Zayn and the bald boy walked in silence for a while, the boy humming softly while Zayn's mind spun in quiet disarray. The unsettling exchange about his name lingered heavily, gnawing at his thoughts. It wasn't normal. It couldn't be.
The way the boy's eyes briefly flickered red replayed over and over, sending cold waves of unease through him. Despite the warmth of the midday sun, Zayn felt an undercurrent of something cold slithering beneath the surface of this village.
They finally reached the heart of the preparations, where the village square was alive with bustling activity. Zayn's train of thought derailed as he took in the sight before him.
Straw decorations hung from long poles that lined the edge of the square, swaying gently in the breeze. Vibrant fabrics, dyed in deep reds, rich purples, and glowing oranges, stretched between palm trees and wooden posts, forming makeshift awnings that shaded the villagers working beneath.
Long wooden tables were being carved and sanded by hand, their surfaces inlaid with intricate swirling designs that mimicked ocean waves and island flowers. Children darted between the adults, carrying bundles of dried palm fronds or colorful shells strung together by twine.
Near the far end of the square, women sang as they wove garlands from fragrant white blossoms, their voices harmonizing in soft, rhythmic chants that seemed to keep time with the gentle lapping of the distant sea.
It was mesmerizing. Zayn couldn't remember the last time he had seen anything that felt so... alive. The Empire's public holidays were pale shadows of this. Back home, holidays were little more than excuses for time off—a break from school or labor. Only the ruling class had celebrations, and those were gated affairs, far removed from the common folk.
Here, the entire village was involved, and the warmth of their shared joy was almost infectious. Zayn felt something stir deep within him, a strange and unfamiliar sense of longing—a desire to be part of it, even if just for a moment.
He almost forgot why he was even here. Almost.
The bald boy nudged him gently, snapping him from his reverie. "Come on! We're gonna miss out," he said cheerfully, motioning toward a crowd of boys gathered around a burly man near the center of the square.
The man stood tall, his skin dark and leathery from years of sun. His hair was pulled back into a thick braid, and he wore a sash of red cloth tied diagonally across his chest. The boys around him listened attentively as he handed out tasks, pointing to different areas of the square as he spoke.
The boy beside Zayn grinned. "We're late. Hope there's something left for us."
As they approached, the man glanced up and greeted them with a wide smile. "Ah, look who finally decided to show up. Thought you two were going to spend the day lounging on the cliffs."
"Wouldn't miss it for anything," the boy said, laughing.
The man's gaze settled on Zayn, his grin widening knowingly. "You here to earn some extra merits for the blessing, lad?"
Zayn blinked, not quite sure how to respond. He forced a polite nod, deciding it was safer to play along.
The man chuckled. "Ah, just like your father. He was always the first to lend a hand." He paused, his smile softening slightly. "Though, you could stand to laugh more than he did."
Zayn gave a small, awkward smile but said nothing. The man didn't press further and instead handed them their assignments. "Go help the others string the flower garlands by the western path. I think they could use a steady hand."
"Got it!" the boy said enthusiastically, already tugging Zayn along.
"Oh and before you go...Why not put on the Red Flame necklaces? It is almost time for the festival to begin and I don't want you to complain about not getting one." the man offered.
The bald boy enthusiastically smiled, "Oh yeah, we'd love to." he approached the man and took two necklaces from him.
As Zayn was approached by the boy with the necklaces he took a good look at them, they were made of a few animal teeth on a string with a small circular carving of what he presumed to be an ape with a flaming head.
As the boy looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to take it and wear it he felt uneasy about it but from how he noticed others were also wearing it he knew it would be odd if he was the only one not wearing it. Especially since he was supposed to be blessed by Red.
He sighed as he put it on along with the bald boy, "Thanks sir, we'll get to helping around with the preparations." The man nodded at the boy's words and let them go.
As they walked away, Zayn exhaled quietly, relieved that his lack of response hadn't raised any eyebrows. It seemed that being quiet was part of the persona he now inhabited, and he was thankful for it. If he had to keep up the act of someone cheerful and outgoing, he doubted he'd be able to keep the facade from cracking.
They soon arrived at the western path where several villagers, young and old, sat along long mats weaving strands of white and orange flowers together. Zayn settled into the task without complaint, mimicking the others. His hands worked slowly, carefully threading the delicate flowers along the twine as his eyes drifted from person to person, silently observing.
Between the work, he took the opportunity to listen. Conversations drifted through the air, light and carefree. Occasionally, someone mentioned the festival's importance, and how it would bring good fortune to the village for the next twenty years. He listened closely, hoping for some hint of what exactly this festival meant—what being "Blessed by Red" truly entailed.
While no direct answers came, Zayn gradually pieced together fragments of the life he now lived. This village was bound by tradition, by rituals older than anyone alive could recall. And his role in it, however small, felt like it carried more weight than he had initially realized.
He wasn't sure what awaited him at the festival, and even though he felt skeptical of it, he enjoyed the happiness of the villagers. As if the villagers were happy, the village was happy, and the village was what mattered.
Later on,
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Zayn and the boy hauled the last of the woven decorations to the village square. The warm hues of the approaching sunset draped the entire area in gold and orange, and the two stood for a moment, taking it all in. Zayn wiped his brow and glanced at the boy. "I guess that's the last of it."
The boy nodded, stretching his arms behind his head. "Yeah, looks like it. We better get moving. The festival starts soon, and we need to grab our festival clothes." He pointed at the descending sun. "If we're late, we'll miss the start."
Zayn gave a short nod but remained quiet, his thoughts elsewhere. Despite working all afternoon, he hadn't uncovered anything substantial about the festival's deeper meaning. His gut told him the answers would reveal themselves tonight, and the thought gnawed at him.
As the two began to part ways, Zayn's attention caught on a small figure near one of the outer huts. A short woman stood beneath a slanted roof, struggling to maneuver a large wooden contraption. Her frustrated grumbles drifted across the cooling air.
The boy beside him grinned. "That's the village carpenter. She's probably wrestling with one of the chief's projects for the festival."
Zayn frowned slightly. "She looks like she's got it handled."
"Come on, we should help her." The boy tugged at Zayn's sleeve.
"Do you even know how?" Zayn raised a skeptical brow.
"Nope! But helping her is helping the village, and helping the village is what matters." The boy's voice flattened unnaturally on that last phrase, his usual bright tone disappearing for a split second.
Zayn's eyes narrowed, but the boy returned to his cheerful self so swiftly that Zayn decided not to press the issue. "Fine," Zayn relented. "Let's see what we can do."
The two approached the woman just as she cursed under her breath. She leaned against the wooden frame, clearly at her wit's end.
"Need any help, ma'am?" the boy called out.
The woman glanced at them and shook her head. "Unless you two know how to build, the only thing you can do is carry it. And carrying it won't make it work."
The boy slouched. "Oh..."
Zayn, however, crouched beside the structure, letting his hands roam the uneven joints and misaligned beams. Curiosity piqued, he traced the grain of the wood with his fingertips. He recognized the framework. It was oddly mechanical, almost too refined for village craftsmanship.
The woman eyed him sharply. "Hey, don't go fiddling with it if you don't know what you're doing."
Zayn ignored her, twisting one of the supporting rods into place and adjusting a section where the grooves misaligned. He squinted at a carved-out channel, a track of sorts, and felt a spark of recognition. After a few more adjustments, he stepped back.
"Try it now," he said simply.
The woman crossed her arms, unimpressed, but humored him nonetheless. She gave the contraption a slight push, and to her surprise, the mechanism moved smoothly, slotting together seamlessly. Her eyes widened.
"How did you...?" she trailed off, blinking at the now-functional structure.
Zayn scratched the back of his head. "I guess I just saw what was wrong."
The woman examined the contraption closely, tracing the areas he had fixed. "You fixed the entire thing." Her tone shifted from skepticism to awe. "I've been at this for the past week, and you solved it in minutes. How?"
Without thinking, Zayn began explaining basic engineering principles, his hands tracing invisible diagrams in the air as he spoke. He described how misaligned joints could create stress fractures over time and how the grooves if carved slightly deeper, would reduce friction and improve structural integrity.
He referenced the importance of weight distribution, recalling lessons from his mechanical studies and recalling afternoons spent repairing old machinery for empire credits. "You see, this part here—if it tilts even slightly—throws off the balance," he said, pointing to a section she'd overlooked. "But by shifting the support beam forward, it aligns the load evenly across the frame." He caught himself mid-sentence when he saw her blinking in confusion, clearly unfamiliar with the technical jargon spilling from his mouth.
"I don't know," he finally said, brushing it off.
The woman chuckled, shaking her head. "Well, I'm not complaining. The chief will get exactly what he asked for now."
Zayn's interest sharpened at the mention of the chief. "What does the chief need it for?"
The woman shrugged. "Couldn't tell you. This is the first time I've built something like this. The chief gave me some strange instructions and left the rest up to me. Didn't explain much."
Zayn frowned, watching the contraption with renewed suspicion. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"
"Never. Not in this village." She looked at the device thoughtfully. "It's not exactly something our people would normally use."
Zayn knelt beside the device, eyeing the structure carefully. Despite its rustic appearance, he recognized what it was. A firework launcher.
His mind raced. Fireworks were considered ancient technology in the empire, relics of a bygone era. Yet, here it was—modern by this village's standards and seemingly requested by their chief.
Zayn silently added the oddity to the growing list of unsettling questions that begged for answers.