The festival lights shimmered like a newborn galaxy over Silvarion's winding streets, each colored lantern a tiny sun that tugged at Mikhailis's wander-born heart. Banners rustled overhead like lazy kites, and flute trills skipped across the rooftops, weaving into drumbeats that thumped against his ribs. Crowds squeezed past in bright waves—elves in leaf-green cloaks, dwarven traders jangling with copper rings, children darting under tables to chase dream-moths released for luck.
He let the tide carry him, cloak open, boots scuffling soot and sawdust. In his gloved hand a fritter still steamed, honey glistening down the crisp ridges. He tore off a bite; sugar crackled, molten sweetness hit his tongue, and for a moment everything else—politics, secrets, responsibilities—melted away.
