The sun had long tucked itself behind the peaks, the vibrant blue sky now turned dark, with the moon and stars twinkling in excitement.
The whole village gathered around the well to offer their thanks. The air was alive with laughter, music, and warmth. The Ritual of Thanks bloomed in full glory.
The women of Kavan stood in graceful lines, bearing baskets of offerings—candied figs, hand-stitched cloth dolls, bundles of herbs tied with red thread. Bells chimed softly in the mountain breeze. Children's giggles still lingered in the air like the last hints of perfume.
Seven stood beside her mother, dressed in a deep blue dress that shimmered like twilight. The fabric flowed around her like a river, stitched with tiny silver beads at the sleeves that caught the lantern light. Her hair, now let down, fell in smooth waves to her waist, brushed and scented with wild jasmine, as was the custom.
Clutching her small tray—on it rested the cake (unburnt, miraculously) and a folded cloth napkin stitched with her own initials—she stepped forward when her turn came, bent her head respectfully, and placed her offerings near the stone circle of the well.
The well stood silent and wide, its mouth deep and dark, as if waiting.
Seven leaned forward, curiosity tugging at her. Her mother, never missing a beat, gripped her wrist and gently yanked her back.
"Don't," she muttered.
Seven nodded, chastened—but she couldn't help one last glance.
She closed her eyes and spoke to the mountain spirit:
"I just want someone," she thought, not daring to whisper it aloud. "Someone who understands silence. Someone I can talk to for hours. Someone who knows how to hold kindness in their hands."
And maybe—though she wouldn't admit this part aloud either—
"Someone who looks at me like I'm made of stars and stormlight."
By midnight, the final lanterns dimmed and the songs softened to hums. The villagers began to drift home under the vast canopy of night. The moon rested high, watching with a silver eye, and Kavan glowed with soft golden lights from every window. The wind had calmed. The stone paths sparkled with dew. Somewhere in the distance, a flute played a lullaby to the stars.
But at the well, magic stirred.
With a shimmer and a sound like laughter caught in a bottle, three figures rose from the depths—not climbing, but floating.
The first—tall, lean, and impossible to ignore—moved with the stillness of one used to command. His black hair fell in elegant waves, framing a face of sharp jawlines and high cheekbones. His eyes, hazel-gold under dark brows, missed nothing. His cloak, darker than night, shimmered around him like a raven's wing under moonlight.
Rukas, head of the Outer Courts—son of the mayor, and far too proud to ever admit his curiosity about the world above.
Behind him hovered Valor, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, a merchant by profession and the most trusted and reliable friend to Rukas. Gold rings lined his fingers, and the tilt of his head suggested both charm and danger.
The third—Nelson—looked the youngest, though age meant little among their kind. He twirled a thread of fire between his fingers, already eyeing the offerings like a child at a sweet stall.
"Offerings," Valor muttered, "or a village's pantry?"
Nelson plucked a fig and popped it into his mouth. "They bake better up here. No offense to the apple pies of Eldngard."
Eldngard was where they belonged—a fae town situated just below the mountain. The fae were aware of the humans and often came to visit the village, as the well was the portal to their world. The Kavanians thought of it as a sacred structure that protected and provided them with livelihood. It was a long-standing ritual, started by the elders of Kavan who knew of the fae's existence and once sought their help to survive in the mountains. Now, people no longer believed—or even knew—this story, though they still believed in the mountain spirit. To honor the ritual and pay their thanks, the fae continued to visit on ritual night, accepting the offerings and, in return, blessing and protecting the villagers from natural calamities—and sometimes fulfilling the wishes humans whispered in secret.
Rukas surveyed the offerings, his gaze passing over herbs and honeyed fruits before settling on a modest cake. Vanilla, honey, beside it, a folded napkin stitched with delicate initials.
He picked it up.
"Vanilla," he mused. "Wild honey. And..." He inhaled. "Someone baked this with care."
With the elegance only the high-born dare employ, he took a generous bite.
And froze.
A sharp yelp tore from his throat, the sound indignant and wounded. He reached into his mouth and pulled out a tiny wooden sliver—a toothpick, wedged deep between a bite of sponge and pride.
"Ugh—gods," he hissed. "I have been stabbed by a dessert."
Nelson nearly fell from the air laughing, clutching his sides. "The prince, bested by a mortal pastry!"
Valor tried—and failed—to hide his grin.
Rukas ignored them both, wiped his hand on a conjured silk kerchief, and narrowed his eyes at the cake.
With a flick of his fingers, a spell bloomed into the air—a golden wisp that danced, spun, and finally bloomed into the shape of a girl.
The girl in the blue dress.
Curious, wide-eyed.
Almost foolishly brave.
Rukas remembered.
He had seen her earlier. "She looked in," he murmured.
Nelson floated beside him, peering over his shoulder. "She's pretty."
"She's curious," Rukas corrected, though the corner of his mouth twitched in mischief. "And curiosity is far more dangerous than beauty."
He studied her a moment longer.
Then, quieter, to himself, "She made this... with hands that stitched and stirred and didn't mind a splinter. Hm."
A slow smile curled his lips. Mischievous. Intrigued.
"I like her."
Above them, the stars shimmered once—just once—as if the sky itself had heard and was holding its breath.
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