Six days of snow had passed when a ship of pale light descended into the courtyard, its arrival like a gentle breeze on a summer day. The soft glow contrasted with the peaks' perpetual grey, as if the message it bore belonged to another world. From it stepped a young man with storm-lit eyes, bearing a parchment tied with golden thread that gleamed even under the snow. Serenya recognised the seal instantly: Juran's crest, the winged sun extending its rays in perfect balance.
She broke it with precise fingers, her nails tracing the intricate design before unfolding the paper. The message was brief but elegant, written in calligraphy that seemed to dance across the page:
To Lady Serenya and the Lord of the Northern Peaks, we would be pleased by your presence at the Festival of Bloom, when the Night Orchids awaken and the Sky Gardens sing.
High Sovereign Juran.
When she read the invitation aloud, the hall seemed to tilt momentarily on its axis. Artisans silenced their debates; the sound of a glazier dropping its quill revibrated through the hall; Eryndor raised an eyebrow with renewed interest. Taelthorn's jaw tightened, his expression closing like an iron door before an approaching storm.
Eryndor's smile was a flash of roguish delight, as if he had anticipated the turn.
"The city calls," he whispered, voice light but laden with meaning. "When the jewel shows its face, the world will want to bow."
Serenya rolled the parchment carefully, feeling the weight of the golden thread in her palm. It was not merely an invitation; it was a finely woven hook, extended from Aelestara with perfect calculation. The Festival of Bloom: names evoking Veyra's gardens, night flowers closed beneath the sun, promising a spectacle revealed only at its climax.
Taelthorn crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the broken seal upon the table.
"Juran sends no ships of pale light for empty courtesy," he said, voice low and measured. "He wants more than our presence."
Serenya nodded, but the fire in her eyes did not dim. Instead, the invitation fanned the embers of her ambition.
"Or he wants to show us more," she countered. "Sky Gardens singing... Night Orchids awakening. If Aelestara reserves its greatest marvels for that festival, we must see them. Learn from them."
Eryndor approached the window, watching as the ship of pale light ascended again, dissolving into the sky like golden mist.
"The winged sun invites no one lightly," he murmured. "And least of all those who have already seen its lower gardens. This is the heart of their power."
The artisans murmured among themselves, some with excitement, others with caution. A master-mason sketched a stylised night orchid on his parchment, imagining how to replicate it in translucent ice. Serenya felt the hall come alive anew: the invitation was not an interruption, but a motivation.
Taelthorn remained motionless and calculative. He remembered the toast in the golden hall, Juran's words about "untamed forces." A second visit so soon after the first was no coincidence; it was a move on the board.
"If it's a trap?" he asked directly. "Veyra already planted seeds in your mind. Juran might want you to water them with your own hand."
Serenya met his gaze, firm but not challenging.
"Then we return with more than seeds," she said. "We return with the full map of how they make them grow."
Eryndor let out a soft laugh, breaking the tension.
"Curiosity is not the best armour against traps," he said. "And the worst against temptations."
Taelthorn exhaled, recognizing the inevitability. Serenya was not one to turn away from half-open doors, especially when they promised light.
"Prepare the Veythriel," he ordered at last. "Calwen commands the full guard. No artisans travel; observers only, and Eryndor comes with me."
The hall erupted into ordered activity: messengers dispatched, ship runes checked, cloaks reinforced against southern heat. Serenya stepped aside for a moment, holding the parchment against her chest. The golden thread carried a subtle scent: attar and ancient parchment, with a hint of night jasmine.
That night, Serenya dreamed of Veyra's gardens, silver vines coiling around her wrists like living bracelets, drawing her deeper into the gardens' heart. Her lungs filled with honey and secrets, a heady mix leaving her breathless. The longing to unravel the garden's hidden mysteries once more filled her consciousness completely until she awoke before dawn with the echo of dream-music still on her lips.
The embers of her desire were evident and stubborn. She dressed quickly in a cloak cut for silent movement, practical for a place where every sound might be heard. When the Skyway Gate flashed again—a temporary portal opened by Eryndor with precise gestures—she advanced without hesitation. Taelthorn stood at her side, expression guarded as polished granite.
The crossing spilled them into a blaze of color and fragrance. Aelestara had bloomed into a festival, like a living city beyond all expectation. Bridges arched over oceans of floating petals. Each flower unfurled, releasing luminous pollen that hung like wandering stars, lighting alleys and terraces with its own glow. The city had transcended the marvel they had seen before. It was now a place of prodigy and magic far greater, pulsing with life that seemed to defy nature's laws.
As they descended toward the festival's heart, Serenya felt a subtle pull in the air: not just celebration, but expectation. Juran had not invited them merely to dazzle them again.
The Veythriel landed on an elevated platform, surrounded by waving banners and musicians playing melodies that seemed to rise from the air. In the distance, a chorus of Night Orchids began to open, black and silver petals unfurling with a collective whisper resonating like a hundred voices sharing secrets.
Taelthorn scanned the crowds, seeking defensive positions, exits, any sign of threat disguised as hospitality. Serenya, instead, breathed deeply, letting the scents envelop her.
"They have opened their deepest doors," said Eryndor, pointing toward upper terraces where lights danced in impossible patterns. "But the deepest doors always have guardians."
As the festival claimed them—music, light, promises of marvels yet unrevealed—Serenya knew the invitation was not in the golden parchment.
It lay in what Aelestara would choose to show them when the Night Orchids finished singing... and what it would try to hide in their shadows.