After Isolde finished her bath, it was my turn. The hot water momentarily chased away the bone-deep chill that had settled in me. Once dressed in a dark frock with gold embroidery and adjusting the small hat on my head, I made sure to wrap myself in a scarf before leaving the room. Isolde was already ready, wearing a matching dress with a jacket over it, her own scarf carefully arranged. She was probably trying to ward off the cold outside, though I doubted it would be enough.
We examined ourselves in the mirror. Two figures dressed in black, prepared to face the winter night.
As we stepped outside, the rain greeted us with its monotonous, fine, persistent rhythm. The possibility of snow hung in the air, as palpable as the cold biting at exposed skin.
From our first step onto the street, the scale of the celebration became apparent. Every house, brothel, tavern and inn was adorned with glittering lights and festive garlands. Christmas decorations had spread through the city like a fever, imposing their presence in every corner.
In the central park - the festival's epicenter - music floated through the air. Voices sang carols, string and wind instruments mingled in a chaotic symphony, and cutting through it all was the distinct melody of a circus tune.
"It's too cold..." Isolde complained, rubbing her hands insistently.
"That's why I told you to bring your gloves," I replied without looking at her.
"Haha... Sorry, I didn't think it would be this freezing."
I sighed.
"We'd better stop to buy you some, or your hands will end up completely frozen."
With this conversation, we made our way toward the heart of the festival.
Colorful pennants fluttered in the wind, circus tents rose like cathedrals among the crowd, and people dressed in period costumes moved about with feverish energy. Seagulls and crows cut across the night sky, their wings silhouetted against lantern light.
I walked through the crowd with mother and Isolde close behind. A child ran past me clutching a paper pinwheel, his childish laughter rising above the hubbub. Further ahead, a group of musicians played vibrant melodies on violins and accordions, breathing life into the festival.
Every street overflowed with attractions: fire-eaters shaping ephemeral creatures from flames, illusionists making pocket watches disappear with mocking smiles, lace-skirted dancers spinning in perfect spirals.
I couldn't help but smile.
There was something almost unreal about the atmosphere, a sense of latent magic in the air. The tent lights twinkled like stars trapped on earth, promising unparalleled spectacles. An acrobat leaped from a trapeze with no net, the crowd's gasp hanging in the air just before he twisted in midair and landed with impossible grace. Nearby, a lion tamer cracked his whip. The lion watching him didn't seem particularly impressed.
"Lucy, look! It's a jester!"
I turned to see Isolde enthusiastically pointing at a shooting gallery. Small brass figures rotated unpredictably on the target, and the current participant had just missed his shot, shoulders slumping in disappointment.
The jester running the stall wore a colorful harlequin outfit complete with a pointed hat. His smile was sharp, his posture relaxed.
"Luck or skill?" he asked charismatically, leaning slightly toward Isolde as he extended two darts in his gloved hand.
So he wants to test her, huh?
"Mom! Mom! Can I try?"
Her excitement was palpable. Her eyes shone with that hard-to-contain childish enthusiasm, and for a moment she wasn't the usual Isolde, but a completely fascinated little girl at the fair.
Mother chuckled under her breath and addressed the jester.
"How much per try?"
I just watched. I had no intention of participating.
Let's call it an act of thriftiness for mother... or, to be honest, simple avoidance of humiliation. My aim was, at best, disastrous.
"Two florins per attempt."
Surprisingly cheap. Well, considering it was only two throws, that made sense.
Mother paid and the jester handed the darts to Isolde, who climbed onto a small stool to better line up her shot. Her expression grew serious, her fingers gripped the dart tightly, her breathing synchronized with the rhythm of the rain.
When she decided her position was just right, she took a breath and...
Threw.
---
"You shouldn't be so upset about missing two shots, Issy."
Well, "upset" was an understatement—she looked downright indignant.
"Hmph! It's not fair. I'm completely sure I threw those darts right," she huffed, crossing her arms with an almost endearing stubbornness.
I smiled.
"You'll get it next time, you'll see."
I tried to cheer her up, though honestly, my words lacked conviction.
Because let's be real—how many times have you actually won at a carnival game that's clearly rigged to make you lose? Exactly. Never.
These games are scams. Only someone with superhuman precision or the audacity to use magic could win. And in that case, the whole stall would probably end up in ruins, victim to some overpowered lunatic's frustration.
But moving on...
"Shouldn't Dad be nearby?" I asked.
We were supposed to meet him by the Ferris wheel. And sure enough, there we were, waiting.
"How odd..."
And then I spotted him.
His imposing figure stood out in the crowd, accompanied by someone else. His cloak nearly brushed the ground, its gold embroidery glinting under the oil lamps. Father, as always, moved with unshakable elegance, holding an umbrella, exuding that presence that seemed carved from marble.
Wow. Has he always had this regal air about him?
A little embarrassing to admit, but yes—his aura is downright intimidating.
When they got close enough, Isolde saw him.
"Dad!" she shouted, launching herself toward him.
I wasn't about to be left behind.
I sprinted after her, determined to overtake her. Water splashed under our steps, soaking the hems of our clothes, but it was a minor detail. Too insignificant to care about.
We leaped at him at the same time, clinging to Father.
He laughed, accepting our embrace without resistance.
"Lucius, Isolde! How have you been? Damn, look at your outfits—you're soaked."
Isolde pressed her face against Father's, nuzzling him affectionately.
Even though eight years had passed since my birth, my parents still looked absurdly young. I guess molecular healing magic has its perks.
"Hello, dear," Mother greeted with a smile.
Father leaned down to kiss her. I, with well-honed survival instincts, covered Isolde's eyes before she had to witness such an embarrassing display.
"Your Majesty, you have my respects," Mother said, shifting to a more formal tone.
"No need. Remember, on holidays, I'm just another civilian with no authority."
Your Majesty?
Ah.
So he's the monarch.
That explains a lot. His bearing, his presence, the way he seemed to command the space around him even from a distance.
And of course, that dark hair and those red eyes didn't make him any less intimidating.
"Then these must be Lucius and Echidna," the monarch said, studying us with a calculating gaze.
"Echidna."
Isolde has a middle name we rarely use. Just like me.
Mine is "Van," but I'd rather not dwell on that.
"Echidna? Dear, I told you we'd call her by her first name," Mother chided Father with sharp sweetness.
"Ah... Haha, sorry, I forgot," he replied, taking the scolding in stride.
Seriously?
He remembered Isolde's middle name but forgot mine?
That sounds more like an excuse to deflect Mother's ire than an honest mistake.
But I'll let it slide.
For now.