The morning sun rose slower these days, casting a gentler, colder gold across the rooftops. Its light didn't sprawl — it sharpened. Made edges clearer. Made shadows cling a little longer.
Moore tugged his sleeves down as they walked, fingers rubbing at the hem like it might warm him. The air wasn't cold yet, but it was getting there — crisp, dry, just shy of a bite. Each breath felt clearer than it had the week before. Like something had finally cracked open in the sky.
He kicked a small stone down the empty lane, watching it bounce and rattle between shop doors not yet open. A passing merchant muttered under his breath as it rolled by.
Moore didn't apologize. Just squinted up at the sky — that endless, empty blue.
"Feels like summer blinked," he said. "I swear it was just festival weather."
Ronell, walking beside him, didn't answer immediately. Her eyes had found a nearby maple, its edges stained with the first hints of red. She stared like it had spoken to her.
"The sun feels different," she murmured. "Sharper. Like it's further away."
Moore tilted his head, as if to test the warmth on his cheek. "Huh. Yeah."
Behind them, May walked in silence, her boots quiet on the stone. Her hood was drawn — not for the weather, but for something else. Something watchful. She wasn't looking at the trees or the color of the light. She was watching the rooftops, the corners, the spaces between.
Another breeze came, tugging at cloaks and hanging cloth. The sound of it through the alleyways felt… thin. Like the wind had less to hold onto now.
They passed two old women sorting early apples into a crate.
"Storm in the north last night," one said. "Air smells like a turn."
"Aye," the other replied. "Even the birds know it. They've been quieter."
A boy crouched near a drain, peering into its darkness.
"The crickets stopped singing," he said to no one in particular. "I think they went to sleep." Then he ran off, trailing laughter like a thread behind him.
The group rounded the familiar bend into the fountain plaza.
The Sunfire banners were gone now — only frayed twine curled at the corners of the buildings where they'd once danced. But one paper lantern remained.
It hung awkwardly from an iron post, half-deflated, its string twisted tight around a crooked hook. It turned slowly in the wind — one side torn, the other still faintly glowing with the ghost of a flame.
Then — without sound — the flame winked out.
Not with drama. Not even with smoke. Just gone.
The lantern swayed once more, then stilled.
May stopped.
Her eyes fixed on it, unreadable.
Moore followed her gaze, then frowned. "Weird it's still up," he said, trying to keep it light.
But Ronell didn't reply. She was staring too now.
No one moved for a moment. The plaza felt… wrong. Empty in a way it hadn't the day before.
The silence pressed in, carried on wind that now smelled less of festival spice, and more like dry earth and memory.
Then May turned, her cloak catching the breeze, and kept walking.
Neither Moore nor Ronell spoke again.
But when Moore slipped his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushed against the tiny dice the old shopkeeper had given him — worn smooth now from days of idle play.
And suddenly, they felt heavier.
---
The days that followed blurred together, as if the city had fallen under a soft, muted spell. Nothing had changed outright — the markets still bustled, the bells still rang at noon, children still played in the alleys.
And yet.
There were moments. Tiny fractures, like cracks beneath glass — barely visible, but growing.
Ronell stood outside the herbalist's stall one afternoon, arms full of bundled lavender and feverroot. She was half-listening to the old vendor explain the virtues of willow bark when something above caught her eye.
Pigeons — dozens of them — had launched from a nearby rooftop. At first, they moved in a calm, familiar arc, wings flapping in lazy unison. But then, without warning, they jerked midair — scattering in sharp, unnatural zigzags, like leaves caught in a silent, unseen storm.
There was no hawk overhead. No loud noise. No visible threat.
The vendor kept talking, unaware.
Ronell stood very still, eyes lingering on the empty sky long after the birds had vanished.
---
Later, near the baker's row, Moore crouched to tie his boot, muttering about cobblestones and cheap laces. A soft rustle made him glance up.
A cat sat near the mouth of a side alley, half-hidden in shadow. Its fur was raised, tail low.
Moore smiled, still crouched. "Hey there, whiskers. You lose a bet or something?"
The cat didn't move.
Instead, it growled — low and rumbling, too deep for something so small.
Moore's brow furrowed. "Alright, relax, I'm not stealing your alley."
Then he noticed the cat's eyes.
They gleamed — not in the usual way, but metallic. Bright gold and silver, catching no light they should've.
And they weren't on him.
The cat was staring at its own shadow.
Moore rose slowly, a little laugh caught in his throat. "Okay... weird."
The cat hissed suddenly — loud and sharp — then bolted into the dark, vanishing between crates.
Moore stood there a moment, scratching the back of his neck.
"Definitely weird," he muttered. "Ronell's never gonna believe that."
But he didn't laugh this time.
---
At the southern gate, a merchant's voice cut across the square, angry and trembling.
"I know what I saw!" he barked, waving his arms at a bored guard. "The whole pen panicked! Like something ran through them — and I swear to the gods, the air went cold!"
The guard raised an eyebrow. "And you didn't see anything?"
"It was there," the merchant insisted. "You think goats spook for fun? They know when something's wrong."
The guard eventually waved him off — but as the merchant stormed away, the guard looked out toward the woods, just for a moment longer than necessary.
---
Beneath the curve of the city wall, Moore sat on a crate, lazily tossing a plum back and forth with the dusty-faced boy who'd adopted him as some kind of older brother.
The kid leaned in, voice dropping to a secretive whisper.
"I saw a dog with smoke coming out of its mouth. Right here, two nights ago."
Moore raised an eyebrow. "Smoke?"
The boy nodded, dead serious. "Didn't bark. Just stood there. Then I blinked, and it was gone."
Moore considered that, then leaned back a little. "Well… either you saw a ghost dog or someone's real bad at campfires."
The kid didn't laugh.
"It saw me," he added, quieter now.
That gave Moore just the slightest pause.
He looked at the boy, then out toward the alley. The shadows were long this time of day. Still. A little too still.
"Alright," Moore said, clearing his throat. "If the smoke-dog comes back, you tell it I'm not sharing plums."
The boy blinked. "Why?"
"Because I'm very selfish," Moore said, and took a big bite out of the plum like it proved something.
The kid grinned — but Moore's eyes lingered just a second longer on the empty space down the alley.
---
And in each of these moments — in the market stalls, the alleys, the spaces between stories — May was there.
Not always near. Not always seen.
But always watching.
When the pigeons scattered, she tilted her head slightly.
When the cat fled its own shadow, she froze mid-step.
When the merchant shouted, she stood nearby, listening in silence.
And when Moore quietly recounted the boy's story to Ronell later that night, May said nothing. But her expression shifted — just barely — and her hands tightened around the edge of her cloak.
Knuckles pale. Shoulders still.
As if bracing.
For something she already knew was coming.
---
The quest had sounded simple enough.
A farmer on the outskirts of the southern woods had filed a request with the Adventurers' Guild — livestock disturbed at night, strange noises, broken fences. This time of year, it was usually wolves, maybe a bear. Nothing the three of them hadn't handled before.
They set out just after dawn, boots pressing into dew-soaked grass, breath visible in the thinning morning air. The forest greeted them not with birdsong, but stillness. A hushed kind of quiet — not peaceful, but listening.
No one commented on it.
Not yet.
They found the creature at the edge of a clearing, half-wreathed in mist.
It stood motionless, as if waiting. Wolf-like, but wrong. Larger. Its spine was jagged, rising in uneven ridges like broken stone beneath its matted pelt. It didn't growl. It didn't bare its teeth.
It simply charged.
Ronell met the blow with her shield, feet skidding in the damp earth. Moore moved fast — faster than usual — blade glinting as he cut across its flank.
But the creature turned too sharply — its limbs jerking like marionette strings, spine arching in ways it shouldn't have. Its eyes flashed.
Not animal eyes.
Dark, reflective — like mirrors filled with smoke.
"This thing isn't natural!" Moore shouted, stumbling back.
May didn't answer.
She had stayed behind — not out of fear, but calculation. Her movements were precise, unreadable. She watched the creature with narrowed eyes, gauging something the others hadn't seen.
Then, as it lunged again, she stepped forward without a word.
"Hold it," she called, low but steady. "Just a second."
Ronell raised her shield again, bracing. Moore cut a sharp line across the beast's flank, forcing it to stagger.
That was all May needed.
She moved fast — not loudly, not dramatically. Her blade was thin, angled, and short enough not to catch the light. She ducked beneath the creature's snapping jaws, twisted around its blind side, and drove the blade deep between its ribs — clean, exact, controlled.
The creature buckled.
Ronell and Moore didn't hesitate — together, they finished it in one coordinated strike.
The beast hit the earth with a final, shuddering thud.
It didn't move again.
Silence.
The forest didn't resume its normal rhythm. No birds returned. No wind stirred.
May approached the body cautiously.
She knelt.
Its eyes were still open.
And then… something moved behind them. Like smoke drifting beneath glass.
A sound escaped its throat — guttural, glitching, like the memory of speech failing to become language.
Only May heard it.
Her breath caught.
She didn't move, didn't speak. But something in her eyes darkened — not fear, not confusion.
Recognition.
And grief.
She stood quickly. Too quickly.
"May?" Ronell asked gently.
But May didn't answer.
The walk back was quiet.
No birdsong. No wind. Just their footsteps and the fading hum of magic in the air.
Moore tried, eventually.
"Well," he said, dragging out the word. "I don't remember 'slightly possessed nightmare creature' being part of the briefing."
Ronell gave a small, nervous laugh. "I think I pulled something in my shoulder."
May didn't laugh.
She didn't even slow.
When she spoke, her voice was quieter than usual. Raw around the edges.
"That wasn't just some beast."
The others looked at her.
She didn't stop walking.
"Something's starting to bleed through."
They didn't know what she meant — not fully — but her tone made them fall silent.
A little later, Moore caught up to her.
He didn't speak at first. Just walked beside her.
When he finally did, it was quieter than usual. More honest.
"You okay?"
May didn't look at him.
For a long moment, it seemed she wouldn't answer.
Then, softly:"No."
It was the most human thing she'd said in days.
Moore blinked, caught off guard — but he didn't push. Just nodded, letting the moment breathe.
And for once, May didn't walk away.
---
The market square buzzed with midmorning life — clinking coins, bartered insults, the sweet spice of roasting pears wafting between stalls. A flute played somewhere, quick and teasing, like it was mocking the summer for slipping away.
At the heart of it stood the princess.
One hand rested on a bundle of cinnamon sticks, the other gesturing as she bartered with the spice merchant — polite, poised, but with a glint in her eye that suggested she knew she'd win the deal anyway.
"You're charging double," she said flatly. "I might be a regular, but I'm not a fool."
"You're not just a regular," the merchant muttered. "You're royalty."
"And yet, I still count coins like anyone else."
She smiled — pleasant, razor-thin.
That was when the guard arrived.
He didn't shout. He didn't need to. His presence alone parted the crowd — armor dull with dust, boots heavy against the stone. He stopped a few paces from the stall and bowed with just enough formality to draw attention without causing alarm.
"Your Highness," he said, voice low. "A message. From the Queen."
The princess turned her head slightly — no surprise in her features, just mild irritation at being interrupted mid-haggle.
"Does it require a sword or a signature?" she asked, brushing a lock of hair from her face.
"Neither. But it requires your presence. Immediately."
He held out a letter — sealed in red wax, the royal sigil crisp and final.
Her eyes flicked to it.
She took it without hesitation, but her fingers curled just a little too tightly around the parchment.
"Well then," she said, voice smooth. "Tell the Queen I'm on my way."
She passed the cinnamon bundle back to the merchant without looking. "Keep it warm for me."
And with that, she turned on her heel — posture composed, stride confident, the letter tucked cleanly under her arm as though it were just another errand.
Not a single crack showed on her face.
But she didn't look back.
Across the square, half-shadowed behind a tapestry cart, May watched.
Her hood was drawn, though the sun sat high. The crowd moved around her like water around a stone.
She didn't call out.
She didn't follow.
Her eyes stayed locked on the princess's retreating figure — on the graceful, deliberate steps, the familiar flick of her cloak, the head held just a little higher than necessary.
It was the same as last time.
Same timing. Same silence. Same letter.
Same beginning.
May's jaw tightened, her breath catching in her chest. Her hand twitched beneath her cloak, but didn't move further.
She knew this rhythm.
Not yet, she thought. But soon.
She turned away.
And behind her, the market carried on — oblivious to what had just shifted.
---
The palace gardens were quiet after sundown.
Gas lamps lined the marble walkways, their light softened by ivy and flowering vines. The breeze rustled through the hedges with restless fingers, carrying the scent of damp soil and night jasmine. Even the crickets sounded hesitant — their rhythm thinner, less certain than before.
May stood alone, by the moon goddess statue — a silver figure with blindfolded eyes and hands open to the sky. The fountain behind her burbled softly, its song masking approaching footsteps.
She didn't need to turn.
She knew who it was.
The princess stepped into view, walking with the same sure-footed grace she carried in battle drills. Her cloak hung loosely over one shoulder, and though her posture was upright, her expression was unreadable — not fragile, not shaken, just... guarded.
"So," she said, slowing as she approached. "This is where you've been brooding."
May didn't rise to it.
The silence between them was familiar now — not hostile, but layered.
"What did they say?" May asked at last.
The princess didn't sit immediately. She studied May for a moment, then gave a short sigh and perched on the edge of the fountain, like someone bracing for a report she'd rather not deliver.
"It's not good," she said. "Something's moving near the borders. Fast, silent, and — in at least one case — left no tracks. Livestock gone. No signs of struggle."
"Shadows?" May asked, though her tone said she already knew.
The princess nodded once.
"Not beasts," she added. "Not anything we've seen before."
She dipped her fingers into the fountain, watching the ripples spread.
"My father wants to accelerate the wall project. Tighten the gates. More inspections. Fewer people in and out. He thinks if we act early, we'll avoid panic."
"You don't believe that," May said.
The princess tilted her head, eyes narrowing faintly.
"I believe in containment," she said coolly. "I don't believe in illusions of control."
May stepped forward.
"So you're building a wall around the city."
"We're reinforcing it," the princess corrected. "It's already there — this just makes it less symbolic."
"And you think that'll protect you?"
The princess raised a brow. "That's the plan."
May's voice dropped, steady and calm, but carrying the weight of something deeper.
"And if the danger's already inside?"
That landed.
The princess's gaze flicked up to meet hers.
Her tone, when it came, was more careful now — not defensive, but edged with something more vulnerable than she let most people see.
"What do you know?"
May didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she looked past the fountain, past the lantern-lit hedges and trimmed topiaries, to where the towers of the city loomed in quiet silhouette.
The wind shifted.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell silent.
"Enough," May murmured.
The princess exhaled slowly, then stood. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders, not out of chill, but habit.
"You've changed," she said quietly. "You used to tell me everything."
May met her gaze again. No smile. No apology.
"You used to ask the right questions."
They stood there in the half-dark, the hush between them dense with old loyalty and growing distance.
Neither moved.
But something in the world — just out of view — had begun to stir.
---
For a time, life in the city settled into something almost gentle.
Days moved like water — smooth, sun-warmed, slipping past with the kind of ease that felt borrowed.
Moore had started waking up early. Not for any grand reason — just because he liked the way the streets looked before they got too loud. He'd lean against the stoop outside the general store, arms folded, watching carts roll by with crates of lemons and flour.
The old shopkeeper — a prickly man with a gravel voice and beard like dry moss — had taken to throwing dice with him between customers.
"No, no, no," the man muttered, flicking Moore on the forehead with surprising speed. "You're thinking too hard. Just throw. It's feel, not math."
Moore grinned, exaggerated and boyish. "Everything's math if you're bad enough at it."
He always lost more coins than he won. But he laughed anyway. The butcher's apprentice cheered when he rolled doubles. A couple of kids sat on the steps, pretending they were keeping score.
Someone once asked if he was staying long.
Moore shrugged. "Long enough for you to get used to me."
---
At the flower market, Ronell found a rhythm of her own.
She rarely spoke above the chatter, but the vendor, Sifa — a woman with weathered hands and kind eyes — noticed her right away. Taught her how to pick the right herbs, how to press blooms just enough to soften, not bruise. They spoke in the quiet gaps between noise, while the city thudded along in the background.
Ronell was proud of the little things. Proud when Sifa sold her bundles. Proud when a passerby paused to smell something she'd wrapped.
"You have a light touch," Sifa told her. "People like to pretend that's easy."
Ronell smiled at that. Not because it was praise — but because it felt seen.
---
She told Moore later that evening, as they wandered past the river with fresh basil tucked under her arm. The water was slow, reflective. They walked in no particular direction, sharing soft bread and half-finished thoughts.
"There's a performance this week," Moore said. "We should go. Maybe sneak in snacks."
Ronell tilted her head. "We could stay a little longer."
He glanced at her — not joking now — and nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "Maybe we should."
And for a while, it was enough.
But then… things began to shift.
It wasn't loud. Just off.
---
One afternoon, Ronell burst out laughing — Moore had been impersonating the dice master, mimicking every gravel-voiced complaint with exaggerated grumbles and flailing hands.
Then she stopped. Mid-laugh. Her expression stilled like a glass cooling too fast.
"What?" Moore asked, still half in character.
Ronell looked over her shoulder.
"…Nothing," she said, blinking. "Just — I thought…"
She didn't finish.
---
A few days later, Moore lingered in the main plaza as a crowd gathered for a puppet show. Painted hands danced in the air, bright and familiar — too familiar.
"Wait," he said slowly. "Didn't we see this already?"
"This troupe hasn't been back in weeks," Ronell replied, distracted.
But Moore kept staring. The puppets twitched just the way he remembered. Their lines landed the same way. It was like watching a memory walk by wearing someone else's shoes.
He didn't say anything else.
And neither did she.
---
That night, they sat on the rooftop of their inn, legs dangling over the edge. The lanterns across the city blinked on one by one, soft amber halos blooming like flowers. The wind was cooler now — it bit, just a little. Enough to remind them that time was moving, even if it didn't always feel that way.
Ronell hugged her knees to her chest, chin resting on them.
"Do you ever feel," she murmured, "like we forgot something important?"
Moore didn't answer right away. He rolled a pebble between his fingers, watching it catch the light.
"Yeah," he said. "Like we're part of someone else's story."
She looked at him, surprised.
He added, "And they already know how it ends."
They sat like that for a while. Not scared. Just quiet.
The rooftops below them shifted with warm light. Laughter drifted up from tavern windows. Somewhere, a bell rang once — not urgent, just time passing.
The city was alive.
But not awake.
And that silence, somehow, said more than either of them could.
---
The heart of the city glowed.
At dusk, the first torches flared to life, climbing the arches like golden vines. Paper lanterns swayed overhead, their soft orange bellies bouncing with the breeze, casting the plaza in flickering halos of warmth. The smell of roasted chestnuts mingled with spices and woodsmoke, and the low hum of laughter carried like a lullaby through the crowd.
At the center, the bonfire blazed — a living pillar of heat and light that snapped and danced with every new log thrown in. Sparks leapt high into the darkening sky, as if trying to reach the stars themselves.
The city's joy swelled around it.
Musicians perched on barrels and crates played quick, skipping songs that tripped over themselves in delight. Children waved streamers like battle flags. Lovers swayed, friends clapped, old women stomped out rhythms with thick boots and louder laughs.
And Moore?
Moore was absolutely, gloriously off-beat.
He danced like no one had told him how — spinning too far, stumbling back in time, but moving with the kind of reckless joy that made space for others to join. A couple of kids copied his steps. One of them declared him the "mayor of bad dancing."
Moore bowed low. "I humbly accept."
Ronell danced too — hesitantly, at first, then freer as the music wrapped around her like ribbon. Her hands twirled above her head, catching lanternlight in their arc. She didn't smile often, but tonight, it reached her eyes.
For a while, they forgot everything else.
Then, the tempo changed — slower, steadier, like the music had remembered something.
Ronell's step faltered.
She didn't fall out of rhythm, exactly — just… paused.
Long enough for her thoughts to slip through.
Moore noticed.
He stepped beside her, catching her gently by the wrist.
"Hey," he said, slightly breathless. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The thinking thing. Tragic habit."
She huffed a half-laugh, but her gaze had already drifted beyond the fire.
"It's nothing. Just feels… strange tonight. Like we're walking through a memory someone forgot to finish."
Moore didn't joke that time.
He gave her hand a little squeeze, then let it go.
"I'll be nearby," he said. "Get some air. You'll feel better."
Ronell nodded and slipped into the crowd.
Moore turned, heading for the edge of the square — and sure enough, found May.
She stood just outside the light, where the festival's warmth started to thin. Her cloak hung open, her hair touched faintly by firelight — black threaded with deep, almost ember-red strands. She wasn't hiding. But she wasn't part of it either.
Her eyes tracked the bonfire like she was trying to remember something about it — not its shape, but what came after.
Moore didn't say anything at first.
He just stood beside her, shoulder close but not quite touching.
"Figured you'd be here," he said quietly. "You've got the look of someone brooding professionally."
May didn't move. "And you've got the look of someone who should be resting sore ankles."
"I'm surprisingly nimble when cider's involved."
A pause.
Then, softer:
"Something's wrong, isn't it?"
May didn't answer immediately. She was watching the way the fire moved — too high, too fast. The way the smoke twisted as if it had somewhere to go.
"The past is starting to catch up," she said at last.
Simple. Plain. As if the words weren't heavy.
Moore shifted slightly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Could it wait, maybe?" he asked. "We've got cider. And chestnuts."
May didn't smile. But something in her posture relaxed — just a little.
From the center of the plaza, laughter rang out again. Ronell was back among the dancers, but she moved slower now. Watching the cobblestones beneath her feet. Like checking they were still solid.
Moore looked past her, into the corners of the square — between stalls, behind curtains, into places where firelight should have reached but didn't.
Movement.
Not people. Not shadows.
Something… else.
He didn't ask what it was.
And May didn't offer.
But she was watching. Eyes sharp now. Unblinking.
Moore followed her gaze, trying to see — and saw only flickers, like memories half-lived.
He swallowed.
"Should we be worried?"
"Not yet," May said.
Then, almost too quiet to hear:
"But soon."
They stood together in the fringe of the firelight. Not talking. Not leaving.
And somewhere far off, the drums picked up again — but the beat was just slightly wrong.
No one else noticed.
But the fire burned hotter.
And the illusion… began to thin.
---
The last of the paper lanterns were being released now — passed carefully from older hands to younger ones, or cradled between couples like small, flickering promises. Each one lit with breath and matchstick, its flame tucked within delicate folds of parchment.
They rose — slow, graceful, one by one — golden blurs against the darkening sky.
Moore tilted his head up to watch.
"They're not getting very far," he muttered.
Above the rooftops, clouds had gathered — low and dense, smeared charcoal across a sky that should've held stars. The lanterns lifted into them and vanished. Not burned out. Not scattered.
Just… gone.
The crowd didn't say much. But a few people looked up. A few fell quiet.
Near the cider tent, someone coughed. Just once — sharp, sudden.
It echoed.
May tensed beside the lamppost, her arms still folded but no longer casual.
Ronell turned at the sound, scanning the edges of the square. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her belt-knife without thinking.
Then came the wind.
Not strong, not yet — but precise. Cold at the edges. It wound through the plaza like it knew the way, slipping between cloaks and up sleeves, rattling loose ribbons and tugging at lantern strings.
The bonfire hissed. Its smoke curled sideways.
And far off — faint, but unmistakable — leaves rustled.
Not summer leaves.
These were dry. Brittle. The rustle of change. Of endings.
If anyone had looked beyond the city wall just then, they would have seen it: a shimmer of red along the treetops. Gold creeping in at the tips. The first colors of fall. Uninvited. Unannounced.
Moore lowered his gaze slowly, shoulders tense.
Ronell stepped closer to him without realizing it, her brow furrowed.
May's eyes stayed on the clouds above — unmoving. Watching.
The music started again. Someone shouted for another dance. The square slowly returned to motion.
But it wasn't the same.
Laughter rang thinner. The fire burned warmer, but the chill still clung to the edges.
Something had shifted.
There was no crack in the sky. No thunder. No flashing warning.
Just a subtle weight in the air. A breath held too long.
The illusion hadn't broken.
Not yet.
But it was bending now.
And someone, somewhere, could hear the sound of it.
Like ice beginning to fracture.