Carynthos — May 2, 1522
At sunrise, Carynthos woke not to whistles or bells but to the low hum of temple drums. Morning mists pulled back like stage-curtains, revealing streets already dressed in silk banners: scarlet, saffron, and indigo. Jyotiksha—the Festival of Threads & Flame—had begun, and for one glorious day rank, coin, and badge meant nothing. Everyone was welcome beneath the lanterns.
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Kite and Ryenne stepped from a side-street into the central square just as monks rolled out sandalwood braziers. Flames leapt sky-high; the air smelled of lotus-incense and clove. Ryenne, in her white-and-crimson songket, stared openly.
"Beautiful," she breathed.
Kite looked at the square—then at her. "Yeah. It is."
A familiar voice boomed, "There you are!" Ethan Grayson bounded over, twin daggers swapped for twin paper cups of spiced tea. "To Jyotiksha! May the threads never tangle." He handed one cup to Kite, winked at Ryenne, and melted back into the crowd—already chasing two giggling song-weavers.
Moments later, Lauren Romero appeared beside them, stoic as ever, carrying a tray stacked with rose-sugar pastries. "Fuel," she said simply, thrusting two cakes into their hands before disappearing toward the temple fires.
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At noon, the parade began. Families marched shoulder-to-shoulder, lanterns bobbing like captive stars. At the front strode the 103-year-old tailor, Yaya Melin. Behind her—wearing hastily pressed uniforms rather than festival silks—marched STF staff on mandated "community duty." Ralf Darwin waved, cheeks already smeared with saffron paint. Flanking him, the twin quartermasters Kora & Lora tossed handfuls of crimson petals over passers-by, shouting, "For luck—""—and for stitches that never tear!"
Ryenne tried to dodge the petals; Kite accepted a full shower. When he shook the flowers from his hair, Sabrina Adams sauntered by in an emerald kebaya far too elegant for fieldwork. She slipped a folded note into Ryenne's basket—"Your tailor still owes you a fitting, darling"—and vanished in a swirl of perfume.
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Harley dragged Audrey to a batik stall alive with wax-dyed dragons. Audrey haggled good-naturedly—until Louisiana Tiffany, vacation tan fading, jumped in and really haggled, reducing the price by half with a single dazzling smile. "Consider it receptionist's discount," she chirped, fluttering a receipt in victory.
Ryenne raised a brow. "Remind me never to get on her bad side."
"Noted," Kite said, half-laughing.
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By twilight they drifted to Lake Jhanavi. Thousands of paper lanterns waited, trembling in the hush before launch. STF members mingled with bakers, sailors, and scholars—no ranks, no watch-stars, only wishes.
Kite and Ryenne knelt at the shoreline, sharing one lantern. "You say the wish," she murmured.
He hesitated, then: "I wish… things could stay like this a little longer." Together they set the lantern afloat. It joined a river of lights skimming across mirrored water.
Not far away, Ethan whooped as Lauren finally cracked a grin; Ralf pretended to faint at the sight.
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Night detonated into color. Fireworks—sky-blooms engineered by STF artificers—opened silently first, dropping showers of petal-sparks onto outstretched hands; then thunderous violet bursts rattled windows.
Ryenne flinched at a boom; Kite caught her hand by reflex. This time she didn't pull away. Sabrina yelled from a rooftop, "Now it is a date!" earning a death-glare and a laugh.
At the final stroke before midnight, monks spread through the crowd, brushing dyed thread-dust across every forehead. Kite closed his eyes. When he opened them, a faint scarlet mark linked him to thousands of strangers, to Ryenne, and to every STF friend now lost in the throng.
Ryenne wiped a speck of dust from his cheek. "You look ridiculous," she said—and smiled.
"You too."
Lanterns, fireworks, laughter, and drums blended into one vast heartbeat. Under that pulse, Carynthos felt indivisible, bright, and utterly alive.