CHAPTER 11 — “Festival of Fools” #3
“No. Just pieces. Fragments.” I shrug. “But more pieces than I had before.”
Garrett is quiet for a moment.
“You know,” he says finally, “when I first met you, I thought you were probably dangerous. Someone with secrets, someone running from something, someone who might bring trouble to the village.”
“And now?”
“Now I think you’re definitely dangerous.
But I also think you’re the best thing that’s happened to Millbrook in decades.
” He claps me on the shoulder—carefully, like he’s aware of how much he could hurt me if he used real strength.
“The festival tonight is because of you. The hope in people’s eyes is because of you.
Whatever else you are, whatever else you’re planning, remember that. ”
He walks away before I can respond.
He’s right, you know, Johnson says. You’ve changed things here. For the better.
“I was just clearing floors.”
You were saving lives. Building connections. Creating something worth protecting. A pause. Those aren’t the actions of someone who just wants revenge.
“Revenge is still the goal.”
Is it? Or has the goal evolved, the way you’ve evolved?
I don’t answer.
I don’t know how to.
The festival starts at sunset.
The village square has been transformed—tables laden with food that these people probably can’t afford, torches casting warm light across weathered faces, a makeshift stage where someone is tuning an instrument that might be a lute or might be an act of violence against a piece of wood with strings.
Everyone is here. The farmers, the craftsmen, the elders, the children. People who were strangers two months ago and are now… something else. Something closer.
I stand at the edge of the square, Johnson on my shoulder, watching the celebration unfold.
“You’re lurking,” Mariella says, appearing beside me. She’s done something to her hair—braided it differently, woven in small flowers—and she’s wearing a dress I haven’t seen before. Simple, but flattering.
“I’m observing.”
“From a dark corner. Alone. That’s lurking.”
“Strategic observation.”
“Antisocial lurking.”
“I’m not antisocial. I’m selectively social.”
“You’re scared.”
The word cuts through my deflections like a knife.
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Her voice is gentle, not accusing. “You’re scared to let yourself enjoy this. To be part of something. Because the last time you let yourself belong, they took it away.”
I don’t say anything. Can’t say anything. Because she’s right, and we both know it.
“Come dance with me,” she says.
“I don’t dance.”
“You used to. I can tell.” She takes my hand—her fingers warm against mine—and tugs gently. “Come remember.”
Go, Johnson says, and there’s something strange in his mental voice. Something almost soft. I’ll watch from here. Judge everyone’s form. The usual.
Mariella leads me into the square, into the light, into the middle of something I’ve been avoiding since I came back.
Connection. Community. Belonging.
The music starts—something simple, rhythmic, the kind of tune that makes your feet want to move even if your brain is screaming about risk assessments. Mariella positions us, guides my hands to her waist, and starts to lead because I’ve clearly forgotten everything my past life knew about dancing.
“You’re terrible at this,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. You move like a golem with joint problems.”
“Your encouragement is overwhelming.”
“Just follow my lead. Stop thinking so much.”
Stop thinking. Right. Because that’s something I’m capable of doing. Just turning off the constant analysis, the threat assessment, the awareness that anyone here could be an enemy, that happiness is a trap, that—
Mariella steps on my foot.
“Ow!”
“You were spiraling,” she says. “I could see it in your eyes. The spiraling look.”
“So you stepped on me?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
I want to argue. I really do. But she’s right—the spiral has stopped. I’m here, in this moment, with her, and the music is playing and the torches are flickering and for the first time in two hundred years, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
“I’m going to step on your feet now,” I warn her. “Probably multiple times. Just so we’re even.”
“I accept those terms.”
We dance. Badly, awkwardly, stepping on each other and bumping into other couples and generally making a mockery of anything that could be called grace. But we’re laughing—actually laughing—and somewhere along the way the steps stop being steps and start being something else.
Something that feels like healing.
The night progresses.
There’s food—too much of it, everyone contributing whatever they could spare, and Granny Thorn’s soup is exactly as terrible as I remember but I eat it anyway because she’s watching me like she’ll hex me if I don’t.
There are toasts—to the harvest, to the village, to “the stranger who fights monsters so we don’t have to.” That one makes me uncomfortable, but Mariella squeezes my hand and Johnson makes a sound in my head that might be approval, so I endure it.
There are stories—villagers sharing tales of the old days, before the dungeon got bad, before the monster attacks started taking lives. Stories about what Millbrook used to be. What it could be again.
And there’s Mira, who has somehow obtained more flowers and insists on weaving them into my hair while I’m distracted by conversation.
“You look very pretty now,” she announces when she’s done.
“I’m sure I do.”
“The purple ones match your serious-thinking eyes.”
“My eyes are still brown, Mira.”
“They glow blue sometimes. I’ve seen it.”
I don’t have a response to that, so I just accept my flower crown with as much dignity as possible.
Mr. Flower Man indeed, Johnson observes. Your reputation is growing.
“Shut up.”
Never.
Midnight approaches. The festival is winding down, people drifting home in groups, the torches burning low.
I’m sitting on a bench at the edge of the square, flower crown slightly wilted, watching the last dancers stumble through a song that’s mostly just the lute player making things up at this point.
Mariella sits beside me. Quiet. Comfortable.
“Thank you,” she says eventually.
“For what?”
“For coming. For dancing. For—” She gestures vaguely at the square, at the village, at everything. “For being here. Being present. I know it’s not easy for you.”
“It’s getting easier.”
“Is it?”
I consider the question honestly.
“Yes,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I mean it. “It’s terrifying. Every moment I let myself care about these people, about you, about any of this—it’s another vulnerability. Another way I can be hurt.”
“But?”
“But I’m starting to think that maybe vulnerability isn’t the same as weakness. Maybe…” I trail off, trying to find the right words. “Maybe the reason the betrayal hurt so much wasn’t because I cared too much. It was because I cared about the wrong people. People who didn’t deserve it.”
Mariella is quiet for a moment.
“And these people? Do they deserve it?”
I look around the square. At Granny Thorn, collecting empty bowls with her usual gruff efficiency.
At Garrett, sharing a drink with some of the younger villagers.
At Bram, who’s apparently convinced some poor girl to dance with him despite his complete lack of rhythm.
At Mira, asleep on her mother’s lap, flower crown half-falling off.
At Mariella, watching me with those green eyes that see too much.
“I think they might,” I say. “I think they might be exactly the kind of people worth caring about.”
She smiles. Not the practiced smile she uses when she’s being polite. A real one, small and warm and meant just for me.
“Good answer.”
“I try.”
“You’re still terrible at dancing, though.”
“Can’t win them all.”
She leans against my shoulder—just lightly, just a little—and we sit there as the festival winds down, watching the stars emerge overhead.
Sickening, Johnson says. But his mental voice is warm, almost fond. Absolutely sickening. I approve.
I don’t respond. Don’t need to.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m exactly where I want to be.
The moment shatters three hours later.
I’m half-asleep in the cottage, Mariella in her corner, Johnson curled at the foot of the bed, when something hits my awareness like a bucket of cold water.
Mana signatures. Multiple. Approaching from the north.
Velthar—
“I feel them.”
I’m on my feet before my eyes are fully open, [Arcane Sight] activating automatically. Through the walls, through the darkness, I can see them—five figures, moving fast, carrying equipment that glows with enchantment.
Not villagers.
Not merchants.
Soldiers.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ THREAT DETECTED ││ \[Incoming Force --- Analysis\] │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ Number: 5 ││ Classification: Imperial Scouts (probable) ││ Equipment: Military-grade, enchanted ││ Average level estimate: 18-22 ││ ││ Formation: Standard reconnaissance pattern ││ Direction: North (toward village center) ││ ETA: 4 minutes ││ ││ Alert Level: HIGH ││ ││ "Company's coming.
And they don't look ││ like they're here for the festival leftovers.
" │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Imperial scouts.
Anton’s people.
They found us.