The forge was cooling for the evening, shadows long across the floor when Lyra arrived. Hassian was waiting near the doorway, freshly washed, hair still a little wild from the day’s work. His smile, warm and unguarded, reached her first. “Hello, beautiful.”

Her heart lifted at the ease in his tone.

“I thought we’d go stargazing tonight,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “But I invited Auni along. Can’t risk the talk if we’re out past dark without a chaperone.” His mouth twitched with the faintest trace of humor.

Lyra laughed. “That’s perfect.”

They left together, their strides matching as the sky deepened into violet. The walk toward the farm felt easy, familiar. Lyra found herself thinking of the rhythm their days had fallen into — afternoons at the guild shack, evenings at the inn once the forge closed, the quiet companionship of shared stories. Hassian greeted her with warmth instead of reserve, even teased her sometimes, and every time she saw it, she thought she could glimpse how glad he was she was there.

At the farm, Auni waited on the fence rail, swinging his legs. “About time!” he called, springing down with his ever-present stick. “If you’re late, the beetles will all go home!”

Lyra bit back a smile, and Hassian shook his head. Together, the three of them followed the path toward the pond. By the time they reached the water’s edge, the sky had settled into dark velvet, far from the lights of Killima.

The pond shimmered dark and glassy beneath the spill of stars. Crickets sang from the tall grass, and the air smelled faintly of earth and water. Auni crouched by the bank with his stick, poking at the ripples. “They come out at night, you know. The beetles. You have to be quiet, though. They skate on the water if they think no one’s looking.”

Lyra laughed softly. “Maybe you’ll discover a new one someday, Auni.”

“Discover?” He wrinkled his nose. “I already know they’re here. I don’t need to discover them.”

Hassian, stretched out on his back with his arms folded behind his head, gave a low chuckle. “You’d like the title though. Auni the Discoverer. Sounds important.”

“That’s better than Auni the Farmer,” the boy replied.

“Or Auni the Adventurer,” Lyra teased.

“Yes!” Auni flopped back on the grass, voice full of longing. “That one’s best.”

Lyra leaned on her elbow, gaze lifting skyward. “They feel closer out here,” she murmured.

“They do,” Hassian said softly. “I’ve always found it easier to think under the stars. It’s quiet enough to hear your own doubts.”

Lyra’s thumb brushed over his hand. “Maybe you don’t have as many doubts as you think,” she said gently. “You just… listen harder than most.”

Hassian let the words settle, warmth pooling in his chest. She was really looking, really seeing him.

Auni, already sprawled on the grass, cracked one eye open. “No kissing,” he muttered sleepily. “I’m on duty.”

Lyra snorted quietly, covering her mouth, and Hassian’s low chuckle rumbled through the still night. The boy soon drifted off, leaving them alone under the stars.

The pond shimmered dark and still. They simply sat together, hands occasionally brushing, sharing the silence. For the first time, Hassian realized it didn’t feel awkward. She seemed perfectly at ease with quiet. He didn’t have to entertain her, didn’t have to fill the space with words. Just being there — together — was enough.

Eventually, Lyra let out a soft sigh. “I suppose I should be going… our chaperone is out like a light.”

Hassian looked up, a corner of his mouth twitching with quiet amusement. He’d been letting it slide—technically, they still had a chaperone—but he appreciated that she referenced the Majiri courtship rules herself.

“I wish I could walk you home,” he admitted, voice low.

She shook her head, smiling softly. “It’s fine.”

He frowned slightly. “I know Killima is pretty safe… I just worry.”

Their shoulders brushed, closer than either intended. Lyra caught the moment, a soft, teasing note in her voice. “See you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said quietly, gaze steady.

She stood, brushing the grass from her sleeves, and gave him one last smile before slipping down the path toward the village. Hassian watched her go, fingers brushing over the empty space where hers had been, already counting the moments until tomorrow.

New Light

Every year, when the river ran low and the nights grew long, the Majiri gathered for the Festival of New Light. Families lit lanterns and sent them drifting downstream — some to honor the memory of loved ones, some to release old burdens, some to carry hopes for what lay ahead. To the Majiri, each lantern was a prayer set free, a promise carried by the water until it found its place among the stars again.

The river glowed with lantern light. Hundreds of tiny flames bobbed along the current, drifting past reeds and over ripples, their reflections trembling like scattered stars. The air carried the mingled scents of roasted chestnuts, sweet honey cakes, and woodsmoke from festival fires.

Lyra stood at the bank, her lantern cradled in both hands. She had tied a purple ribbon to its handle, bright against the pale paper. Hassian lingered at her side, his own lantern plain and undecorated, the flame inside still waiting to be lit.

“You really don’t like festivals, do you?” she asked, tilting her head toward him.

He gave a quiet snort. “Crowds. Noise. Too many people shouting over one another. Not my favorite.”

“And yet you came.”

His gaze flicked to her, steady as always. “You asked.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest. She crouched to shield her lantern from the breeze and touched the taper to the wick. The paper walls glowed, soft gold against the night. “It’s beautiful. Like watching the stars come down to swim.”

Hassian knelt beside her, broad shoulders casting a shadow over the little flame as he lit his own lantern. For a moment, the glow caught in his eyes, turning them amber. “My momma used to say the same,” he murmured. “That lanterns are borrowed stars. Carried by us for a while, then set free again.”

He paused briefly, deep in reflection. “She never missed the lanterns I haven’t been in a while. It feels…strange being here without her.”

Lyra’s fingers brushed his sleeve in quiet reassurance. “Then maybe tonight we set them for her too.”

Together, they carried their lanterns to the water’s edge. One by one, townsfolk were sending theirs adrift, wishes whispered, farewells breathed into the night. Lyra bent low, releasing hers onto the current. It wobbled, caught by the flow, and drifted out among the others, its purple ribbon bright as it turned.

Hassian crouched and lowered his lantern next. His lips moved in a murmur she didn’t catch, and for a moment he lingered with his hand pressed to the paper wall before letting it go. The lantern bobbed free, joining the stream of golden lights.

They stood side by side, watching them float away. The crowd around them laughed and talked, children darting with sticky fingers, music spilling faintly from nearby — but here at the river’s edge, it was quieter, the hush of water smoothing everything down.

Lyra looked at him, her gaze catching his for a heartbeat that felt longer than it should. “What did you wish for?” she asked softly.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

She laughed under her breath. “Superstitious.”

“Careful,” he said, eyes locking on hers. The lantern light gilded his features, and for a breath the world fell away until there was only him, only her, only the weight of the words he gave her:
“Some things are worth believing in.”

Her pulse stuttered, and she couldn’t look away. The river shimmered gold with drifting stars, but she knew the truth of it then — her future was not in the sky or the water, but standing right here beside her.

She didn’t answer aloud, but her hand tightened around his in a silent vow. Neither of them looked back at the lanterns once they’d disappeared downstream. They didn’t need to.

The lanterns had drifted downstream, their golden lights fading into the river’s dark shimmer. Around them, the fairgrounds were quieting—music softened to a hum, children scurried home, and the scent of honey cakes lingered in the air. Hassian stepped close as they reached the gate, his gaze following her with an intensity that made her pulse skip. “It’s late,” he said softly, voice low, steady. “I wish I could walk you home.”

Lyra tilted her head, catching the flicker of worry in his eyes. “I’ll be fine,” she said, trying for casual, though her chest fluttered. “It’s not far. Besides…” Her voice faltered just a touch, and she met his gaze, bold despite the racing of her heart. “I can really see why the courtship rules exist. If you walked me home after a night like this…”

The image struck him like a blow—her hand tucked in his, the quiet road stretching ahead, her smile in the moonlight at her door. Want twisted low in his chest, sharp and unyielding, and it took everything in him not to close the distance. Every muscle ached with restraint, the burn of wanting and not taking.

His fingers lifted, brushing hers before clasping her hand with a firm, grounding squeeze. Heat flared through her at the simple contact. “Just…stay safe, Lyra,” he murmured, almost a whisper, letting the words hang in the air like a promise.

Their eyes locked, breaths mingling in the cool spring night, and for a heartbeat the world narrowed to only the two of them. Then she drew in a steadying breath, letting his hand slip from hers, and turned to walk away. Each step felt heavier than it should, yet thrilling in its own way. The hardest thing she’d done so far—and somehow, the most alive she’d ever felt.

The Poem

The lake lapped softly at the shore, butterflies darting in lazy spirals above the reeds. A blanket lay spread on the grass, anchored at the corners with smooth stones, and an open book rested between them.

Lyra read aloud in a dramatic voice, drawing out each melodramatic word: “Her alabaster skin glistened under the pale moonlight as the vampire lord reached for her trembling hand—”

Hassian snorted, struggling to keep a straight face. “That’s enough. Give me that before you hurt yourself.”

“You picked it,” she reminded him, handing over the book with a teasing smirk.

“I only picked it because you like vampires,” he shot back, voice low, hesitant. “And… girls like romance, don’t they?”

“Some girls,” Lyra said, tilting her head, watching him. “Maybe you like it more than you’re willing to admit.”

His ears burned red. “Read the next part.” He shoved the book back toward her, and Lyra laughed softly, letting the teasing linger in the air.

They traded the reading back and forth for a while, their voices blending with the gentle rustle of lake grass, until Hassian grew quiet.

He thumbed at the spine of the book, his hands hesitating. Then, with deliberate care, he withdrew a folded scrap of paper.

“What’s that?” Lyra asked, curiosity threading her tone.

“Something I… wrote.” His voice was low, guarded. “I don’t… show people this. Ever. But, I guess I'm doing a lot with you that I never do.”

He unfolded the page with almost ritual caution, as if it might shatter between his fingers, and began to read, his words barely above a whisper:

The hunter stands where silence waits.
Shadows shift, yet still he stays.
The bowstring hums, the arrow flies—
but another aim has caught his gaze.
The world takes much, it grinds, it bends.
Steel in the forge, a weight without end.
But here with you, the burden thins,
and something lost begins again.
Not prey, not duty, not command—
but steady ground, a place to stand.
Your voice, a lantern in the dark.
Your hand, the spark that warms the man.

His hand fell into his lap, the paper trembling faintly between his fingers. He didn’t meet her eyes.

Lyra’s chest tightened—not because the words were perfect, though they were beautiful, but because he had let her into a part of himself he kept hidden from everyone else. “Hassian…” she whispered. “May I keep this?”

His eyes lifted, wary yet steady, and a faint shadow of a smile softened his features. “I wrote it for you.”

For a long moment, only the lake’s gentle lap and the thrum of their hearts filled the air.

Lyra reached across the blanket, her fingers brushing the edge of his hand before folding gently around the paper. “Then I’ll keep it safe,” she said, voice firm yet tender.

He watched her do it, silent, his usual reserve softened but intact, and she understood without words: she had been given something no one else ever had. And in that quiet, shared space between them, it felt as if the whole world had narrowed down to the blanket, the book, the paper, and them.

Hassian carefully released the paper into her hands. Lyra held it to her heart, her fingers curling gently around the edges. Their gazes lingered on one another, quiet and steady, and in that shared silence, they both understood—without a doubt—that nothing would ever be the same between them.