The festival lanes of Silvarion stretched like a living tapestry—lantern-ropes slung between timber beams, streamers fluttering on night breezes, incense curling from brass braziers in lazy blue ribbons. Music burst from every alley: a three-string rebec somewhere to the east, drums layered beneath, children clacking bone castanets as they chased one another through the crush. Spices fought for dominance—cardamom, pepper, fried dough—and every other heartbeat a pocket of laughter burst against the hum of trade.
Serelith walked at Mikhailis's left shoulder beneath a simple charcoal cloak, yet nothing about her felt simple. Her senses crawled. Each lantern flare sparked tiny ghosts in the corner of her vision; each unfamiliar mana thread made the hair at her nape bristle. She kept her smile fixed—fox-sharp, playful—because that was what people expected of Lady Court Magician, but inside every calculation wheel spun at full speed.
