The battle had left them ragged, but the world beyond the chaos remained blissfully ignorant. As Mikhailis, Serelith, and Cerys made their way through the winding alleys, the festival's golden lights flickered ahead, spilling warmth and color onto the cobbled streets. Laughter and music pulsed through the air, and the scent of spiced bread and caralized nuts wrapped around them like a comforting embrace. Here, in the festival square, people danced, sang, and bartered for glittering trinkets—utterly unaware that just a few streets away, shadow and steel had clashed in desperate silence.
Mikhailis felt a mix of relief and weariness settle in his chest. No screams, no panic—just joy and revelry. The city spun on, oblivious to the danger that had lurked just out of sight. He glanced at Serelith, whose violet hair caught the lantern light, shimring like a living fla. Her face still bore the fierce edge of their battle, but her smile returned—small, tired, but real.
Cerys walked on his other side, her posture still tense, a hand hovering near her sword hilt even now. Her amber eyes scanned every face in the crowd, every shadow between the stalls. The wild rush of battle hadn't left her completely. Mikhailis knew that feeling all too well—the haunting echo of combat, a ghost that clung to your senses long after the fight was over.
"Relax, Cerys," he murmured, giving her a gentle nudge. "Unless one of those kids is secretly a knife-wielding assassin, I think we're safe."
"Kids have knives sotis," she muttered, though a hint of a smile pulled at her lips. "Don't let your guard down just because the music's loud."
Serelith chuckled, her voice a soft, teasing lilt. "Always the vigilant knight. Maybe we should just wrap you in a blanket and hand you a cup of warm milk."
Cerys shot her a glare. "Try it, and I'll wrap you in that blanket instead—tightly."
Mikhailis snorted, then glanced back. The old fortune-teller shuffled just behind them, her patched shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, her wrinkled face still pale but no longer trembling. The shawl fluttered slightly, its colors faded but warm, a reminder of her survival. The old woman's voice ca thin but steady. "My tent… it's just around the corner. Please… allow to thank you properly."
Mikhailis hesitated, a part of him wanting to leave this night behind and sink into his own bed. But then Serelith's soft hand looped around his arm, and her gentle smile t his. "We can't refuse a grateful old lady. Besides, I could use a bit of tea."
Rodion's hovering form brightened slightly, his voice a gentle, calculated whisper.
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