time."
Caelum laughed. "Everything's falling into place."
Still, they both knew: their families wouldn't come.
That evening, Caelum returned home. Uncle sat by the woodpile, axe swinging with steady rhythm.
He listened. Then nodded.
"Ah. The Festival. I went to one… long ago. It's wild. Loud. Full of color and strangers. But unforgettable."
He clapped a hand on Caelum's shoulder.
"You should go. It's your time. Find something worth remembering. Maybe even someone worth it too."
Caelum packed lightly, a cloak, bread, water, worn boots. He helped with chores until the stars came out.
That night, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Listening to the wind touch the windowpane. And wondering,
What if tomorrow really is the beginning of something greater?
He closed his eyes. And dreamed of banners, of strange lands, of roads unwalked and a sky too big to belong to any one village.