The day unfolded with an eerie quiet, a fragile calm settling over Fallow's Ferry after days of chaos.
Sven and his knights had departed for the capital at dawn, while Borin received a sealed letter, his broad face tightening into a grim nod before he trudged off without explanation.
Ash remained, the stillness pressing against his chest like a weight he couldn't shake.
His eyes drifted repeatedly to the unstable rift at the village's edge, its jagged maw shimmering under the tired gray sky.
Occasionally, a flicker of green or a ripple of shadow danced across its surface, though he dismissed it as exhaustion warping his perception, rubbing his eyes to clear the illusion.
That night, a whisper stirred him from sleep—not a voice, but a cold, insistent thread weaving through his soul.
Barefoot, he slipped from his mat in the longhouse, the rough wooden floor cool beneath his feet, and followed the pull toward the rift.
The rift pulsed gently, its surface shimmering like molten glass, and within it, a vision took shape: the cracked, overgrown streets of his old city, unmistakably home.
There, staggering through the debris, were Noah and Kelvin, their faces gaunt but alive, their muffled cries of "Ash!" piercing the silence.
His heart thudded, a surge of hope clashing with dread. He stepped forward, hand outstretched, the rift's hum vibrating through his bones, urging him closer.
A firm grip seized his arm, yanking him back.
"Ash, no!" Elis's voice cut through the haze, her face pale and taut with worry in the moonlight, her pink gown swaying as she steadied herself against the pull.
He turned, dazed, his breath uneven.
"My friends… they're right there," he whispered, glancing back at the vision. But it faded, leaving only the silent, unstable rift, its edges glowing faintly with an unnatural light.
Elis didn't let go, her fingers warm against his chilled skin. "It's not real. Look at me. Whatever you see, it's a trick—something the rift's doing."
"What friends?" she asked softly, her tone laced with curiosity, the question hanging heavy between them.
Ash met her gaze, the weight of his isolation crashing down. She didn't know—no one here did except blackthorn. His past was a specter only he could see.
"Nothing," he murmured, the lie tasting bitter. "I… thought I saw something familiar."
"The rift was luring you," she said gently, her eyes searching his. "It lures you with what you miss most. You can't trust it—it's dangerous."
He nodded, the cold seeping deeper into his bones despite the mild night air. "Thanks. For stopping me."
"I was heading back to my room when I saw you slip out," she explained, her voice steady.
"Something felt off, so I followed." She tilted her head, studying him. "Why would you try to go in?"
"It felt like it was calling me," he admitted, his voice low, the confession peeling back a layer of his guarded shell.
"Come on," she said, her tone gentle but resolute. "Let's go back."
As they retreated, neither noticed the pair of glowing purple eyes flicker open within the rift's deepest shadow, watching Ash's departure with a patient, predatory intent.
The next day, Ash woke to the sound of laughter and the rhythmic clatter of hammers.
The village had transformed, draped in vibrant banners of green and gold that danced in the breeze, their colors a stark relief against the gray ruins.
A villager hurried past with a basket of ripe fruit, flashing a grin at his bewildered expression. "It's the Bloomfire Festival! Celebrating the first harvest after the long winter!"
The air hummed with excitement, laced with the rich scent of baking bread and roasting meat drifting from makeshift stalls lining the square.
Elis found him near the square, looking lost amid the bustle, his patched tunic hanging loosely.
She smiled, her hair loose and catching the sunlight, framing her face with a soft glow.
"It's a tradition here. We light bonfires and fill lanterns with glow-moss to honor the earth's resilience. Back home, I'd be stuck in a stuffy gown enduring endless speeches." Her smile widened, genuine and warm. "But here, they made me a dress from dyed river-flax. And this—" she handed him a cloth bundle—"is for you."
Inside was a well-made tunic the color of forest moss, its cuffs adorned with subtle silver stitching that caught the light.
"I… thanks, Elis," he said, running his fingers over the fabric, a rare softness in his voice.
"Wear it tonight," she said warmly before moving off to help hang strings of luminous seed-pods that bobbed gently in the wind.
Later, Ash lent a hand lifting a heavy trestle table into place, the wood creaking under his grip.
A small voice piped up beside him. "You're the glowy knight!"
It was the boy from the longhouse window, Jin, now brandishing a carved wooden sword with pride.
"Papa got me this! I'm gonna be a hero like you!"
Ash knelt, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That's a fine sword. What's your name, kid?"
"Jin!" the boy beamed, and they spent the next few minutes in a mock duel, Jin's laughter ringing out as he swung with exaggerated flair, Ash parrying with gentle precision.
The moment eased the tension in his shoulders, a brief respite from his haunted thoughts.
As evening fell, Ash donned the new tunic, its fabric fitting better than he expected, His wild, dark and messy hair, his eyes shaping out his face.
He received nods of approval and a few shy blushes from village girls as he walked to the square, now transformed by the warm glow of bonfires and floating lanterns casting a soft, ethereal light.
Elis was announced, descending steps woven with glowing vines, her deep blue dress—crafted from river-flax—seeming to hold the starlight, its hem brushing the ground with quiet grace.
She thanked the villagers for their courage and kindness, her words weaving this damaged place into a true home. Then, with a warm smile, she declared the festival begun.
Music swelled—a lively tune from drums and a hand-harp, its rhythm pulsing through the crowd.
Ash found Elis watching the dancers, her eyes bright with the firelight.
"Guess Blackthorn isn't the party type," he commented lightly, a rare spark of humor in his tone.
Elis laughed, the sound clear and bright. "He doesn't like them at all."
She glanced at him, her smile softening. "You clean up nicely, Ash."
"You look… like a princess," he said, the words slipping out with sincerity, his cheeks warming slightly.
She grinned. "Do you want to dance?"
"I don't know how," he admitted, shifting awkwardly.
"It's easy. I'll show you." She took his hand, her touch light but sure, leading him into the circle.
She guided his hands—one on her waist, the other holding hers—and counted the steps softly.
He stumbled at first, his boots scuffing the dirt, but soon found the rhythm, their movements settling into a quiet, comfortable sync under the lantern-light.
There was no romance, only the simple joy of shared peace, a moment of connection amid the chaos of their lives.
Later, as the music soared, the village alchemist unleashed fireworks into the sky—blossoms of green and gold light that burst with a soft pop, drawing cheers from the crowd.
Ash's gaze lifted, and a memory flooded back: New Year's Eve with Noah and Kelvin, huddled on a rooftop, watching fireworks paint the sky in vibrant hues. They'd laughed, dreaming of adventures.
The pang of loss tightened his chest, but the festival's warmth held it at bay, offering a fragile reprieve.
For one night, there was no Merge, no rifts, no loss—only music, light, and the tender promise of a new beginning.
As the last firework faded, the rift's silent hum grew, a low vibration that seemed to pulse in time with Ash's heartbeat, hinting at the storm to come.