Time for Saturday Blurbs! Yay! This is part three of this weekly story. I hope you enjoy! (I apologize for missing a few weeks. Hopefully this makes up for it ^^)
As the festival rolled on, something imperceptible shifted.
The music didn't stop. The drums still beat. The tambourines still shimmered like silver in the dusk. But the rhythm stretched--drawn long and strange--like candle wax dripping slow in a windless room.
Kita blinked.
The lanterns above glowed too bright for a moment, flaring unnaturally gold before dimming again. People still danced, still shouted and tossed ribbons of silk through the air, but their limbs seemed to move through syrup. Their laughter came from too far away.
Time was slowing.
She could feel it.
She clutched Namul's hand tighter, though her own was damp with sweat beneath her glove. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding her in a way that no words ever could. It was the only thing that still felt real.
And then-- they emerged.
From the alleys behind puppet stalls, from the shadows of the tented archways and smoke-thick corners of the old square, they came. Dozens of them. Maybe more. Dressed in layered black cloth that shimmered oddly like oil in lamplight. Eyes covered in masks--each one carved with a different emotions. One laughed. One cried. One screamed.
Phantoms.
Her allies.
....Aren't they?
Kita's breath caught. Her throat constricted like she'd swelled cold iron. She had danced with them. For them. For him. For the masked leader they called "Father of Ash." They fed her, clothed her, whispered promises of justice in the flickering dark.
But they owned her.
And they owned Namul too.
Are they really allies when they're all that keeps her from her love and freedom? Are they allies when her dance is no longer hers, but a weapon laced in spell and blood?
The shadowed figures stepped out, fanning into the crowd like ink spilling through water. Nobody else seemed to notice. They were glamoured. Or the music was too loud. Or the festival too full of illusion.
Or maybe no one wanted to see.
She did.
And she couldn't stop.
Rita's body ached for movement. The Phantom's touch was already reaching toward her bones. She would be called soon. Her dance would begin. And this time-- it wasn't for show. It was for the plan. The strike. The king's steward would be present tonight. A symbol. A message. A warning dressed in silk and blood.
Which side is right? Which side is wrong?
The question bloomed in her skull like thorny roses. The king was cruel, yes-- but the Phantoms.... they had made her dance for executions. Made her watch. Made her smile.
Which side would let her live as herself again?
The music bent, warbling in her ears like a cracked music box. Somewhere, bells began to chime from the tower. She didn't remember them being part of the show.
Namul's hand squeezed hers again.
His red-brown hair glowed bronze in the lantern light, untamed and soft against the sharp contrast of the Phantom's rising presence. He still smelled like saddle soap and river wind. He hadn't lost himself yet.
The square began to shift as the center stage--their decoy stage-- lit up with colored torches. The air thicken with sweet smoke and clove. Dancers whirled. Somewhere backstage, someone screamed. Not apart of the act.
Namul leaned in close to her ear.
"It's starting. Please.... be safe." He murmured, barely audible.
And as usual, despite the emptiness the words held, like a tradition between the two of them, she uttered the lie she could never give to him, "I promise."
They met eyes. Something unspoken. Something even she didn't know the meaning of anymore. Something heartstrung and desperate.
He pulled her toward the far edge of the crowd, past the lantern post with the broken chain. That was the mark. One of many. She followed, her feet moving automatically even as her spirit resisted.
She could already feel the pull.
The Phantoms would want her to dance tonight.
Not the free, sky-touching dance she dreamed of. Not the dance with sunlight on her skin and laughter on her tongue. This was the other dance-- the one that sliced the air like blades. The one laced with poison, shadow, and illusion.
But they think it's power, she reminded herself. They think they're the light.
She glanced behind.
One of the Phantoms had stopped, standing still in the road as the revelry twirled past him unseeing. His mask was a blank, cracked porcelain face with no mouth. But she knew he was looking at her. Not through eyes-- but through something colder.
The plan was in motion.
And there would be no turning back now.
Still, wrapped in the small warmth of Namul's hand-- his fingers wrapped in hers like a promise--- she found one thing left untouched by the dark.
(I'm a day late on my Saturday blurbs-- sorry for that. I lost track of time. So today is Sunday blurbs? Lol. Anyways, here's the second part to this series.)
The streets bustled with energy that could’ve rivaled her grandmother’s excitement on the Evening Star feast morning. This, however, was not the Evening Star feast morning. It was the traveling troupe’s grand festival— and unlike the polite, candlelit joy of her villages harvest ceremonies, this festival thrummed with reckless delight.
Colorful banners in every shade of sun and flame flapped from balconies and street poles, snapping in the wind like a hundred gossipy tongues. Minstrels danced between stalls on makeshift stilts, laying flutes and jangling tambourines, their cheeks flushed from heat or wine— or both.
Lanterns bobbed on wires strung between rooftops like tiny moons caught in a net, and confetti clung to the cobblestones like crushed dreams beneath boots and hooves. Kita wove through the crowds, pulling her old cloak’s hood lower over her face. Her frame was small and nimble, but it did little good in the crush of people and the chaotic flow of traffic. A donkey cat nearly clipped her toes, and the vendors were shouting louder than ever, hawking sweet jujube buns and fried eel skewers, their voices tangling with the music in the air.
Her bare feet, dirt scuffed and aching, padded fast across the heaven stone. She’d remembered when they had taken extra taxes from the people to line the streets with the smooth, golden white rocks. Her cloak whipped behind her like the tail of some startled fox. She kept her eyes sharp, darting left and right trough the dizzying carnival of color and scent and movement. And then—there.
Namul.
Her heart fluttered like a loose ribbon in the wind.
A sharp whistle from behind made her duck instinctively— just in time to avoid a passing carriage that rattled too fast for a festival street. She dove sideways, straight into a pair of waiting arms.
“Hey.” He grinned as their foreheads bonked together awkwardly.
He steadied her with both hands, his sleeves patched and weathered— like the rest of him. A walking mosaic of stitched linen, cracked leather, and poorly hidden burn marks. She clung to the fabric of his sleeve rather than answering. The noise and faces blurred into something meaningless as soon as he touched her. She hated how her body gave away the relief before her mind caught up.
Namul looked at her, amused, but gentle. There was something else too. Something behind his eyes. It might’ve been a familial protection, a feeling that he carried with him to take care of her. Or planning. She knew that he had been running their strategy through his head at least a hundred times since they’d spoken last. It’s just how he was.
His fingers found hers, gloved in too-worn fabric, and without a word, he pulled her through the crowd. The festival roared around them like a tide. But her heartbeat was louder— erratic. Fear. Was it fear of failure? Or fear of success? She didn’t know.
Fire breathers sent arcs of gold into the air, and acrobats leapt from rooftops to nets with gasps from the crowd below. Drums pounded with such fury they mimicked a battle march— too loud, too fast. A girl danced on a stage with a snake coiled around her shoulders. Kita stopped for a brief moment, her eyes inadvertently watching the girl’s footwork.
It all shimmered with beauty and danger. A mask with teeth beneath the paint. Kita followed Namul’s back, the way his red-brown hair curled upward no matter how many times he tried to smooth it. She remembered teasing him about it once. Before the fire. Before the fall of Ethcoll. Before the hiding, the lies, and…. The plan.
The crowd didn’t know what was coming.
They cheered and tossed coins at the dancers. They washed the fire-eater exhale his roaring arc. They smiled as jugglers tossed knives between them like harmless toys. Kita held tighter to Namul’s hand. He glanced back at her. His gaze was intense. Worry, determination— and asking her if she was ready.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak. She only squeezed his hand once. And gave him the look of fire in her eyes. He clenched his teeth, as if preparing himself and turned back toward the crowd, pulling her to his side— just a little closer. As if having her next to him could actually protect her.
As they reached the far square— where the main act would begin— she caught a glimpse of something high on the clocktower’s balcony. A flicker of movement. A glint of something not made for celebration.
Namul paused. She saw his shoulder tense. He didn’t turn around this time. But he squeezed her hand. Once. Kita didn’t need words— She knew exactly what that meant. The festival played on. And somewhere beneath the stones below them, something darker stirred.
Time for "Saturday Blurbs" :3 (Enjoy my random story dump-- to be continued next Saturday)
Her feet swept the floor in rhythm, the echo of an old song thrumming in-betwen the wall like a heartbeat long silenced. The stage was smooth beneath her slippers—lacquered wood that still bore the scent of sandalwood and age, polished to a near-glass sheen. Her steps whispered across it, each movement conjuring ghosts of performances long passed. The music, soft and spectral, seemed to rise not from any instrument but from the very bones of the stage itself.
Her breath quickened. Sweat shimmered on her brow, sliding down the curve of her temple like falling stars. The air was thick with incense and something else—something ancient and damp, like the scent of the earth after rain on old stone. Her hands fluttered. Her arms swept through the air with purpose, though her mind could not recall what she was channeling. It wasn’t choreography. It was memory.
A memory she no longer owned.
The fountains to either side of the stage trickled in time with the tempo, their water glowing faintly blue under moonlight that wasn’t there before. The pools caught the flicker of the hanging lanterns above—round and silent, each one a floating eye. Their paper sides bore aligned signals that warped in the endless air, casting long, curling shadows that danced across the floor like grasping hands. One curled up the length of her arm, another crept up her cheek. She did not flinch. She couldn’t.
The music swelled. A voice—her own—sang out, though it felt borrowed. She clutched her chest, just as the singer once did, her voice trembling with a devotion that bordered on pain. The sound rose, blooming out to reach the farthest seats of the darkened hall. Be when she looked out—
There were no faces.
Only silhouettes in stillness, as if they were carved of ash and silence. Their eyes, if they had them, glinted faintly. Unmoving. Watching.
Cheers erupted—but they echoed strangely, like they were coming from a memory of an audience. A recording in some hollow chamber. Her breath caught. The stage felt like it had unmoored, floating just above reality. The cheers didn’t reach her. The presence of the nobles—the velvet seats, the glint of jewelry, the polite claps—all of it felt painted over, as thin as mist.
Only the lanterns were real.
Only the cold shadow on her skin.
She stood, her final pose held beneath the silver glow. The last note hung, stretched too thin. And then— silence. Her arms dropped. A feeling of emptiness washed over her. Hadn’t this been everything she wanted?
The performance. The stage. The praise.
Or was she lying to herself?
The scent of jasmine curled in through her nose like a whisper.
You’ve forgotten something.
Her gaze lifted to the lanterns, to the signals that twisted the longer she looked at them. The shadows were darker now. Heavy. Her chest tightened as something inside of her stirred—a shard of something lost. Something that fluttered and screamed and danced within the prison of her ribs.
A broken piece of memory. A name? A promise?
No…. Wings. Wings that once carried her across stars, across time. Wings made of that very dance, broken now. She staggered back a step. The cheers stopped.
The audience was gone. The fountains no longer flowed. Only the sound of her own breathing remained— shallow, too loud in the absence. And somewhere, just beneath her feet, the old song began again.
Soft.
Calling her home.
(To be continued next week teehee.)
(Name: The Dancer's Echo. In case you want to find the future updates.)
