The city's main square looked nothing like the one Illyria had first been brought to months ago. Then, its flagstones had been wet with rain, its air sharp with the scent of steel and damp stone. Now, under the deep velvet of a summer night, the same stones glowed beneath the flicker of hundreds of lanterns.
Silk banners arched between the rooftops, each painted with bright flowers or curling beasts. A dozen small fires burned in clay braziers, perfuming the air with the mingled scents of sweet roasted chestnuts, honey-dipped cakes, and the faint, sharp tang of wine.
Illyria stood at the edge of the crowd, watching. Her human hosts had insisted she attend, calling it a "gift" after weeks of etiquette lessons and public appearances. She knew better than to refuse — gifts in this place were only tools wrapped in ribbon.
Still, the music wove its way through her, light and quick, spilling from lutes and bells in patterns that reminded her of home. Her lips softened from their practiced line, if only for a heartbeat.
"You look like you're somewhere else."
The voice was quiet, low enough that it didn't disturb the festival's rhythm. Illyria turned to find Seraphyne standing a pace behind her.
She looked the same as she had every day since they met — composed, still, with an elegance that did not need display. But tonight, in the drifting lanternlight, her golden eyes caught and held the light differently, as if they had their own flame.
"Perhaps I am," Illyria replied.
Seraphyne stepped forward until the crowd's movement flowed around them. "And yet you remain here."
Illyria's gaze caught on the corner of Seraphyne's sleeve, where an embroidered thread had loosened. She had the sudden, strange urge to reach out and fix it, but her hands remained still. "Here is… safer."
The words tasted almost like truth.
A burst of laughter broke between them as a group of children ran past, scattering flower petals into the air. Some petals caught on Illyria's hair. She lifted a hand to brush them away — and froze when Seraphyne reached first, plucking a pale blue one from just above her ear.
For the smallest moment, her touch lingered.
The musicians struck up a new tune, livelier than before, and the crowd shifted toward the center square. Illyria allowed herself to be led along its edge, close enough to see the dancers spin in slow, deliberate circles, but far enough to stay outside the pull.
They passed stalls stacked with painted masks, clay whistles, and delicate glass animals. Seraphyne slowed near one that glimmered faintly under the lamplight. Tiny figures — deer, foxes, birds mid-flight — stood frozen in fragile perfection.
Illyria followed her gaze to a curled dragon, its glass body coiled around a pearl. She reached without hesitation, the vendor smiling in wordless approval as she placed a few coins on the counter.
"It suits you," she said, holding it out.
Seraphyne hesitated. "Why?"
Illyria only tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "You'll understand another time."
The dragon changed hands. Their fingers brushed — not clumsy, not lingering, just enough to send a pulse of warmth up Illyria's arm. She felt the faintest tremor in Seraphyne's hand before it was gone.
They moved on, the night deepening. In the far corner of the square, young attendants passed out paper lanterns, each painted with pale ink clouds and tied with thin strings.
Illyria accepted one and turned to find Seraphyne studying hers with polite detachment.
"They say," Illyria began, "if you release a lantern here, the wind carries your wish to the place it belongs."
"And if the wind takes it elsewhere?"
"Then," she said softly, "it was never yours to claim."
They found a quiet stretch of cobblestone near the city wall, where the lanternlight thinned and the stars could be seen. Illyria glanced at Seraphyne from the corner of her eye. "Make a wish, if you want."
"I have none," Seraphyne replied. But she didn't hand the lantern back.
Illyria knelt, lighting the small wax base. The paper shell swelled with heat, glowing faintly gold. She lifted it between them. "Then give it mine."
Seraphyne's brows drew together slightly, but she stepped forward, steadying the thin bamboo frame with both hands. Their eyes met briefly through the veil of light.
Illyria felt her power stir — unbidden, gentle. The faintest shimmer of air moved around them, just enough to catch the hair at Seraphyne's temple. The flame in the lantern flared once, higher than it should have, before settling again.
"On three," Illyria said. "One… two…"
They let go.
The lantern wavered upward, trembling as though unsure — then the wind caught it. It rose and rose, until its light was just another star in the deep sky.
Illyria tilted her head back. "There."
Seraphyne followed the glow until it was gone, though her lips didn't move. She was not the sort to speak without intent. But something in her gaze felt… fixed.
From the square, drums began to sound again — low, steady, pulling the crowd into the night's final dance. Illyria looked away first, schooling her face back into the measured poise her keepers expected.
As they turned to rejoin the crowd, the cobblestones ahead glistened faintly. The light touched them in a way it shouldn't, as though something unseen had brushed over them. Seraphyne glanced down, but when she blinked, the shimmer was gone.
The crowd swallowed them both. The music swelled, the lanterns drifted higher, and above it all, the wind carried a wish neither had spoken aloud.
***
That night, the laughter and light of the festival still lingered faintly in Illyria's mind as she stepped into the quiet halls of her residence. Queen Serenia awaited her in the candlelit sitting room, a book resting closed on her lap. Illyria curled into the seat opposite her, the glow from the hearth softening her features. In halting words, she spoke of the evening — of the music, the lanterns, and the strange, persistent warmth that followed her whenever Queen Seraphyne was near. "It's small," she admitted, fingers tracing the armrest, "like a thread I can't see but can feel. And I don't know where it's tied."
Serenia's lips curved faintly. "Ah. A thread, is it? You've always been a child who notices things others overlook." She leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, is this thread one you wish to follow?"
Illyria's answer came after a pause. "I don't know yet. It's not… heavy. But it's there. And when I look at her, it's as if I hear a story I've read before. Not in words, but in the shape of her heart. In the way memories press against the edges of her smile. I don't think she knows it's there." She looked up, the embers painting her eyes gold. "But I do. I can see it, the same way I see everyone's. Only hers feels… unfinished."
The Queen tilted her head, studying her daughter the way one studies an unfamiliar constellation. "You've always had that sense. Most people are blind to the currents inside others, but you… you see the ripples."
Illyria's lips quirked faintly. "You make it sound like a gift. Sometimes it feels like a burden."
"Most gifts are," Serenia said softly. "But burdens can be worth carrying, if they bring you to the right shore." She reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from Illyria's temple. "Just remember, my heart — the more you read of another's story, the more they will read of yours. Be certain of what you wish them to find."
Illyria lowered her gaze, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You're speaking like there's a warning hidden in there."
"There's always a warning hidden in a mother's advice," Serenia replied lightly, though her eyes didn't leave Illyria's. "And sometimes, there's a blessing too. Which one this is… depends on what you do with it."
They sat for a while longer, speaking of smaller things — the lantern's rise, the way the wind had felt on her cheeks, the foolish dances she had avoided. Yet under the quiet rhythm of their words, the thread in Illyria's heart still pulsed, faint and insistent, as if somewhere far away, it had already begun to pull taut.