Chapter 22. - Festival of the Stars

(Aleon the Untamed speaks)

Outside the tent, the sky was purpling. Music climbed its golden ladder.

Ydoc heard none of it—not clearly.

But a voice… a voice like a whip snapping silk cracked through the air.

“In the blackest of night...
In the coldest of darkness...
Our world sits in a cradle of the universe—
Young.
Fragile.
Full of life, and sound, and song.”

The crowd gasped. The torches flickered.

“But it was not always so.”

Inside Lucy’s abandoned tent, Ydoc turned toward the canvas wall, where shadows of the crowd began to move like paper puppets. The world was happening without him. And yet the voice kept coming, drawing breath from ancient bones.

“The Spirits were great—so great!
Names carved into volcanoes, into rivers, into the sky itself.
Movers of water and fire.
Bringers of breath.
Fathers of famine.
Daughters of decay.”

“The Pneuma.”

“Immortals.”

The audience fell silent.

Ydoc could feel the vibration of the voice in his chest, like distant thunder. The rose in his hand had begun to crumble.

“They fought—oh, they FOUGHT!
For power. For vanity. For praise.
And in their mighty war, they forgot one simple thing—”

A hush.

“Us.”

“The People of Clay. Mortals.
Soft. Small. Forgettable.”

“We were trampled beneath their storms.”

The crowd murmured. The children clutched their parents. The stars above blinked awake.

“But then—” Aleon’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“In the darkest of skies…
A whisper came.”

“A single speck.
A lonely star.”

“‘And who are you,’ it asked—
‘To torment such beings?’”

Aleon’s cane struck the stage with a sudden clack! Lightning pulsed behind him. A spark of flame coiled upward, revealing his face, now cast in shadows and gold.

“The Spirits were annoyed.
Infuriated.”

“And so they screamed their answers!”

The fire shot up—red, blue, gold, violet.

“‘I AM GLACUS! Spirit of Water, Lord of Life!’
‘I AM TORKALA! Spirit of Earth, rightful King of all who walk!’
‘I AM FRO! Mighty Spirit of Flame! Idol of mortals!’
‘I AM ROTH! Spirit of Air and Storms! And EVERYWHERE I AM!’”

“They roared in a chorus of chaos.”
“A wall of sound. A tsunami of pride.”

“But the little star…”

Aleon paused, raised his cane toward the heavens—

“...it simply replied:
‘And in every mortal, there lies a piece of all of you.’”

“‘For they are your children.
And mine.’”

The crowd gasped. Ydoc felt his fingers tremble.

“‘And who are you?’”
“The Spirits cried—together this time, in a single terrible voice.”

“And the star flickered.”

“And the sky changed forever.”

Behind Aleon, the twin moons rose—Lia and Sula—slowly joining, forming a radiant purple disk that cast down an unearthly glow.

“‘I am the First, the Last, and all in between.
I AM your Father,
and your Father’s Father.’”

“And in that moment—”

“—the sky exploded.”

A massive CRACK split the air. Fireworks—or something older—erupted behind the stage. Stars shimmered brighter than ever before, like the sky itself was bleeding light.

“Behold me, and Wonder.
And Wander.”

Ydoc stood at the edge of the tent, staring into the crowd’s backlit silhouettes. They were swaying. Clapping. Many were weeping. Aleon was silhouetted in the light of twin moons, arms outstretched.

“And so… the Spirits fell to their knees.”

“Bathed in purple glow, they wept.
For the first time.”

“And the Father…
Taught them.”

A softer music now.

“And ever since—every year—we gather.
Not to demand gifts from the Spirits.
Not to beg for blessings.
But to show…”

“To show that we were worthy.
That the Father’s gift was never wasted.”

“And so…
We sing.”

Aleon took off his hat and bowed low.

The crowd stood in reverent silence, waiting.

And somewhere, softly… a voice began to sing.

A simple melody. A mortal song. Imperfect, but beautiful. It spread—tent to tent, child to elder, note by trembling note.

Ydoc stood alone.

Still holding the withered rose.
Still not breathing.

Still waiting for something that never arrived.
-------
[The Show Begins]

The cheer came like a storm of joy.

The crowd erupted, stomping feet and clapping hands, a mad harmony of whistles and whoops as Aleon bowed low, his arms wide like a saint and sinner both.

“My friends,” he grinned, “My family, my flames!”

He spun on his heels, cane tapping the wood.

“The Festival of the Stars is alive, and your hearts are its beating drum!”

The music behind him began to swell again, softer this time—hopeful, like the opening of curtains.

Laughter rang out. Vendors called for one last sale. Children squealed and twirled in tiny circles of light.

Aleon pointed his cane toward the mayor’s balcony far far away into the city—a shadowy overhang of gold banners and brass railings.

“Let us thank the Honorable Mayor Greggory of Deep Lilac, without whom this festival would not have been possible!”

A hesitant applause. A few polite claps. But quickly, a chorus of boos followed—sharp and bitter.

Aleon only laughed, spinning his cane.

“Ah, politics… such a dirty art! But not tonight!”

“Tonight we dance!”

More cheers.

Then Aleon turned with flair, bowing deeply toward the southern hill where wagons and lanterns twinkled in neat rows.

“And of course, the brilliant, the radiant, the ever-wonderful—Ruby of Hook Hill!”

Now the applause was real—sincere and full-throated. A few whistles. A bouquet of flowers hurled toward the stage. Someone shouted her name.

“Without her tireless effort, and without the hospitality of the Gypsy Camp,” Aleon continued, “there would be no music. No laughter. No stage. No stars!”

“She is the heart that beats for us all!”

Cheers became song. Someone began to hum the old melody of “The Red Bloom Waltz.” Others joined, low and swaying.

And then—

Aleon turned his eyes to the darkness.

Behind the stage, the forest stood. Vast. Eternal. Its trees black like ink poured onto velvet. The Divide.

Aleon’s voice dropped. Not quieter. But softer. Romantic.

“And lastly…”

“We thank the Divide itself.”

“For granting me the privilege… the honor... of presenting its greatest treasures…”

He raised his cane to the sky—toward the twin moons now in full bloom, painting the world in lavender and green light.

“The Talented Ladies of the Divide! The Beauties Beyond Names! The Unspoken Chorus!”

“The Mystics of Elysium’s Edge!”

The crowd clapped wildly now, half in joy, half in mystery. All eyes turned toward the stage.
......

Ydoc emerged from Lucy’s tent at that exact moment.

The rose in his hand had fully petrified. Its edges were sharp now, like glass sculpted in sorrow.

He stepped into the starlight. He could hear everything.

The crowd. The cheers. The ringmaster’s praise.

But none of it touched him.

Lucy was gone.

No sign she had ever been.

No scent. No footprints. Not even a shadow left behind.

And yet—he looked up.

The stage.

A wash of blue and green light shot up from behind the wooden planks, painting the sky like a cathedral.

Music struck like lightning.

The ground thudded with rhythm. Bells. Shakers. Lutes. Pipes. A wild pulse.

And then—

Aleon shouted, at the top of his magnificent lungs:

“LADIES!”

“OF THE DIVIDE!!”

A flash of sparks. A rumble of thunder. Twin spotlights burst from the side curtains.

And the veils began to rise.