Lanterns Drift, Shadows Follow

Fiora and River wandered through the festival, stopping by the stalls. The air was thick with the scent of roasting chestnuts and spiced meat.

Fiora picked up a delicate wooden charm shaped like a star, tracing her fingers over the carved edges. “It’s beautiful.”

River, who stood nearby, arched a brow, “It’s a piece of wood with a string.”

“It’s handmade, you heartless brute.”

River smirked. “You actually planning on buying that?”

“Unlike some people, I appreciate craftsmanship.”

“So, you want me to buy it for you?”

“Oh? So you would pay for it?”

“Not a chance.”

Fiora huffed yet decided against buying it. She held onto what little gold was left for necessities only.

They continued through the square, the music playing in the background weaving seamlessly with the gentle murmur of voices.

For a moment, it felt like the world wasn’t ending.

Naturally, the noblewoman’s festival adventure didn’t end there. Fiora stopped abruptly in front of a small wooden stand, her eyes lighting up at the sight of a sizzling pan filled with golden-brown skewers. The scent of grilled meat and spices wafted through the air, making her stomach growl.

River, standing beside her with arms crossed, took a look between the delicacies and the girl.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve never had street food before.”

Fiora scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Of course, I have.”

River gave her a skeptical look. “Oh yeah? And where exactly does a noble get street food? The palace courtyard?”

Ignoring him, Fiora handed the vendor a few coins and was handed a bag of skewers. Now that was a necessity.

She blew on it delicately before taking a bite—then immediately froze.

River tilted his head. “Well?”

Her eyes sparkled, and she let out a delighted hum. “This is amazing!”

River blinked, caught off guard. “Huh. Was expecting more complaints.”

Fiora took another eager bite. “It’s juicy, it’s flavorful—why don’t nobles eat this?”

River smirked. “Because they’re too busy pretending their food doesn’t come from the same livestock as everyone else’s.”

Fiora waved the half-eaten skewer at him. “No, really, this is incredible. I feel like I’ve been robbed my entire life.”

“Not the most tragic robbery, considering what nobles actually steal.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You just had to ruin my moment.”

“Anytime.”

Rolling her eyes, Fiora finished her skewer as they walked, still gushing about how good it was. River shook his head, bemused.

Then her gaze landed on another stand selling frothy, dark-colored drinks, and she pulled River toward it excitedly. “That! That looks good.”

The vendor handed them each a small wooden cup, and Fiora took a confident sip—only for her expression to immediately crumple. She coughed, gagging as she shoved the cup into River’s hands.

“By the gods, that’s awful!” she choked.

River took a sip himself, then shrugged. “It’s bitter. It’s strong.” He looked down at the cup approvingly. “I like it.”

Fiora stuck out her tongue. “It tastes like… regret.”

River smirked. “Guess fancy noble teas have left you unprepared for the real world.”

“I hope your next drink actually tastes like regret.”

River took another sip, amused. “You’re fun when you’re suffering.”

Fiora glared at him, then stole another skewer just to spite him.

As the festival continued, a quiet reverence settled over the small gathering. The gentle strumming of the bard’s lute faded, and people began gathering by the canals, holding delicate paper lanterns in their hands.

Fiora’s eyes sparkled as she watched them kneel by the water’s edge, dipping the bases of their lanterns into the rippling canal. The golden glow of candlelight reflected across the dark water, flickering like stars scattered upon the surface.

While Fiora seemed entranced by the sight, River felt a clear lack of impact. Instead of commenting though, he observed as a woman handed Fiora a small parchment lantern and a quill. Without hesitation, she knelt near the water and started writing.

The same woman turned to River, offering him a lantern as well. He raised a brow at it, hesitating.

“Yeah. No.”

Fiora glared. “You dragged me through the wilderness for days, but this is where you draw the line?”

“I don’t write wishes on paper, missy.”

Fiora narrowed her eyes, smirking, “Don’t tell me you’re scared of writing about your feelings, mercenary.”

River sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Fiora grinned.

Muttering curses under his breath, River took a lantern.

“This is going to be a waste of ink,” he muttered, but he crouched by the water regardless.

Everybody knelt as they murmured softly amongst themselves, quills scratching against parchment.

Fiora hesitated. What could she possibly write?

She thought of her family. The legacy she was born into. The life she had spent trapped behind walls.

Then she smiled, pressing the quill to paper.

“To a year well lived.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke as they scrawled their words upon the delicate parchment. The festival’s soft glow shimmered across the surface of the canal, and the water whispered against the stone edges of the town.

River glanced at Fiora’s words before tilting his lantern toward her.

“Guess I’ll see how far this floats.”

Fiora narrowed her gaze. “That’s what you wrote?”

River smirked. “What? It’s realistic.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

However, Fiora smiled at her lantern as she placed it gently onto the water, watching it drift forward among the others. Soon River’s lantern joined the fray too as the flickering lights floated down the canal, carrying the wishes of those who refused to let the world’s impending end strip them of hope.

It was simply quiet. Peaceful. And even River, in his own way, had left something behind in the water.

And then, the peace shattered.

A sharp voice rang through the square.

“Look at these people.”

Fiora flinched, turning toward the sound.

A group of figures had entered the festival, their presence dark and imposing. They carried no banners, no sigils—but their expressions were hard, their eyes filled with something bitter and burning.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

“It’s them…” someone whispered. “…A group of Oath Chasers.”

The man who had spoken stepped forward, a sneer twisting his burnt face. “This is a joke. This is how you spend your final days? Drinking and dancing?”

An elderly man clenched his hands together, voice steady despite the tension. “We are spending our days as we choose. That is not for you to decide.”

The man scoffed. “You choose to do nothing? To waste your time on pointless traditions instead of fighting for your survival?” His sneer deepened. “You’re all a bunch of cowards.”

The festival-goers murmured in dissent, but the Oath Chasers weren’t finished.

One of them kicked over a stall, sending wooden carvings tumbling to the ground. Another shoved a table, spilling drinks and shattering plates.

“Enough of this nonsense. If you’re not fighting for an Oath, you’re already dead.”

Fiora clenched her fists, stepping forward. She couldn’t take it anymore. There was no way she was gonna keep her head low any longer.

“Stop this! This festival is hurting no one!”

Her protest gave way to a heavy silence, as all eyes gathered on her at once.

The man with the half burnt face at head of the group turned toward her, amusement flickering in his gaze. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Before Fiora could answer, someone else cut in. The someone who was in charge of protecting the girl who wore her heart on her sleeve.

“Hey, this is a private celebration, no scoundrels allowed.”

However, the Oath Chasers stiffened at the sight of the mercenary. The scarred man’s head snapped toward the voice, his sneer faltering.

River stood beside Fiora, hands stuffed into his cloak, expression unreadable. His violet eyes held no fear, no surprise—only quiet irritation.

The Oath Chasers recognized him instantly, and he too recognised them.

“Damn, just my luck.” River sighed, as realization dawned.

“Well, well,” the scarred man muttered. “If it isn’t the last crow.”

Fiora glanced between them, confusion flickering across her face. “You know them?”

River sighed, tilting his head slightly. “Sadly yeah.” He rolled his shoulders. “And they really don’t like me.”

The Oath Chasers’ expressions darkened, hands drifting toward their weapons.

“Well, crow,” the leader said, voice lowering. “You finally ran out of places to hide.”

River smirked. “I wasn’t hiding. But I’ll make you wish I was.”

A pause.

Then the Oath chasers drew their weapons.