Chapter 17: Fractures Under Firelight

Music hums no longer. The mood has shifted. The tent has opened, and all its color leaks out with Ydoc’s tears.

The festival had never been large, but now it felt smaller still—as if the shadows cast by the red-curtained stage had lengthened, darkening the day. The moment the tent flap flew open, so did every eye in the square. Fireflies stilled mid-dance. A girl’s laugh stopped short. Somewhere, the smell of cinnamon pie turned bitter.

Ydoc was weeping. Shoulders curled inward, eyes puffy, lips trembling. And behind him, dragging his arm like a stubborn leash, came Edwards. Fur ruffled, face twisted, his mouth spewing curses too vile for the warmth of this place.

“This was supposed to be simple! Just a quick hello, a hug, dammit—!” he snapped, half to himself, half to the world.

But Ydoc’s voice cut through him, trembling but loud enough to echo.

“I want to go home! You’re mean! You’re a mean person!”

Gasps rippled through the market square.

It wasn’t the words.
It was that Ydoc never raised his voice—and certainly never insulted. Not even this.

Silence.
Then the shuffling sound of straw under firm steps.

Ruby.

Deep red fur, ears adorned with charm-beads and brass cuffs, a utility belt slung low around her waist holding everything from screwdrivers to rope. She approached like a storm held in check—controlled, but only just.

She didn’t yell. She didn’t need to.

“Edwards.”

The name came like a slap.

“What the hell was that stunt back there?”

Edwards rolled his shoulders like a man preparing to spar, but Ruby didn’t blink. She stepped in close, eyes sharp with fire and compassion both.

“This isn’t a theater, Fox-boy. This isn’t your little story. You embarrassed him. You hurt him. And you ruined the damn spirit of this show.”

“Oh please,” Edwards sneered. “Spare me the Gypsy lecture—”

“Take a walk.”
Her voice lowered, cold now. Not angry. Disappointed.

Then came a new presence. A shadow cast long by firelight and evening sun.

The orc.

The lumberjack who had watched the bonfire alone. Quiet. Unmoving. Massive.

He stepped forward—boots sinking softly into dirt—arms crossed like twin tree trunks. His plaid shirt stretched over thick, scarred muscle. His tusks were chipped. His eyes were tired.

His voice, however, was thunder smooth.

“…Is he bothering you, Ruby?”

Four simple words. No snarl. No threat.

But every soul in earshot felt it. It was a challenge older than time. The kind spoken in bars, back alleys, and ancient war camps.

Ruby nodded once.

“Yeah. He’s bothering me.”

Edwards met the orc’s eyes. And for the first time in hours, the golden-furred trickster said nothing.

He stepped back.
He let go of Ydoc’s arm.
And without a word, he walked off into the crowd—leaving nothing but his pride dragging behind him like a torn coat.

Ruby dropped to one knee, brushing Ydoc’s face with her sleeve, gently wiping the tears.

“Hey now, starlight. No more crying. You’re safe. I promise.”

The crowd murmured. Not unkindly. Some worried, some angry, some confused. But the energy had shifted. The Divide may be far behind them… but it had noticed what was done.

And it wasn’t pleased.

Ruby stood up, holding Ydoc’s hand.

“C’mon, hun. Let’s get you something warm. Maybe a pie.”

The orc followed silently behind them. Not looming—watching. Protecting.

And just like that, the festival moved again.

But not like before.
Not as bright.
Not as loud.

Something had changed. And the story… was now watching Edwards.
----------
[kindness that stays]

The festival hummed again, but only faintly—as if the music dared not return in full until Ydoc’s heartbeat steadied. The fireflies had resumed their lazy arcs above, chasing twilight, while the tents flapped like breathing lungs, holding in their breath.

Ruby, ever red and radiant, had led Ydoc to the edge of the open square, beside a soft bale of hay nestled beneath a row of old paper lanterns. She didn’t guide him like someone leading a child, nor like a rescuer tending a wounded thing. She walked beside him—with him—and that made all the difference.

“Here,” she said with a gentle pat to the hay. “Comfiest seat in town. That one’s mine. You’re borrowing it—so don’t let it bite ya.”

Ydoc tried to laugh, but it barely made it past the knot in his throat. She noticed, of course. Ruby always noticed.

She crouched in front of him with her elbows on her knees, her gaze bright but never piercing.

“…Do you know me, sugar?”

The words landed softer than petals. Ydoc blinked, paused, then shook his head once.

“No,” he whispered, guilt bleeding at the corners of the word.

Ruby didn’t flinch. She didn’t sigh. She smiled.

“Alright. Guess we’ll fix that,” she said, and reached out to shake his hand with a playful firm grip. “Ruby. Wrestler of pigs. Fixer of things. Maker of pies. Queen of gypsy hot takes.”

Ydoc gave the smallest smile. It was raw. But it was real.

“That’s a start,” she added, and rose again with a grunt.

Scott lingered near the post beside them. Still. Steady. Watching. The orc was like a statue pressed from old rock—only the slow rise and fall of his breath betrayed him as something living.

“Scott,” Ruby called, stepping close so only he could hear. “Keep an eye on the border. He doesn’t come back in.”

Scott tilted his head slightly.

“He can sit on the outskirts. Look in if he wants. But he doesn’t get to touch this place again. Not tonight.”

The orc’s brow furrowed. He didn’t speak, but the deep grunt from his chest was clear enough. Agreement. Promise. Warning.

Then, like a wisp of smoke in muscle form, he vanished into the crowd. He did not walk with purpose. He simply moved—slipping between people with a silence that seemed unnatural for a creature so large. But even as he disappeared, one could feel it:

Scott was always watching.

Ydoc, still sniffling, pulled his knees to his chest and curled his fingers around the hem of his shirt. Everything hurt. But Ruby—Ruby made the air a little easier to breathe. He watched her step away, shouting cheerful greetings to a vendor down the row.

“I’ll be back with a candied pie, alright?” she called over her shoulder.

He nodded.

Then he did something brave. Something small—but brave.

“…Thank you.”

Ruby turned and gave him a wink with her tongue stuck out like a teasing sister.

“Don’t thank me ‘til you taste the pie.”

And with that, she was gone into the lights. Her red tail bounced behind her, catching the flickers of the lantern glow. Strong. Smiling. Fierce.

Ydoc sat still, breathing deep for the first time in what felt like hours. He did not feel safe. Not yet. But he felt held.

And that—for tonight—was enough.
------
[Stuck in amber]

Ydoc sat slouched in an old canvas chair—its cushions sunken with years, its arms smooth with touch. The legs of the chair were uneven, so it rocked slightly if he moved too fast. But it held him, and right now, being held—by anything—was enough.

He was sheltered beneath the lip of a propped-open tent. The flap hung heavy above him, offering shade without cutting off the view. Inside the tent were paintings. Dozens. Hung with strings and pins, layered like overlapping thoughts. Some were strange: black brushstrokes across seas of blue. Others were warm, soft landscapes of the Divide during misty hours, or wildflowers reaching for twin moons. One was just a smile, floating without a face.

Ydoc didn’t feel like looking at them. Not yet.

Instead, he stared across the festival grounds.

People still walked, still laughed, still tried. A halfling child spilled kettle corn on their sandals and burst into giggles. A tall satyr juggled apples near the music tent. Distant strings carried on through dusk. Life pulsed… but Ydoc didn’t feel it. Not fully.

He clutched his arms around himself. His body curved inward like a shell, as if trying to disappear again.

Who were they?
The question came uninvited.

Lucy…
He didn’t know if he liked her. He didn’t know if he hated her. She looked at him like she knew every dream he’d ever had—and lost. She was sweet. She was kind. And yet…

A strange unease wormed in his belly.

She did something. Something she shouldn’t have.
It wasn’t a voice telling him this. It was something older than a voice. Something in his blood.
But what?

He thought of her pale eyes—albino, like frozen milk. The way she looked when she said “friend”. The crack in her smile. The broken tattooed hands. The glint of disco lights spinning across her tent as she curled inwards like a dying star.

He should apologize. Maybe. Or… hug her?

But the moment he imagined touching her, it felt like touching a static shock. Too much. Too wrong.
Too sad.

So he stayed curled up. Just breathing. Just watching.

The festival had changed by now. Daylight had thinned, traded for amber dusk. The firepits glowed low. Fairy lights—small, winged bulbs—hovered from pole to pole, fluttering in warm bronze arcs like captive fireflies.

Lanterns, strung with ribbon, swayed above and made the camp look like a memory trapped in tree sap—stuck, but beautiful.

Ydoc exhaled, long and hollow. He felt like a ghost tonight. A forgotten dream walking among people who were just pretending they hadn’t seen him break down. No one came to ask if he was okay. No one called his name.

They gave him space.

And yet… the silence was not cruel. It was the sort that only festivals knew—a kindness in pretending things are okay.

The wind blew gentle.

A violin hummed in the distance.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

And then…

Two strong hands—warm, calloused, large enough to wrap around his chest—slid from behind the chair and held him.

He tensed.

The fingers didn’t tighten. They didn’t grope. They didn’t shake him.
They just held.

No words.

Just the weight of someone who wanted to make sure he didn’t disappear again.

but who!?