The festival air was still sweet with roasted chestnuts and candied figs when Tyche let Xanthe drag her toward a row of wooden stalls lined with games. The laughter of children and the excited shouts of winners filled the night. For a while, Tyche almost forgot the whispers, the stares, the ache in her chest.
She tossed wooden rings over pegs, her tongue peeking out in concentration, and Xanthe cheered so loudly that the stall keeper shook his head with a smile. When Tyche finally managed a winning throw, Xanthe clapped her hands, bouncing like a child, and the prize—a simple ribbon of bright blue—was placed in Tyche's hand. She stared at it as though it were spun gold.
"You should wear it," Xanthe insisted, tugging it into her copper hair before Tyche could protest. "There. Now you look like the Harvest Queen herself."
Heat crept up Tyche's cheeks. "You always exaggerate."
"Only because it's true," Xanthe said with a wink, pulling her cousin toward another game.
They played until their arms ached from throwing, until Xanthe's laughter nearly drowned out the music from the fiddlers, until Tyche's smile felt like it might actually stay. But when at last their steps slowed and they found a bench near the square's edge, Xanthe leaned close with a conspiratorial grin.
"Stay here. I'll fetch us some pie before they sell out."
Tyche nodded, still catching her breath from the games, and watched her cousin disappear into the crowd. For the first time all evening, she sat alone.
---
Tyche sat quietly on the bench, letting the rhythm of the festival wash over her. Fiddles sang, drums rumbled, and the air was thick with the smell of spiced cider. She might have enjoyed the moment, had it not been for the clamor just a few paces away.
Nearly every maiden in the square had drifted toward a single long table, clustering around a young man who seemed to soak in their attention like a parched field at rain. He was handsome—Tyche would not deny that—but it was the way he leaned back in his chair, speaking with practiced ease, that made her chest tighten with something dangerously close to irritation.
The girls hung on his every word, giggling at even the blandest remark, whispering about his fine boots and the cut of his velvet coat. One even fanned herself dramatically when he lifted his cup.
Tyche frowned. Do they not hear themselves? Do they not see how he preens with every laugh they give him?
She shifted on the bench, folding her arms. Beauty and wealth seemed to make maidens forget themselves, and the realization unsettled her. Was this what it took to capture attention? To be noticed? To be valued?
Her jaw tightened as another wave of giggles rose, sharper this time, cutting through the music and chatter of the festival. She did not understand it—nor did she wish to.
--
Xanthe returned with two steaming slices of golden-crusted pie balanced carefully on a wooden tray, along with a pair of mugs filled with warm cider. She grinned as she approached.
"Here," she said cheerfully, placing the tray between them. "Apple pie and spiced cider—the best combination this festival has to offer."
Tyche managed a small smile of thanks, but her eyes were still fixed in the same direction. She hadn't even touched the plate before her.
Xanthe tilted her head, studying her cousin. "Alright, what's with that face?" she asked, sliding onto the bench beside her. "You look as though someone just stepped on your toes."
Tyche didn't answer, only turned her head slightly away, as if that could hide the faint crease between her brows.
Xanthe followed the trail of her gaze instead—and the moment her eyes landed on the table surrounded by chattering girls, she laughed softly. "Oh. I see."
Tyche's ears warmed at her cousin's knowing tone. "It's nothing," she said quickly, reaching for her mug.
"Mm-hmm," Xanthe hummed, clearly unconvinced. She nudged Tyche's arm playfully. "Nothing at all—except a gaggle of silly girls swooning over that puffed-up peacock."
Tyche nearly choked on her cider at the description, but the corners of her lips twitched despite herself.
Xanthe leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Don't waste your frown on him. He's not worth it."
For the first time since sitting down, Tyche allowed herself a small, genuine laugh. "Then why can't they see that?" she whispered.
"Because," Xanthe replied with a mischievous smile, "not everyone has your eyes."
---
Xanthe took a slow sip of her cider before speaking again, her eyes still flicking toward the crowded table. "You know, it's really not unusual," she said lightly. "These days, every maiden dreams of catching herself a prince charming—or at least some wealthy lord's son. Handsome face, heavy purse, promising name… all of that makes them swoon."
Tyche frowned, her fork paused above her pie. "But why? Just because he's handsome? Or because of his coin? That seems…" She struggled for the right word, her brows knitting. "…shallow."
Xanthe chuckled at her cousin's genuine confusion. "To you, maybe. But most girls would give anything to be noticed—even if it's only for a smile or a dance."
Tyche looked back at the circle of giggling maidens, their laughter ringing above the hum of the festival. She shook her head slowly. "I don't think I'll ever understand."
Xanthe studied her for a moment, a soft smile playing on her lips. She knew Tyche's heart was too pure, too untouched by ambition or vanity, to think like the rest. "And maybe you don't need to," she said gently.
Not wishing to press the matter further, she picked up her fork and nudged Tyche's plate closer. "Come. Let's not waste good pie on silly thoughts. Eat, before it goes cold."
Tyche hesitated, then gave a small nod. Together they turned their focus to the flaky crust and sweet, spiced filling, letting laughter and music replace the irritation that had clouded the moment. For a little while, all that mattered was the warmth of pie, cider, and the comfort of each other's company.