The town of Windmere had a tradition: once a year, they pretended their lives weren't full of magical mishaps, monster sightings, and economic instability by throwing the biggest festival in the region.
This year's theme? "Harmony and Heritage."
Elias privately suspected it translated to: "Please don't set anything on fire this time."
Rhea, naturally, was thrilled.
"Do we get to throw things?" she asked, already tugging on her too-large cloak and hopping in place with uncontained glee.
Elias glanced at the festival flyer. "There's a ring toss."
"Do the rings explode?"
"No, Rhea."
She crossed her arms, disappointed. "Lame."
The week leading up to the festival turned the sleepy town into a riot of color and chaos.
Ribbons fluttered from rooftops. Vendors hauled in magical snacks that blinked, chirped, or sang when bitten. Every shopkeeper had something new to sell, usually with the words "Limited Edition Festival Deal!" printed in sparkly gold letters.
Rhea had never seen anything like it.
She dragged Elias everywhere.
And he, half-exhausted but helpless against her enthusiasm, followed her through the market square, up and down food stalls, and even into a booth that tried to sell them "artisan dragon-shaped bread." The bread growled when poked.
"You've got crumbs in your hair," Elias said, brushing a flaky ear off her shoulder.
"That's Sir Crustalot," she said proudly, holding up her half-eaten bread-dragon like a trophy. "He fought bravely."
"I'm sure he did."
She paused, sniffing the air like a cat. "Is that… sugarplume cotton?"
Elias sighed. "You already had three skewers."
"I want four. That's balance."
While Rhea chased snacks and souvenirs, Elias found himself on decoration duty.
Somehow, the festival planning committee had discovered he had "steady hands," which was a roundabout way of saying "you look responsible and are easy to guilt-trip."
He ended up repainting benches, stringing floating lanterns using mana-thread, and carrying heavy boxes labeled things like "CONFETTI – Do Not Jostle."
Rhea helped. Sort of.
"Does this banner look symmetrical?" he asked, trying to align a "Harmony and Heritage!" sign over the stage.
Rhea squinted at it.
"It's slightly tilted toward failure."
"Thanks for the encouragement."
"You're welcome. Want me to torch it so you can start over?"
"No, Rhea."
Despite the chaos, the festival preparation brought something strange to their days: peace.
For once, no one was chasing them. No curses. No ancient prophecies whispering in forbidden libraries. Just sun-warmed afternoons, music drifting from rehearsal tents, and the sound of children playing spell-tag in the field.
They had a moment.
A real, genuine moment.
On the third day of prep, Elias found Rhea in the square, watching a group of kids paint lanterns.
She was silent, hands folded in her lap, a soft smile tugging at her lips.
"They're… normal," she said.
"Yeah," Elias replied, sitting beside her. "They are."
"I was never normal."
"You're not supposed to be."
She turned to him. "Is that bad?"
"No. It makes you… you."
There was something about how she looked at him then—eyes full of wonder, not at the world, but at him—that made his chest tighten.
"You make it feel okay," she said quietly. "Being me."
Later, they passed a masked performer juggling enchanted spheres.
Rhea tilted her head. "Why is he wearing a bird mask?"
"Performance tradition. Something about warding off bad luck and paying respect to elemental spirits."
Rhea narrowed her eyes. "I want one."
"What?"
"A mask. A cool one. With fangs."
"Why?"
"Because then people won't stare."
Elias frowned. "They don't stare."
"They do."
He paused. Then smiled. "I'll get you one."
She blinked. "Really?"
"Only if you promise not to enchant it with smoke and scare children."
"No promises."
He laughed.
As the festival stage neared completion, Elias found himself making unexpected friends.
The baker's apprentice—Lina's older cousin—offered him fresh plum buns.
The local mage taught him a trick to stabilize the floating lanterns using subtle sound magic.
Even the grumpy librarian gave him a rare smile after Elias returned a stack of "borrowed" spellbooks early.
It was… nice.
For the first time since he brought Rhea home, it felt like the town was beginning to accept them.
And maybe, just maybe, forgive the fire-scorched schoolyard. And the cracked soul mirror. And the incident with the nosebleed spell and the traumatized class pet.
Progress.
On the eve of the festival, Rhea surprised him.
She stood in the doorway, arms behind her back, fidgeting with excitement.
"Elias."
"Yeah?"
"I made something."
She held it out: a handwoven bracelet, poorly tied but clearly made with care.
Each bead shimmered faintly with embedded mana. There was a fire rune in the center, surrounded by protection symbols. It pulsed softly.
"It's for you," she said. "It… links to mine. Not a contract. Just… a connection."
Elias took it, eyes wide.
"It's beautiful," he said honestly.
She looked away, ears pink. "It might explode if you sneeze too hard."
He laughed, slipping it on. "Thanks, Rhea."
She hesitated.
"I just… I want you to know that even if this festival disappears and people forget us and the world resets or whatever… I'll still remember."
Elias didn't say anything right away.
Instead, he hugged her.
She froze. Then slowly, shyly, hugged him back.
The first fireworks lit the sky that night.
Rhea pressed her face to the window, eyes wide as magic-filled blooms burst above the rooftops.
Elias stood beside her, arms crossed.
"They timed it perfectly," he murmured.
"Elias?"
"Yeah?"
"This is the happiest I've ever been."
He smiled, watching her reflection in the glass. "Me too."
To be continued…