Eryshae

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Vael

The gates of Emberhold swung open on slow hinges, revealing a city woven with charm and quiet resilience. Cobbled streets curved like tributaries between brick row homes with wide porches, ivy climbing up their sides. Old gaslamps stood sentry at every corner, their glass panes glowing faintly against the amber wash of late afternoon. Wind rustled through elm-lined avenues, carrying the distant toll of a bell from the square.

Emberhold reminded Vael of a place lost to time; too old for ambition, too stubborn to forget its roots. Not grand, not glittering; grounded. Built for its people, not for spectacle. Painted shutters, garden gates, hand-chiseled signs above cozy taverns and workshops; it all whispered of history still lived in, not displayed.

She sat astride her mount, her posture regal but unforced. Beside her, Sam rode in thoughtful silence, his sleeves rolled past his forearms, not a weapon in sight. He wore no sword; never had. Just the subtle glow beneath the bark-threaded veins of his left arm, visible now in the slanting light. It was enough.

Children chased each other along the narrow walks. A group of them paused to wave at the arriving convoy. Sam smiled, offering a small wave in return. Vael noticed how naturally he fit here; how right he looked in this world of gardens and ancient cities. She let the thought settle like a stone in her chest.

A man emerged from the city square with purposeful steps. He wore a tailored vest of sea-blue and rust-brown, a brass sash clipped at his shoulder with the crescent of his station. Lines of age cut handsomely through his expression, but his stride was steady and commanding.

"Uncle Farouq," Vael said warmly, dismounting before anyone could do it for her. She stepped forward and embraced him tightly. "Vael." Farouq's voice was low and sure. "You have grown taller since I last saw you." He pulled back, scanning her briefly. "The rumors spoke true. You survived the ambush."

"Barely," she said, glancing toward the road behind them. "But we came through." Farouq turned to Sam, eyeing him with the curiosity of a man who knew many warriors; and saw something entirely else. "Vice-Chief Sam," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Emberhold welcomes you."

Sam returned the gesture, not with courtly flourish but with quiet sincerity. "Thank you. You've got a beautiful city." Farouq gave a faint smile. "Old blood keeps it standing. Old roots keep it kind."

He turned, leading them from the small square where shopkeepers and onlookers had begun to gather. "The tribal elders are waiting. They've questions, but not tonight. You've earned reprieve."

They passed storefronts with peeling hand-painted signs, and windows lit from within by warm lamplight. Music drifted from a street corner where a trio played dulcimer and drum. The road narrowed near the bluff where a modest council hall stood shaded beneath tall trees. The stonework was low and ivy-wrapped, half-swallowed by the garden that clung to its edges.

Inside, the elders waited around a broad wooden table worn smooth by decades of deliberation. They rose as Vael entered, each offering a sign of welcome; some with nods, others with a hand across their hearts. Farouq gestured for silence. "The Princess and her convoy are safe. We will discuss the rest at tomorrow. For now; Emberhold offers peace."

He stepped closer to Vael and added, with the quiet cadence of familial concern, "Rest your warriors. And yourself. The circus is in town tonight, and the people will be watching. Let them see you whole."

Vael tilted her head. "A circus, Uncle?"

"Let them see joy returned. Let them remember color." His tone turned faintly amused. "Besides. We have fire dancers. Wine. Maybe even a knife juggler who won't lose a finger this year." Sam looked to her, one brow raised. "You trust this man?"

"With my life," Vael replied. "But not necessarily with my schedule." Farouq gave a short laugh and waved them off. "Then go. Dress light. Laugh hard, the Solstice approaches. The world can wait until morning."

The scent of candied almonds and woodsmoke hung thick in the evening air. Emberhold's old commons had been transformed into a festival of movement and light; canvas tents striped in deep crimson and gold unfurled like blooming flowers, flickering lanterns bobbed on long strings above the pathways, and fire breathers prowled the borders, exhaling controlled bursts of flame that danced skyward in pulsing rhythm.

Vael stepped through the entrance arch beside Sam, the din of the city melting behind them like snow beneath fire. Here, the world spun on spectacle. Tightropes stretched across wide beams overhead, where acrobats in sequin-dusted silks tumbled like falling stars. Jugglers tossed spinning blades to one another in perfect arcs. Stilt-walkers roamed through the crowd with peacock-feather fans spread wide, their smiles painted like masks.

Vael's cloak had been traded for a cropped velvet jacket, deep green with gold embroidery curling like vines up the sleeves. Her trousers were high-waisted, sharply cut. Sam wore a dark collarless shirt beneath a slate-gray vest, the simplest thing he could find that still made him look like someone worth watching.

They moved together through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder. A fire dancer spun just ahead, her limbs a blur of motion, twin torches tracing serpents of light through the air. Children screamed with delight as two bear-sized raccoons juggled colorful fruit from atop wooden barrels, their masked faces trained with unnerving discipline.

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Sam leaned close. "Are they trained?" Vael smirked. "Loosely. I think they just like the attention." Music struck up; violins and tambourines and something stringed Vael didn't recognize. It rose like heat, wrapping the entire commons in rhythm. Performers whirled into motion; dancers in layered skirts and high boots kicked up sparks, their choreography wild but unified, as if every step had been carved from instinct and smoke.

A ringleader's voice cut through the spectacle, booming and charming in equal measure:

"Welcome, welcome to the Crimson Caravan! Tonight, we fly without wings, we bend what was broken, and we whisper truth between breaths of flame!"

A great tent in the center opened its flaps wide, revealing rows of curved seats and a towering inner ring lined with golden rope and striped silk. A child ran past with a ribboned stick, laughing. Someone blew a handful of glitter into the air.

Vael turned toward Sam. "Shall we?" He gave a half-smile. "Lead the way, Sovereign of Spectacle." They took seats near the center ring as the show truly began; human towers formed in seconds, dancers springboarding from them into somersaults high above. A woman in red velvet walked a tightrope upside down. A blindfolded man threw knives around a wheel where his partner spun, laughing.

But the moment that stole Vael's breath was quieter. A lone performer, dressed in moth-winged robes of gauze and bone-pale gray, emerged into the spotlight and began to sing.

The song was low and strange, a language Vael didn't know; one of longing and skies turned inside out. Behind the singer, illusions shimmered: falling leaves reversing course, moons spinning on invisible axes, root systems that glowed from within.

Beside her, Sam stilled. His eyes shimmered faintly in the flickering light. She knew that look. Wonder, edged in memory. "This…" he whispered, "feels like home. Not Earth. Not here either. Just… something old."

Vael took his hand in hers. "That's what Emberhold does. It reminds you of something you didn't know you were missing." They didn't speak again until the applause swept the tent like a wave and the lights dimmed to starlight. Outside, the celebration continued; food stalls, fortune tellers, masked dancers in mirrored cloaks.

Vael pulled him close, her mouth near his ear. "I want to see the stars from the riverbank. Would you like to see?"

Sam nodded. "Anywhere you go." They slipped away from the noise and the firelight, the sounds of joy still echoing faintly behind them.

The noise of the circus faded behind them, swallowed by trees and the hush of midnight reeds. The river curled just beyond Emberhold's old grain docks, its surface painted with moonlight and the faint shimmer of lantern glow drifting down from the commons.

Vael walked ahead, her boots light against the mossy stone. Sam followed a step behind, quiet and watchful. When she stopped at the bank's edge, the world stilled with her. The air smelled of river salt and woodsmoke, of the faint sweetness of spun sugar lingering on his breath. A breeze stirred the long grass, brushing past her legs like silk.

She turned slightly, watching him in profile; Sam, who had once been a stranger in her world, a man pulled from another realm with nothing but grief in his shadow. Now, he was everything to her.

Everything.

The word struck her like a thrown stone. Not a passing affection. Not a curiosity born of war and circumstance.

He was her center.

Her tether to something truer than politics or prophecy. More than duty. More than roots and the aching memory of her people. If he turned to her now and asked her to leave it all; Eryshae, the city of Ichi, even the throne; she knew, without a sliver of doubt, that she would go. Not out of weakness. But because he was her choice.

And realizing that made her breath catch.

She looked away, chest tight with clarity, her arms crossing reflexively. "Vael?" Sam asked softly. She turned, stepped toward him, and kissed him. Not in desperation, not in fire; but with the kind of longing that trembles. The kind that shakes something loose inside your soul.

His hands rose to cradle her face. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his vest, and then slowly, as the kiss deepened, she slipped it off his shoulders. His shirt followed. She felt the warmth of his skin beneath her palms, the strength in his chest where her fingertips rested. Sitting in the grass, she didn't speak. She climbed into his lap, straddling him with easy grace, arms around his neck, breath shallow against his jaw. Sam exhaled a sharp breath against her shoulder. "Vael…"

"I know," she whispered. "I know." He didn't ask for permission. He moved with her. Hands slow, reverent. Her jacket slid off. The clasps of her shirt loosened. They undressed one another not in haste but in trust; until she sat in her thin undergarments, and he in boxers, their bodies kissed by moonlight and the cool hush of the night.

Then Sam rose, strong arms beneath her thighs, and carried her to the river. The water was shockingly cold at first; but then soothing, cradling them both as they drifted chest to chest. Her legs wrapped around his waist beneath the surface. His fingers traced the curve of her back.

They floated together in silence, lips brushing in soft, unhurried kisses; like they were learning each other all over again. The stars spun slowly above them, and the river whispered around their bodies. And in that space between breaths, Vael let the world slip away.

Just for a while.

There was only this man. And the feeling of finally, finally being home.

The dawn came slow and rose gold, brushing the sky with sleepy fingers. Mist clung to the riverbank, curling around Sam's shoulders as he stood knee-deep in the water, shirtless and dripping, holding a single boot in the air with a tragic expression.

"You threw it," he said flatly.

Vael, still curled in the long grass with her hair a wild crown around her face, grinned from where she lounged in his cloak. "I tossed it. Gently. For dramatic effect."

Sam turned the boot over. It squelched. "Remind me never to go to war with you without spare socks." She laughed, the sound soft and full of sunlight. "You're lucky I didn't throw the second one. I was aiming for poetry."

"You hit a log."

"Well, some logs are very emotional."

He raised an eyebrow and waded back toward her, dripping and barefoot. She made a half-hearted attempt to scramble away, but he caught her ankle and tugged her down into the grass beside him.

They wrestled briefly; her giggling, him pretending to be terribly offended; until she straddled his stomach again, pinning his wrists with triumphant flair.

"You're terrible at defense," she said.

He smirked. "I'm conserving energy."

"For what?"

"For the inevitable revenge," he said, twisting free with practiced ease and rolling them over in a quick, laughing motion.

She shrieked once, then burst into giggles again as he kissed her neck, her collarbone, the tip of her nose. The cloak tangled around them, and dew from the grass kissed their bare skin with cold pinpricks, but neither of them minded.

When she caught her breath, her voice was warm with affection. "This is dangerous, you know." He leaned his forehead to hers. "Which part?"

"All of it," she whispered. "You. Me. This." He met her eyes, solemn for just a moment. "Then let's keep being dangerous." She pulled him down into another kiss, smiling into it.

Behind them, the city of Emberhold began to stir; carriage wheels creaking, market stalls opening, and the distant sound of a calliope beginning its morning tune. The circus was waking up again.

But in this small patch of wild between river and city, between duty and desire, they had carved out something all their own.

Something worth fighting for.

Something worth waking up to.