The stage was small, barely held together by old wood and festival rope.
Children sat cross-legged in front, their lanterns glowing like fallen stars. Adults stood behind them, smiling in that distant way people did when they watched stories they believed were harmless.
Yumi pushed forward, chewing the last bite of something fried and wonderful.
"Move," she muttered, slipping past two strangers. "If this is boring, I'm leaving."
Eliott followed helplessly behind her.
"My Lord, maybe we should return to the palace soon—"
"Shh," she said. "This better be worth it."
The curtain rose.
A boy stepped onto the stage.
He wore white robes too large for his small frame, the fabric trailing behind him like spilled moonlight. His crown was simple. Crooked.
A prince, but not yet someone who understood what that meant.
He looked lonely.
Yumi tilted her head.
"…He looks like he hasn't slept in years."
Eliott blinked. "He's just acting."
Another figure appeared.
This one wore black.
No crown. No title. No place.
He stepped onto the stage like someone who did not belong there—and knew it.
The two boys stared at each other.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then the outsider smiled.
It was small. Careful. As if he had practiced it.
"I heard," the outsider said gently, "that the moon grants lonely princes a wish."
The prince hesitated.
"…I don't believe in wishes," he replied.
"Then believe in accidents," the outsider said.
The audience laughed softly.
It was framed like a joke.
Yumi frowned.
"That line is weird."
On stage, the outsider stepped closer.
"I have nowhere to go," he said. "So I'll stay with you."
The prince did not answer.
But he did not leave.
The storyteller's voice drifted over the scene.
"And so," he said warmly, "the moon took pity on the lonely prince and gave him a companion—not born of his world, but meant for his heart."
Lantern light flickered.
On stage, the two boys sat together beneath a painted moon.
They laughed.
They spoke.
They existed beside each other as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
As if it would last.
Yumi crossed her arms.
"…That's unrealistic."
Eliott looked at her. "It's a blessing tale, My Lord."
"Still," she said. "People don't just appear and fix loneliness. That's lazy writing."
On stage, the prince reached out.
He hesitated.
Then he took the outsider's hand.
The storyteller continued.
"But the moon gives nothing freely. Every blessing carries a promise. Every promise carries an end."
The outsider looked up at the painted sky.
"When the time comes," he said softly, "you must let me go."
The prince tightened his grip.
"No."
The audience smiled sadly.
They knew this part.
It was written to hurt gently.
The storyteller's voice softened.
"But the prince loved him too much to understand. And the outsider loved him too much to stay."
The stage darkened.
The outsider stepped back.
The prince reached forward.
Too late.
The outsider vanished into shadow.
The prince fell to his knees.
The storyteller spoke the final line like a kindness.
"And so the moon, pleased with their love, returned the outsider to the heavens—where he would forever watch over the prince who had once been his home."
The curtain fell.
The audience applauded.
Soft. Satisfied.
Comforted.
Yumi stared at the stage.
Her expression was unimpressed.
"That's it?" she said.
Eliott blinked. "You didn't like it?"
Yumi frowned.
"The ending is stupid."
Eliott froze.
"The outsider didn't choose that," she continued. "He didn't look happy. He looked like he was forced."
She crossed her arms.
"And the prince didn't even try to stop it properly."
She scoffed.
"Then the writer deserve a bad review."
She lifted the glowing crystal prize she'd won earlier at a food stall, examining it in the lantern light.
"Also," she added casually, "can I trade this for food?"
Above them, the moon flickered.
Just once.
Not angry.
Not pleased.
Amused.
Far above the festival—
In the highest tower-
Alaric stood alone at the window.
He had watched everything.
The play.
The prince in the crowd.
And the boy who did not belong to this world.
He smiled.
Not like a madman.
Not like a monster.
Like someone remembering something fragile.
"…You're already changing it," he whispered.
Below, in the crowd, Ren stood motionless.
He had not applauded.
He had not moved.
His golden eyes remained fixed on the empty stage.
On the story that had been rewritten.
On the lie that had been made gentle.
His voice was quiet.
Barely there.
"…That isn't how it happened."
The moon did not answer.
But it was still watching.