The village square buzzed with life as the Festival of Shadows unfolded around them. Lanterns shaped like crescent moons and stars hung from every post, their light casting shimmering patterns on the cobblestones. Stalls lined the streets, selling everything from enchanted trinkets to steaming cups of spiced cider. Children dashed between the crowds, their laughter ringing out like bells, while masked performers danced through the throng, their movements sharp and hypnotic.
Rowen pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as they stepped into the square. The sights and sounds should have been mesmerizing, but instead, they set her on edge. Whispers followed her like an unwelcome breeze, the weight of curious and wary gazes pressing against her back. She caught snippets of murmured words—"the mark," "stranger," and "outsider"—though no one dared to address her directly.
"I hate all the staring." Rowen muttered under her breath, instinctively stepping closer to Dryanden's side.
"You're new," he replied simply, his voice low and calm as his eyes scanned the crowd. "And the mark doesn't help."
Rowen glanced down at her wrist, where the crescent-shaped mark glowed faintly even beneath the shadow of her sleeve. She clenched her fist, willing it to stay hidden. "Great. As if I needed more reasons to stand out."
"They'll get over it," Thalor said, striding ahead with an easy swagger. Unlike Dryanden, he seemed entirely unbothered by the attention, flashing a charming smile at anyone who looked their way. "Or they won't. Either way, it's a festival! Lighten up."
Rowen scowled at his back but didn't respond. Her focus drifted instead to the villagers, many of whom wore intricate masks carved from wood or shaped from thin, shimmering metal. Each was unique—some painted to resemble animals, others adorned with swirling patterns of stars and shadows.
"What's with the masks?" she asked, her voice quieter now as she leaned toward Dryanden. He hesitated, his gaze lingering on a masked couple passing by.
"Tradition," he said after a moment. "The Festival of Shadows is about balance—the interplay between light and dark, order and chaos. The masks represent how easy it is to blur the lines between the two."
Thalor slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder, his smirk firmly in place. "And they make excellent disguises for a bit of mischief, don't you think?"
Dryanden's eyes narrowed slightly. "Stick to the task, Thalor."
"I am," Thalor replied breezily, though Rowen didn't miss the glint of amusement in his eyes. "The task just happens to include enjoying ourselves."
As they moved deeper into the square, the air grew warmer, charged with an undercurrent of magic that Rowen could feel prickling against her skin. A group of performers passed by, their costumes glittering with enchanted light that shifted and danced as they moved. One of them—a young woman with a mask shaped like a crescent moon—paused briefly as she passed Rowen. Her gaze lingered, sharp and knowing, before she turned away and melted back into the crowd.
Rowen frowned, her unease deepening. "Did you see that?"
"See what?" Dryanden asked, his tone neutral.
"The performer. She—" Rowen stopped herself, shaking her head. "Never mind."
Thalor, who had somehow acquired a steaming cup of cider, paused beside her. "You look like you could use this," he said, holding out the cup. His smirk softened into something almost genuine. "It's good for nerves."
Rowen hesitated, glancing at the offered drink. It was warm, and the spices wafting from it were tempting. "Thanks," she said, taking the cider.
Before the cup could reach her lips, Dryanden's hand shot out, plucking it from her grasp. "Not so fast," he said curtly. He brought the cup to his nose, sniffing it with the same intensity he reserved for assessing threats. Then, without warning, he took a cautious sip. His expression shifted, his lips pressing into a thin line as he handed the cup back to Rowen. "It's strong," he said, his tone pointed. "Be careful."
Rowen frowned, accepting the cider back with a glance at Dryanden, taking a tentative sip. The liquid was warm and spiced, with a surprisingly potent kick that made her cough slightly. "Wow, you weren't kidding."
Thalor grinned, clearly amused. "Oh, come on, Dry. Do you really think I'd try anything untoward with cider? Have a little faith."
Dryanden didn't respond, his gaze locked on Thalor for a moment longer than necessary. The tension between them was palpable, and Rowen shifted uncomfortably, wishing she hadn't accepted the drink in the first place.
"Let's keep moving," Dryanden said finally, his voice clipped. "We're here for a reason."
Thalor's grin widened, but he didn't push further. "Lead the way, Your Highness."
As they moved deeper into the square, the distant sound of drums began to rise, their rhythm steady and haunting. A wide circle had formed at the center of the square, and the crowd hushed as a woman in flowing black and silver robes stepped into the space. Her face was obscured by a mask shaped like a raven's beak, but the aura of magic surrounding her was palpable.
"What's happening now?" Rowen asked, her voice tinged with both curiosity and wariness.
"The opening ritual," Dryanden said. "It's led by a priestess. She'll call on the spirits to guide the festival and offer insight into what's to come."
"Insight?" Rowen's brow furrowed. "Like… prophecy?"
"Sometimes," he admitted, his voice lowering further. "If we're lucky, it might give us some insight into what we're dealing with."
"And if we're not lucky?" Rowen asked, half-joking.
Dryanden's lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze fixed on the priestess as she raised her hands, her voice carrying over the crowd in a language Rowen didn't recognize. "Then we'll have to interpret the warning."
The priestess raised her hands higher, her chant swelling as the lanterns dimmed overhead. The air felt heavy, almost suffocating, and Rowen glanced nervously at Dryanden. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but his hand hovered near the hilt of his sword.
"I don't like this," Rowen muttered, her voice shaking. "Something feels wrong."
"Stay close to me," Dryanden said softly, his eyes never leaving the priestess.
The priestess's voice rose in a final crescendo, her hands slicing through the air in sharp, precise motions. The shadows recoiled, swirling around her like a living cloak, and the lanterns flared bright once more. She stood motionless for a moment, the silence thick and oppressive.
Then, she turned her masked face toward Rowen.
'When crescent light rises and falls,
One choice will shatter the wall.
Two paths diverge—one leads to flame,
The other to shadow, forever unnamed.'
The crowd stirred uneasily, their whispers rising like wind through the square. Rowen's heart pounded, her stomach twisting as the priestess's words echoed in her mind.
She took a step back, her heart pounding. "Did she just—"
"She wasn't specific," Dryanden said, his hand brushing her elbow in a steadying gesture. "It could mean anything."
"But it felt…" Rowen's voice faltered. "It felt like she was talking about me."
"She was," Thalor said, his tone unusually serious. His gaze lingered on the priestess, his smirk gone. "That wasn't a coincidence."
Dryanden's grip on her arm tightened slightly, his expression dark. "Let's not dwell." he said, his voice low.
Rowen hesitated, her eyes still locked on the priestess. The raven mask tilted ever so slightly, and though the woman's face was hidden, Rowen could feel the weight of her gaze—piercing, knowing.
"Rowen," Dryanden said, his voice sharper now. "Now."
She nodded, letting him guide her away from the square. Thalor followed close behind, his usual swagger replaced by something quieter, more calculating.
As they wove through the murmuring crowd, Rowen couldn't shake the feeling that the priestess's words weren't just a warning. They were a promise.
One choice will shatter the wall.
Which choice? And how much of it was already decided for her?
"Are you alright?" Dryanden asked, searching her face for something, thought Rowen didn't know what. "Let's get you out of here."
"No! I'm alright." She said, her voice shaky.
Dryanden's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you sure? You don't look fine."
"I'm fine," she insisted, though her voice trembled just enough to betray her. "Let's just go somewhere quieter."
He didn't press further, though the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. He guided her toward the outer edges of the square, where the crowd thinned slightly. A lively show unfolded near one of the food stalls—a group of masked performers juggling enchanted orbs of light that shimmered with shifting hues. Nearby, a sweet aroma wafted from a vendor's stand, drawing Rowen's attention despite herself.
"Better?" Dryanden asked, his voice softer now.
Rowen nodded absently, though her chest still felt tight. Her gaze lingered on the vendor's stand, where colorful confections were displayed on trays, each one glowing faintly as if infused with magic. Before she could step closer, Thalor appeared at her side, holding up a delicate, spiraled sweet covered in crystalline sugar.
"Here," he said, offering it to her with a grin. "A festival isn't complete without something indulgent."
Rowen frowned, eyeing the treat suspiciously. "You just carry sweets around?"
"Don't be silly," he said with mock indignation. "I bought it for you. Call it a peace offering."
Rowen hesitated, glancing at Dryanden, whose jaw tightened imperceptibly. She could feel his disapproval radiating through the bond, a steady hum of discontent that made her shift uncomfortably. Still, she took the treat from Thalor, though her expression remained guarded.
"Thanks," she muttered.
Thalor's grin widened. "Don't thank me until you've tried it."
She took a cautious bite, the sweetness melting on her tongue with an unexpected burst of flavor. The taste was light, almost floral, and utterly disarming. Despite herself, a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
"There it is," Thalor said, his voice low and pleased. "A smile. I knew you had it in you."
Rowen shot him a look, but the warmth in her chest lingered, even as Dryanden's disapproval simmered silently beside her. She could feel his gaze on her, though he said nothing.
"Let's find somewhere to sit," Dryanden said finally, his tone even but clipped. He gestured toward a quieter spot near a group of villagers dancing to the lively music of a string quartet.
The three of them settled near the edge of the dancing area, the music filling the space between them. Rowen finished her sweet, brushing stray sugar crystals from her fingers as she let the rhythm wash over her. For a moment, she let herself relax, the festive atmosphere almost distracting her from the weight of the priestess's words.
Then, Dryanden shifted beside her, leaning closer. "Dance with me," he said, his voice low and unexpectedly gentle.
Rowen blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"It'll help," he said simply, holding out a hand. "You're still on edge."
She stared at him, her heart skipping for reasons she couldn't name. The music swelled around them, the string quartet's melody light and teasing, as if urging her to step forward. The faint glow of lanterns cast shifting patterns on the ground, giving the moment an otherworldly feel. "I'm not much of a dancer," she mumbled.
"I'll lead," he said, his lips quirking into a faint smile. His voice was low but steady, grounding her even as her nerves threatened to keep her rooted in place. "Come on."
Hesitating for only a moment longer, she slipped her hand into his. His grip was warm and steady, a quiet reassurance that made her stomach flip as he guided her onto the edge of the makeshift dance floor. The steps were simple, the rhythm easy to follow, and Rowen found herself moving without thinking, her body responding to his gentle guidance.
"See?" Dryanden murmured, his voice close enough to send a shiver down her spine. "Not so bad."
Rowen smiled despite herself, her earlier tension easing slightly. "You're not terrible at this," she teased, her tone lighter now.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Dryanden replied, his lips quirking into a faint smile. "It's been a while."
"A while since what?" Rowen asked, tilting her head curiously as they moved in sync with the music.
"Since I danced," he admitted, his voice quiet. "I think the last time was… years ago, at some formal event I didn't want to attend."
She raised an eyebrow. "You? At a formal event? I can't imagine you enjoying something like that."
"I didn't," Dryanden said, his gaze briefly distant. "But I had to be there. Part of the job."
Rowen studied his face for a moment, noticing the faint lines of tension around his mouth. "You don't seem like the type to dance for fun."
"I don't," he said simply, meeting her gaze. "But this isn't about me."
Her chest tightened at his words, and she glanced away, focusing on the steady rhythm of their movements. "You don't have to do this, you know. I'm fine."
Dryanden slowed their steps slightly, his voice softening. "You've said that three times tonight, and I don't believe you any of those times."
Rowen frowned, her cheeks warming as his words struck too close to the truth. "I just don't want to be a burden."
"You're not," he said firmly, his crimson eyes holding hers. "Stop thinking you have to carry this alone."
For a moment, Rowen didn't know how to respond. The sincerity in his voice, the quiet intensity in his gaze—it was disarming in a way that left her breathless. She forced a small smile, trying to lighten the moment. "I guess I should thank you for the lesson, then."
Dryanden's smile softened, his hand tightening slightly around hers. "You're a quick learner."
Nearby, Thalor leaned casually against a vendor's stand, engaging the merchant in a quiet conversation. Though he appeared absorbed, Rowen caught the brief glance he cast their way. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by something subtler—an acknowledgment, almost. When their eyes met, he gave her a faint nod before turning back to the vendor, allowing her this rare moment uninterrupted.
She stumbled slightly under his scrutiny, her foot catching on Dryanden's. "Sorry!" she blurted, mortified.
Dryanden chuckled softly, his grip on her hand steady. "Relax. You're not supposed to be perfect. Just… let me lead."
She let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "Well, good. I'd make a terrible leader right now."
His smile softened, but his gaze remained steady. "You'd be surprised."
Thalor watched them with a faint, knowing smile as he swirled the remnants of his cider. His gaze lingered on Rowen for a moment longer than usual before he turned away, muttering something to the vendor.
The duo moved in silence for a few beats, the music filling the space between them. Rowen felt a flicker of peace for the first time all night, the weight of the priestess's words receding slightly. But then she caught Dryanden's gaze lingering on her, his expression thoughtful.
"What?" she asked, self-conscious under his scrutiny.
He hesitated, as if debating whether to answer. "You're stronger than you think, Rowen. Even if you don't see it yet."
Why did everyone keep insisting she was stronger than she felt? The crescent mark burned faintly beneath her sleeve, a constant reminder of how little control she had. How could she carry so much when she didn't even know where to start? You don't have to feel it, he'd said. Just keep going. But where was she supposed to go when every path felt like it would lead her straight to ruin?
And why did it matter so much what he thought of her? He barely knew her struggles, the weight of her choices. And yet, something about his steady confidence chipped away at her resolve, as if he saw something in her that she couldn't see herself.
"Why does everyone keep saying that?" She asked frustratedly. The words sent a pang through her chest, stirring something she didn't want to name. She wanted to believe him—wanted to feel that strength he seemed so certain of—but all she could feel was the weight of uncertainty. Her throat tightened, and she looked away quickly, focusing on their joined hands. "I don't feel very strong right now."
"You don't have to feel it," he said quietly. "You just have to keep going."
And there it was. How did she know him so well already? And how was it he seemed to know her?
The vulnerability in his tone surprised her, and she glanced back at him, her heart catching at the unspoken weight in his eyes.
As the song ended, Dryanden led her back to the edge of the square, his hand lingering on hers for just a moment longer than necessary before releasing her.
The music continued, but Rowen's attention drifted. The priestess's voice echoed faintly in her mind, her words twisting like a shadow around her thoughts. One choice will shatter the wall. She pressed a hand to her wrist, the faint glow of her crescent mark hidden beneath her sleeve. The weight of the prophecy settled over her once more, heavier now after the brief reprieve.
Dryanden's quiet voice broke through her haze. "Rowen?"
She shook her head, forcing a smile she didn't feel. "I'm fine." But as she glanced back toward the square, where the priestess had stood only minutes ago, she couldn't quite believe her own words.
The festival carried on around them, but something felt different now. Rowen couldn't shake the sense that the shadows had grown heavier, pressing closer as if drawn to the mark on her wrist. The air, which had been warm with the buzz of magic, now felt sharp, laced with a tension that prickled against her skin.
Dryanden stood close, his posture taut, eyes scanning the square with a vigilance that only heightened her nerves. Thalor lingered a few steps away, leaning lazily against a lamppost, though his sharp gaze betrayed his relaxed stance.
"You feel it, don't you?" he asked softly, his voice low enough to carry only to her.
Rowen nodded hesitantly, clutching her wrist as the faint glow of her crescent mark intensified. "Something's wrong," she murmured. The words tasted bitter on her tongue, as if saying them out loud made the unease more real.
Dryanden's eyes snapped to her, narrowing slightly. "What is it?"
Before she could answer, the lanterns flickered above them, their soft light sputtering as a chill swept through the square. The festive hum of music and laughter faltered, and a ripple of unease spread through the crowd.
"Stay close," Dryanden said sharply, stepping in front of her with a protective edge to his movements. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, the faint tension in his jaw telling her everything she needed to know: whatever was happening, he was ready for it.
Thalor straightened, his usual smirk gone. "Well, that's not ominous," he muttered, his tone lighter than the hard edge in his voice. He moved to Rowen's other side, his presence as steadying as Dryanden's was commanding.
Rowen's mark flared suddenly, the light searing through her sleeve and making her gasp. She clutched her wrist tightly, trying to stifle the burning sensation that now radiated through her arm.
"Something's happening," she managed to say through gritted teeth.
The lanterns above them flickered again, and this time several went out completely, plunging parts of the square into shadow. The lively music faltered, then stopped altogether, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The murmur of the crowd rose, voices tinged with confusion and unease.
"Rowen." Dryanden's voice was calm but firm, his crimson eyes locking onto hers. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know," she said, her voice trembling. The mark burned brighter, sending heat up her arm, the crescent shape now casting faint patterns of light on the cobblestones. "It burns."
A sharp crack of thunder shattered the stillness, making Rowen flinch. The square was plunged into darkness as the remaining lanterns were snuffed out in an instant. Gasps and startled cries rippled through the crowd, and the air grew cold—unnaturally so, as if the life had been drained from the festival.
Thalor's hand hovered near hers, not quite touching. "Whatever is happening," he said, his voice low and serious. "It's tied to her."
Rowen stumbled back, clutching her wrist as the mark pulsed violently. Her breath hitched as a wave of magic surged through her, wild and untamed, as if trying to claw its way out of her body. She barely noticed when Dryanden caught her arm, steadying her.
"Rowen, focus," he said urgently, his voice cutting through the haze. "What do you feel?"
"Too much," she gasped, her knees threatening to buckle. "It's— It's too much."
The hum of magic in the air grew louder, turning into a low, ominous rumble that seemed to come from all around them. A sharp gust of wind swept through the square, carrying with it a strange, electric charge that made Rowen's skin prickle.
"This isn't natural," Thalor said, his voice grim. He stepped closer, his presence grounding even as the world seemed to tilt around her. "Rowen, you need to brace yourself."
"For what?" she asked, her voice rising with panic.
Lightning flashed again overhead, illuminating the square in stark, brilliant white for the briefest of moments. And in that instant, Rowen saw it—a towering shadow in the center of the square, its form shifting and writhing as if made of smoke and storm. It loomed over the crowd, its presence suffocating, and its eyes—if they could even be called that—burned with an unnatural light that froze her in place.
Her breath caught in her throat as the shadow turned, its gaze locking onto hers. The crescent mark on her wrist flared painfully, as if answering the creature's silent call.
"Dryanden," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "What is that?"
His jaw tightened, his hand finally drawing the sword at his side. The steel gleamed faintly in the residual glow of the storm, but even that felt small in the face of the shadow's immense power. "Trouble," he said simply.
Another flash of lightning split the sky, and the creature surged forward, its form solidifying into something more monstrous. Its limbs crackled with electricity, arcs of lightning dancing across its body as it let out a bone-chilling roar that sent the villagers scattering in every direction.
"Rowen," Thalor said, his voice sharp and commanding. "Stay close. Don't lose focus."
But Rowen could barely hear him over the pounding of her own heart. The creature's gaze bore into her, and she knew—without a doubt—that it had come for her.