Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

The festival began on a morning of clear skies and soft breeze.

Banners of every color hung from the academy towers, snapping in the wind like the wings of countless birds. The main square, usually a quiet space of stone benches and a single fountain, had been transformed. Booths lined the perimeter, their wooden frames draped in cloth, their counters laden with goods. Food, drink, trinkets, games. A stage had been erected at the far end, where musicians would play and dancers would perform. The air smelled of roasted meat, spun sugar, and fresh flowers.

Nero stood at the edge of the square, his hands in his pockets, taking it all in. He had never been to a festival. Not like this. Not one where he was free to wander, to explore, to simply enjoy. The Raizen estate had held celebrations, but he had never been invited. His mother had described them to him in soft whispers, the colors, the music, the laughter. He had listened, imagining, but the imagining had always been pale.

Now the real thing spread before him, bright and loud and alive.

Khione stood beside him, her white hair loose, her dress simple and pale blue. She wore no mask today, no training clothes. She looked like any other young woman at a festival, except for the cool grace that set her apart. Her eyes swept the square, taking in the booths, the crowds, the children running between legs.

”Where do you want to start?” she asked.

Nero looked at her. ”Everywhere.”

They walked.

The first booth sold rings, cheap metal set with colored glass. The vendor, an old woman with kind eyes, called out to them, praising her wares. Nero stopped, examined a ring with a blue stone. It was simple, unremarkable. He bought it without haggling and slipped it onto Khione’s finger. She looked at it, then at him.

”It’s not real,” she said.

”It’s real enough.”

She did not take it off.

They moved on. A food stall offered skewers of grilled meat, the edges charred, the juices dripping. Nero bought two, and they ate as they walked, the savory flavor mixing with the sweetness of the air. Khione’s skewer was gone in moments; she rarely allowed herself such indulgences, but today was different. Today, she let herself enjoy.

A game booth challenged passersby to knock over wooden bottles with a small ball. Nero paid the attendant, took aim, and threw. The ball struck the bottles, but only one fell. The attendant smiled and offered a prize—a small stuffed bear. Nero took it and handed it to Khione. She held it at arm’s length, examining it.

”It’s ridiculous,” she said.

Nero shrugged. ”It’s a festival.”

She tucked the bear under her arm and kept walking.

Lux found them at a crepe stall, his arms full of prizes—a stuffed dog, a string of flags, a cone of fried dough. Adam followed, carrying a large paper bag that smelled of cinnamon. Blake brought up the rear, a cup of something steaming in his hands, his expression as sleepy as ever.

”Having fun?” Lux asked, grinning.

Nero nodded. ”You?”

”Best day of the year.” Lux juggled his prizes, nearly dropping the dough. ”We’re going to the archery booth. Want to come?”

Khione shook her head. ”We’ll find you later.”

Lux winked. ”Understood.” He led Adam and Blake away, disappearing into the crowd.

Nero and Khione walked toward the center of the square, where the fountain had been turned into a display of colored lights. Water shot upward, changing from blue to gold to red, the spray catching the sunlight, forming tiny rainbows. They stood before it, watching, not speaking.

A child ran past, laughing, his face painted like a tiger. A couple walked by, hand in hand, the girl wearing a crown of flowers. A group of cadets, their uniforms unbuttoned, joked and shouted, pointing at the booths.

The sun climbed higher. The crowds grew thicker. Nero and Khione moved with them, not rushing, not lingering, simply being. They tried honeyed pastries from a bakery booth, watched a magician pull coins from the air, listened to a singer whose voice rose above the noise like a bird taking flight.

Nero bought her a flower—a single white rose from a cart that sold nothing else. She held it, the stem between her fingers, the petals soft against her skin.

”You’re buying me many things today,” she said.

”I’m making up for lost time.”

She looked at him, and her eyes, usually so cold, were warm. ”You don’t need to make up for anything.”

He took her hand. ”I want to.”

They walked toward the edge of the square, away from the noise, toward a small garden that had been set aside for quiet. Benches lined the path, shaded by trees strung with lanterns. They sat on one, looking back at the festival, the lights, the people.

The afternoon had faded into evening. The lanterns began to glow, soft and golden. The music changed, slower, sweeter. Couples moved onto a makeshift dance floor, swaying to the rhythm.

Nero looked at Khione. She looked at him.

”Dance?” he asked.

She rose, pulling him to his feet.

They danced. Not with the precision of formal training, not with the intensity of battle. Simply. Slowly. Her head rested on his shoulder, his arms around her waist. The music flowed around them, and they moved with it, two figures in the lantern light.

The first day of the festival was ending. There would be two more. More booths, more games, more moments. But this one, this quiet dance in the garden, would stay with them longer than any of the others.

When the music stopped, they stood apart, still holding hands.

”Thank you,” Khione said.

Nero shook his head. ”Thank you.”

They walked back to the square, the lanterns glowing, the crowds thinning, the night cool and clear. The first day was done. Two more awaited. And they would face them together.