After saving the dubious storyteller from Ezmelral's fierce anger, the group meandered toward the center of the festival. A towering bonfire blazed under the dimming afternoon sky, casting long, flickering shadows over the plaza.
They found seats on one of the old, intricately carved wooden logs arranged around the fire. Several masked dancers moved in perfect harmony around the flames, waving feathers imbued with fire that left vibrant, glowing trails swirling in the air.
The mesmerizing display was more of a ritual than mere entertainment. The sun was nearly set, heralding the legendary Nirvana—a sacred ceremony absent from the tribe's history for a thousand years—now set to be revived tonight with the return of their Queen to summon its magnificence.
"Tonight is our last night here," Libinea remarked softly, her eyes fixed on the dancers.
"Mhm. Everything will change after tonight," Raiking responded, his voice steady and calm.
To Libinea, his words were a gentle reminder of their imminent departure. But for Ezmelral, who was acutely aware of the devastation Morgal was orchestrating at the borders, his words resonated as an ominous truth. The Phoenix Tribe, through which they had peacefully roamed all day, was on the brink of a violent, unforgettable upheaval.
The mortal condition... peace is never enduring, Ezmelral mused, releasing a quiet, mournful sigh.
Setting aside the grim reality, the Sword Spirit stood up, her face brightened by a broad, radiant smile, effectively concealing the looming catastrophe from her Sister. "Come, Libinea! Let's not spend our last night brooding on a log!"
Libinea glanced at Ezmelral's extended hand, which clearly beckoned her to the lively dance floor. She hesitated, glancing back at Raiking, who seemed thoroughly uninterested in participating in the mortal celebrations.
Even though she anticipated his response, she couldn't resist asking, "What about you?"
"Hmph!" Ezmelral retorted playfully, placing a hand on her hip. "Do you really think a man of his stature would ever be caught dancing in the night?"
Libinea remained silent, a hopeful sparkle in her golden eyes.
"Go," Raiking said, waving his free hand—a gentle, dismissive gesture for them to do as they pleased. His other hand remained steady, holding a warm milk bottle for a very content Faye.
With the Emperor's blessing given, Ezmelral didn't hesitate. She seized Libinea's wrist, laughing as she led the Queen to join the ritual by the blazing bonfire.
A profound silence quickly enveloped Raiking once the two talkative companions had left.
However, this silence was short-lived. A familiar presence—who had evidently been waiting on the outskirts for the precise moment when he was left alone—approached and took a seat beside him.
"Elder," Raiking acknowledged without turning his head.
"God of Death," Elder Wenya replied, her voice laden with weariness and dread as she settled into the empty seat next to him.
As the sun crept closer to the horizon, Raiking posed his question with a focused gaze on the flickering fire. "Have you come to a decision?"
"I consulted with the Clan Leaders earlier," Wenya replied.
"Oh? And what was their response?"
"They remain obstinate."
"Then their time has run out."
A heavy silence descended upon the bench, lingering for an extended moment. Wenya comprehended the grave implications of that decisive statement. The suffocating tension eased only when Raiking unhurriedly retrieved a small glass vial from his robes, its contents a thick, pitch-black liquid, and offered it to her.
"What is this?" Wenya inquired, eyeing the strange substance with caution.
"My blood."
"Your blood?"
"The sword does not show mercy, Elder. Casualties will occur," Raiking explained with calm assurance. "However, with this, you will not be defenseless when chaos arises."
With trembling fingers, Wenya accepted the vial, examining it closely. She was astounded that such a precious, miraculous artifact—capable of retrieving a soul from the brink of death—was contained in such a fragile glass vessel. She understood its immense worth, yet she was utterly perplexed as to why such compassion was being extended to her.
"It appears even the mighty God of Death holds compassion for the vulnerable," she quietly observed.
"The Phoenix Kin possess their own fortitude," Raiking corrected. "Your indomitable spirit has allowed your people to embrace every festival with whatever small joy remained. If this tribe were truly weak, they would have abandoned such traditions long ago, never bringing a smile to my daughter's face today."
Wenya found this reasoning satisfactory. She had been observing the Emperor from a distance all day. If there was one indisputable truth she had discerned, it was his unwavering love for his daughter.
The profound irony of the situation was not lost on her. The tribe's steadfast adherence to their cultural traditions now served as their salvation, while the Chieftains' stubborn refusal to relinquish their political pride had sealed their fate.
"Thank you," she whispered, bowing her head.
"Do not thank me," Raiking replied, his eyes, as dark as the void, returning to the festival. "Thank the firebreathers, the dancers, and the storyteller."
Before the Elder could respond, Libinea appeared before them, her cheeks slightly flushed from the dancing.
"Wenya, you are here? Come, let us dance!"
Wenya instinctively reached to take her Queen's hand but hesitated. Her gaze drifted to the blood-orange hues of the setting sun. "You do not have time for that, my child. Remember, you must reach the temple before sunset for the abdication ritual."
"You are right..." Libinea murmured, her joyous smile transforming into one of resolve and melancholy. "But, there is still one last thing I must do before we leave."
Libinea stepped away from Elder Wenya and directed her golden eyes towards Raiking, or more specifically, at the giggling infant nestled comfortably in his arms.
Without uttering another word, Libinea's physical form began to blur. In a breathtaking demonstration of her ancient lineage, her body transformed into a vibrant swirl of crimson and gold flames. These flames lacked their usual destructive heat; instead, they emitted a profound, comforting warmth that gently enveloped the plaza.
The elegant ribbon of fire gracefully encircled Raiking, playfully dancing around his shoulders before weaving around Faye.
"Gaga!" Faye squealed with delight.
The gentle flames lifted the baby effortlessly from her father's embrace, carrying her upward into the darkening evening sky.
As they soared high above the village, the fiery streak suddenly expanded, igniting a brilliant burst that illuminated the heavens. When the ethereal flames dissipated moments later, Libinea had assumed her true form—a majestic, towering Phoenix. Her massive wings spanned the starlit sky, and her elegant feathers glowed like living, breathing embers.
Securely positioned between her broad, fiery shoulders was a thoroughly overjoyed Faye, her tiny hands happily clutching the warm, glowing plumage.
BOOM! Right on cue, the festival below unveiled its grand finale. Massive, colorful fireworks erupted from the courtyards of the Five Peaks, exploding into spectacular bursts of magic and light that painted the night sky in vibrant shades of purple, green, and gold.
Instead of soaring above the display, Libinea dived directly into it. She navigated through the illuminated clouds, gracefully swerving and weaving amidst the booming explosions. For the villagers below, the silhouette of their Queen dancing through the fireworks was a legendary and awe-inspiring sight.
Yet for the little girl riding on the Queen's back, it was pure, unadulterated magic. Faye was experiencing the brilliant, explosive beauty of the festival up close, her joyful giggles resounding clearly over the thunderous cracks of the fireworks.
Down in the plaza, Raiking stood perfectly still, watching the majestic silhouette of the Phoenix and his daughter darting through the painted sky. Unnoticed by the cheering crowds around him, the God of Death allowed himself a rare, genuine smile, silently committing this perfect, fleeting moment of peace to memory before the inevitable bloodshed of the night commenced.