The streets of Zaherra's capital shimmered under the amber hues of a setting sun, gold brushing off white walls, casting soft shadows across cobblestone paths. A breeze threaded through the alleyways, carrying with it spices, street music, and voices of vendors shouting to outbid one another. It was a town that held its culture in its breath and let it out with pride.
Zorion walked in the middle of the group with his hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly as if trying to blend in—unsuccessfully. Every now and then, someone stared a little too long. Not at him—at the five of them together.
"Where exactly are we going, again?" Zorion asked, breaking the mild silence.
Eucliea turned around, walking backward now, her long blonde hair dancing behind her. "A lot of places," she said with a smile so casual it could've belonged to a con artist. "You just follow me."
Sathvic's expression remained stoic, but his arms trembled subtly under the weight of three bags—two pink, one glittery.
He muttered under his breath, "Sounds like a professional guide."
"Thank you," Eucliea beamed, catching it.
"That was sarcasm," he clarified.
"I know," she said. "But I'll still take it as a compliment."
Alethea was walking beside Sathvic, completely empty-handed, sipping on a drink she hadn't even paid for—Zorion had, with trembling hands.
She eyed Eucliea's confident strut and whispered to Zorion, "Either she's kidnapped us, or she's really proud of her Yelp rating."
Zorion, lips twitching, whispered back, "Either way, we're too far in now."
They stopped first at a street food cart. Eucliea turned dramatically, hand raised.
"Behold! Zaherran mini kebabs."
Raga clapped. "Wow!"
Zorion leaned over to Alethea. "He's cheering for meat on sticks."
"I think he'd cheer if I held up a paperclip."
Sathvic, meanwhile, was using the food stop as a chance to rest. He placed the bags on a bench slowly, like lowering a fragile relic. "These things weigh more than my emotional baggage."
"I thought you didn't have emotions," Alethea teased.
"I did. Then I met you."
"Aw," she smirked, "that's sweet."
"It's not."
Eucliea stood in front of a second cart now, practically radiating excitement. "Okay, okay! This next one is famous. Everyone in Zaherra knows the sour mango juice here."
Zorion raised an eyebrow. "Sour?"
"You'll survive," she said, handing him one.
He sipped it. Blinked. Then blinked again.
"I see the gods," he whispered hoarsely.
Eucliea grinned. "Good, now they'll forgive your fashion sense."
The walk continued—through busy artisan streets, laughter-filled alleys, and brief moments where all five just stood still, watching a cultural performance in the square.
Alethea leaned on Sathvic's shoulder. "Hey, what if we get ambushed by thieves."
Sathvic didn't even look up. "I'm carrying three bags, Alethea. If someone ambushed us, I'll give them one."
"Knight in shimmering sarcasm," she sighed.
Meanwhile, Raga kept darting from shop to shop window like he was on a mission to empty Eucliea's purse. He stopped by a store full of hats, and came back wearing one four sizes too big.
Zorion stared. "Where did you even—"
"I'm in disguise!" Raga declared, proud.
"You're a walking suspicion," Sathvic replied.
Then came a moment—not dramatic, but still oddly quiet. They'd stopped near a fountain, children playing by the water's edge, the sound of lapping splashes and distant bells filling the space.
Zorion looked around. Eucliea was smiling at a child feeding pigeons. Alethea was pretending to look annoyed but was obviously enjoying herself. Sathvic looked… relieved. Like the bags were worth it.
And for the first time, since crossing the border, Zorion thought:
This doesn't feel like enemy territory. It feels like a trip. Like a memory forming.
He let out a small sigh, almost nostalgic.
"I think I like Zaherra," he said.
Alethea turned toward him. "You only say that when your stomach's full."
"True," he admitted, "but this time, maybe not only because of that."
And just as the moment could deepen into reflection—
Raga sneezed and dropped his hat in the fountain.
Everyone laughed.
The park air was unusually sweet today. Or maybe that was just the vendor's cart—they all found themselves seated on a timeworn wooden bench, holding dripping cones like fragile treasure.
Zorion was mid-bite when he turned to Eucliea.
"So... when's Phylax coming back? Or did he vanish like Raga's hat?"
Eucliea, licking a swirl of berry-blue with elegance that felt instinctual, tapped her screen. "I texted him. Told him we'll be at the next park... The one across the plaza."
Zorion nodded. "Cool."
But his tone betrayed how little attention he was actually giving her answer. His focus was locked—one mission, one target: devour the cone.
He succeeded. Easily.
Like a beast of summer, Zorion demolished the cone in under a minute, the crunch echoing like he is in the mountains.
Sathvic raised an eyebrow.
Eucliea blinked.
Alethea whistled. "You ever chew your food?"
Zorion, wiping cream off his cheek with a smug look, leaned back. "What's to chew?"
Meanwhile, poor Raga's life had become a race against a divine clock.
He was walking in slow circles near the bench, ice cream in one hand, sheer panic in his eyes. Every second brought him closer to a full meltdown—literally. His hands were sticky, his nose had been iced twice, and not a single bite was satisfying. It was speed versus splatter. A duel with no mercy.
By the time they reached the second park—where Phylax was supposed to meet them—Raga still hadn't finished. His cone was now half size, twice the problem.
But no one noticed anymore.
Because they saw it.
A small open-air stage, flower-wrapped archways, and a crowd cheering like something epic was unfolding.
A sign read:
"Zaherra Park Annual Beauty Contest"
"1 Final Spot Remaining – Apply Now!"
Sathvic squinted. "Beauty contest?"
Alethea, arms crossed, grinned. "How convenient."
Zorion leaned in with interest. "Wait… there's prize money?"
Before anyone could reply, the group began drifting toward the stands.
Sathvic and Raga assumed Zorion would come sit with them. They even saved him a seat.
He did not.
He had vanished.
Meanwhile, at the side of the set, Eucliea and Alethea stood in front of the contestant entry board. The "ONE SPOT LEFT" glared at them.
"I think you should enter," Eucliea said.
"No, you. You're more graceful."
"You have more charm."
"You have more presence."
Neither wanted to give in to the fact they both wanted to enter. Deeply. Like some primal girlhood wish resurfacing just for fun. So they did what all emotionally-repressed women of wit do—
"Rock, paper, scissors?" Alethea said.
"One round."
They played.
Eucliea won.
She didn't gloat. Just gave a firm nod, like a soldier receiving orders.
She stepped forward—
"Sorry!" said the lady at the counter. "That was the last contestant. Just filled!"
Eucliea froze. "What?"
She turned to Alethea, who looked equally confused. Both of them scanned the other faces—
And then spotted his name on the list.
ZORION.
He stood tall. Hair slightly messy from the wind. Eyebrows furrowed like a soldier ready for war. In his hands, a mirror—checking his angle.
Backstage, he muttered to himself:
"First prize is a thousand gold coins? Men are allowed too? Nobody told me not to enter… So technically… this is fair game."
What he didn't know—what nobody told him—was that Eucliea and Alethea hadn't gone aside for a casual chat. They were settling the entry like civil queens.
No one told him because no one trusted him with that sort of nuance.
Which, in hindsight, was fair.
Back in the stands, Alethea's expression was that of someone who had seen war and lost by technicality.
Sathvic leaned back, arms folded. "...Your boy."
Alethea looked away. "Not mine."
Eucliea sighed. "Well we can still clap."
"Yes," Alethea said. "We're going to smile, clap, and then kill him."
They both turned back toward the stage. The spotlight had begun to shift. One by one, the contestants introduced themselves with elaborate poses and greetings.
And then…
"Contestant Number 10: Zorion."
He stepped forward.
He waved.
He smiled.
He bowed.
The crowd wasn't sure whether to cheer or faint on that walk.